🔞💦💦"Ohh fk! You're still a virgin?!"
My boyfriend got married — but not to me. He married the daughter of the most powerful Lycan Chairman in the world.
But he doesn't know that while he's celebrating his wedding, I'm M ❤ L with his father in law.
This is my wedding gift to him...
**
Today was supposed to be the day my fated mate and I got engaged. But now I’m watching him kiss another woman. Marrying her could make him the future Alpha because she’s the daughter of Gavin Landry, the most powerful Lycan chairman in the world.
A couple of months ago, our Alpha died during a battle and now all the candidates are competing for that position, including my mate, Ethan.
Everyone knows the Lycan’s control the werewolf population. And Gavin? He could singlehandedly appoint everyone the new Alpha.
So, Ethan made his choice.
Her, not me.
He shamelessly demanded I become his mistress. I slapped him across the face instead. His pride couldn't take it—so he struck back by framing my father and having him thrown in prison.
For days, I’ve been desperately chasing lawyers, begging for someone to take my father’s case... but every door I knock on slams shut in my face.
My mother doesn’t know what really happened between me and Ethan. She thinks I was just being stubborn and upset him.
That’s why she forced me to come here and apologize. Otherwise, there’s no way I would’ve shown up.
“Get me a whiskey and a martini for the lady,” A deep voice sounded from nearby. “Is it the future bride, or the future groom that’s got you in a mood?”
“I’m just not into parties,” I decided to say.
“Nor am I,” he murmured. “I’m here out of obligation.”
The bartender placed my drink in front of me and I immediately took a sip, sighing in contentment. I waited for the alcohol to do its job and finish numbing the pain.
Every time Ethan kissed her, a dark thought would creep into my mind—
to ruin the engagement and get revenge on him.
But, I knew... neither Ethan nor the bride's powerful family were people I could afford to cross.
“Thank you for the drink,” I told the man.
I took one last sip of my martini and started to get down from the stool, except my blouse snagged on the corner of the counter and just as I heard a tearing sound, I began to fall to the ground. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the impact, but it never came.
Instead, I felt strong arms wrapping around my body, lifting me into the air. I opened my eyes and peeked up at the man who caught me, and my breath hitched.
He was so handsome.
He held me with ease as if I weighed nothing and I could tell from the feeling of his arms around me that he was muscular. He smiled down at me and a dimple appeared on his right cheek.
I wanted to lick that dimple.
“Madam, are you falling for me?” He asked teasingly.
I stared at him for a heartbeat longer before I squinted my eyes at him, seeing what he did there.
“You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”
He grinned. Then he looked at my shirt and immediately frowned.
“Let me take you to my suite upstairs,” he said, making my heart skip a beat.
“What?” I said in barely a whisper.
His eyes met mine and I got lost in their beauty for a moment.
Goddess, his good looks were sinful.
“Your shirt is ripped. I have one you can wear upstairs in my VIP suite,” he explained.
I blinked a couple of times and gave a nervous chuckle.
“Oh, alright. Thank you,” I managed to sputter.
He turned to the bartender.
“Charge our drinks to my suite,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
I allowed the man to carry me out of the room.
His arms were so warm that I found myself resting my head against his broad chest, breathing in his minty scent. My wolf was practically purring in my mind. She’d been quiet for most of the evening while she licked the wounds the broken mate bond had caused. But right now, it was as if she had forgotten she was heartbroken.
“Take off your shirt,” he ordered once we were in the suite. He had released me and was walking to the closet.
“Excuse me?” I squeaked.
“So, you can put on a new shirt,” he explained.
“Right,” I breathed.
I lifted my ripped shirt over my head and threw it onto the bed, leaving me in only my bra from the waist up. Once he found a shirt, he turned around to face me, and his entire body froze as his eyes trailed down my body. I was too busy checking him out to notice him staring at me but the longer I stared at him, the more I started to recognize him.
Then, realization struck me, and I gasped.
“It’s you…” I breathed, taking a step back.
His eyes shifted upward and met mine; his brow arched.
“You know me?” He asked.
“I know of you,” I clarified.
The corner of his lips tipped upward as he walked towards me, slowly, as if he were stalking his prey. I could practically hear the sounds of my heartbeat.
“And what do you know of me?”
“Only what I’ve heard…” I admitted.
“And what have you heard?”
“You’re Gavin Landry, Lycan Chairman. You’re a playboy. You have a new woman each week and you never sleep with the same woman twice.”
He raised his brows.
“Is that so?” He asked. “Tell me more about myself.”
Hell, he's the father of the bride and Ethan's future father-in-law? I'm confused, I don't know what I should do. But I'm not surprised I didn't recognize him at first. The Lycan family isn't high profile, they're more used to staying behind the scenes than becoming politicians and celebrities like werewolf Alpha.
Should I tell him who I am? But that would be stupid at this moment.
He continued to walk towards me, and I continued to walk backward until my back hit the wall.
“What more do you want to know?” I asked, my voice coming out breathy.
“Everything.”
I’m not sure if it was the martini speaking or me, but I decided to be bold. If Ethan can indulge himself in someone new, then so could I.
Not only that, maybe I can personally shatter his dreams—and even ruin him.
As long as I can get Gavin’s help, anything is possible.
And this once-in-a-lifetime chance is right in front of me. This thought instantly took root in my heart.
So I lifted my gaze to meet his as he neared closer.
“Your eyes…” I started to say. “I’ve heard that they were mesmerizing, and I must agree.”
“What else?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“When you smile, you have this adorable dimple on your cheek…” I whispered.
He was only inches from me now, staring so intently at me that I thought I would burn up under his scrutiny.
He licked his lips, drawing my attention to his mouth.
“And your lips…”
Before I could finish that sentence, his mouth crashed into mine. His kiss was anything but soft and sweet but filled with hunger and possession. I kissed him with just as much eagerness. His tongue made its way between my lips, tasting every inch of me. He lifted me into the air, my body pinned between the wall and him. Instinctively I wrapped my legs around his waist and allowed him to deepen the kiss.
His lips trailed down the nape of my neck and warmth spread across my body as I felt him sucking on my soft flesh.
All self-control and common sense left my mind the moment his lips touched mine. All I could think about was Gavin; he consumed my mind, body, and soul entirely. I pulled at his tie, wanting to take it and his shirt off. He helped me undo his tie and then lifted his shirt over his head, tossing it to the ground.
I let my fingers explore his body; they roamed over his abs and up his broad shoulders.
I moaned into his mouth as his lips found mine again.
“Are you sure you want this?” He asked between kisses.
“Yes,” I rasped out. “We are both willing adults, so why not?” I deliberately caressed and rubbed that part of him until the "beast" awakened in my hand.
"Uhh， Bad girl…" he growled, pulling me closer.
Gavin’s eyes burned into me, and I knew he wanted it bad.
Click — I ripped off his belt, yanked down his pants, and my hand slid over his throbbing heat.
His breath was heavy, his gaze dark with hunger.
“Baby, I want you now.” I leaned in close to Gavin and licked his chin.
He slammed me onto the bed, grabbed my chin hard, and kissed me like he’d never stop.
Just as we were about to lose control, knock knock —
“Father, it's Ethan. Are you in there?”
👇👇👇
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Three days after I died, my fiancé got a call to ID the body.
He just scoffed. "She's dead, so what? Call me when she's in the ground.""
The cops, out of options, hit up my backup contact—my childhood friend.
He actually laughed. ""She's really gone? Not my problem. Burn her or whatever.""
Then my body hit the internet—
And suddenly, both of them looked like ghosts.
Chapter 1
Frank Nixon scoffed, snapping his phone shut. He glanced at Jeff Blenman, who was busy weaving a flower crown.
""You get the call? Sienna's dead.""
Jeff didn't even flinch. Still threading flowers. ""Dead's dead. If you're free, go grab the body.""
Frank's smile cut sharp. ""You're her fiancé. Won't even deal with her body, but you want me to?""
Jeff held up the crown, like he'd just won something. ""Wanna trade? You can take the title—and the wedding. Sound good?""
I just stared at him, stunned.
I didn't know why, but even dead, I was still stuck here.
Jeff's eyes smiled, but his face didn't.
That's when it hit me—he wasn't faking it. He really didn't want to marry me. He'd been dying to be free.
That's how deep his hate ran.
Frank stared at him, then let out a cold laugh. ""What, you think I'm a trash can? Supposed to take whatever junk you toss? Tomorrow's Lulu's birthday. I've got better things to do than deal with dead weight.""
Right then, his phone buzzed.
The ringtone stood out. His whole vibe shifted. Even Jeff looked up, watching him answer.
A sugary voice floated out.
""Frank, are you with Jeff? He's not picking up.""
I knew that voice—Lulu Keller. Their forever crush.
She moved overseas at ten, came back two years ago like nothing had changed.
Even when Jeff and Frank still treated me decent, she hated me. Told me to back off.
I didn't, so she had her people corner me. I was nearly left with a wrecked face.
When Jeff and Frank found out, they warned her—one more move and she was out for good.
She backed off. Kind of. Still pulled petty stunts.
I brushed it off back then. Thought it was nothing.
By the time I tried to explain, it was already too late.
Their hearts had started leaning her way.
Jeff glanced at his phone—missed call. His brow twitched. He'd silenced it after the cops blew it up, and that meant he'd missed Lulu's call too.
Frank smirked. ""Sienna's dead. He's off grabbing her body. No time to hit you back.""
Jeff's eyes iced over. He stood, grabbed the phone from Frank, and said, all sweet, ""Princess Lulu, don't listen to him. Your birthday's tomorrow. I'm putting something special together for you.""
The room was bursting with flowers, stuffed animals, gifts—three days' worth of prep, all from Frank and Jeff.
I met them when I was thirteen. For ten years, this was my thing too.
They'd disappear three days before my birthday. I'd panic, then someone would blindfold me and walk me into this dreamworld they built for me.
That stopped the second Lulu came back.
Now it was all hers.
Chapter 2
Lulu asked about me.
Frank and Jeff frowned in sync.
Frank scoffed. ""Seriously? After all she did, you're still thinking about her? That girl never appreciated you. Just drop it. Let her dig her own grave.""
Lulu's voice was quiet. ""But... what if Sienna's actually dead? Jeff? Frank?""
My chest clenched. I watched their faces.
Once, they freaked out if I scraped my knee. Said they'd protect me forever.
Now Jeff just smirked. ""If she's dead? Great. I'll throw fireworks. Light up the whole city.""
Frank snorted. ""Or better—ship her body back to wherever and pay some whackjob priest to curse her soul. Make sure she never comes near you again.""
It felt like getting slammed into a freezer—numb, breathless, iced to the bone.
I couldn't wrap my head around it. The same guys who swore they'd always have my back... were now cracking jokes about cursing me.
Fireworks. Curses. All to make Lulu feel safe. Loved.
In that moment, I was actually glad they never got my body. I might've never found peace.
Lulu said she was scared, and suddenly Jeff and Frank were in panic mode, scrambling to get home.
Weirdest thing? My soul followed them. I didn't even mean to.
The second the car stopped, Jeff jumped out and booked it for the mansion.
Frank muttered a curse and ran after him.
They bought the mansion back in college—didn't want me stuck in a dorm, away from them.
Back then, Jeff and I weren't official. Lulu wasn't around yet.
It was just us three. Unbreakable. A perfect triangle.
But then Lulu moved in. Started framing me left and right. And suddenly, there was no room for me here.
I kept my distance, refused to watch, refused to care.
Still, their laughter always found me.
Lulu lost some game and flopped onto the couch, all dramatic.
Frank ruffled her hair, smiling soft. ""Princess Lulu,"" he said.
He used to call me Princess Sienna. I couldn't even remember when that stopped. One day, he was the sun orbiting me. The next, just ice—cold the second he looked my way.
I never got why he iced me out.
So I asked.
His eyes shifted—bored to smug in seconds.
Total playboy move—he grabbed my chin, leaned in close, his breath brushing my cheek.
I turned away. He just smirked.
""You thought I was gonna kiss you?"" he said. ""Please. Don't flatter yourself. Compared to Princess Lulu, you're straight-up gross. Can't believe I ever treated you like you mattered.""
Then came the gut punch.
""You wanna know why I'm cold? 'Cause I found the one girl I actually care about. You? You're nothing now. So do us both a favor—disappear.""
That last part cut deep. And yeah, I believed him.
The next day, I told Jeff I wanted out—leave the mansion to Frank and Lulu.
But for once, Jeff didn't budge. The guy who always put me first shut me down.
Said I was being dramatic. Spoiled. That I just didn't know how to accept Lulu.
Then he ghosted me. For days.
I couldn't handle the silent treatment, so I packed up and left to clear my head.
Three days later, I was dead.
Chapter 3
I don't remember dying. Just that when I saw my own body, I couldn't look.
It was pathetic. Horrific.
Felt like I'd dropped into the ocean's darkest trench—no light, no clue where I was headed.
I curled up, scared out of my mind—until something yanked me upward.
Jeff and Frank were charging ahead.
Frank behind the wheel. Jeff calling my phone nonstop.
Their faces were grim.
Then—busy signal.
Jeff clenched his jaw, tapping the car door like a metronome.
Frank glanced over. ""No answer?""
Jeff shut his eyes, hiding whatever cold was brewing underneath.
Frank floored it. The engine growled.
""She's really going all in, huh? Even faked the ashes. Let's see if they're actually hers.""
Ashes?
So my body was already gone—cremated.
Maybe once they saw the urn, they'd believe it. Maybe they'd do the decent thing and bury me right.
His mouth found hers in the elevator, a collision of teeth and tongue and five years of pent-up fury. Not a kiss—a claiming. His hands pinned her wrists against the mirrored wall, his body hard and unforgiving against hers. The taste of him flooded her senses—whiskey and mint and the salt of her own tears as she tried to turn her head. He wouldn't let her. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, drawing blood, and she gasped into his mouth. The elevator continued its ascent, but the world had already narrowed to this: the scent of his cologne, the desperate slide of silk against wool, the damning truth that after everything he’d done, her body still recognized his. “Still responsive,” he growled against her throat, his hands sliding down to grip her hips, yanking her against the evidence of his arousal. “Five years, and you still melt for me.” She tried to push him away, but her hands betrayed her, fingers curling into the fine wool of his suit jacket, pulling him closer. The elevator chimed. The doors opened to an empty penthouse foyer. He didn’t break the kiss as he dragged her out, her heels scraping against marble. When he finally released her mouth, she was gasping, her lip throbbing where he’d bitten her. “Welcome home, Isabella,” he said, his voice like gravel. “Or should I call you Elizabeth now? That’s the name on your Parisian passport, isn’t it?” Isabella Moreau—no, Elizabeth Vance, she had to remember she was Elizabeth Vance now—stumbled back, her back hitting the cold steel of a sculpture she recognized. One of hers. From before. “You kept it,” she whispered, staring at the twisted bronze forms. “After everything.” “I kept everything.” Alexander Vance moved to a sideboard, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass. He didn’t offer her one. “Every painting. Every sketch. Every piece of clothing you left behind. Even the damn toothbrush.” The penthouse was exactly as she remembered—all clean lines and cold surfaces, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a Manhattan that glittered like a bed of stolen jewels. But there were new additions. Her paintings, the ones she’d created during their marriage, hung alongside unfamiliar works—dark, violent abstracts that made her chest tighten. “Why am I here, Alexander?” She straightened, smoothing the silk of her dress—a simple black sheath she’d chosen for the auction precisely because it was armor. “You outbid me on the Tanguy. Fine. You win. Again. Let me leave.” “Leave?” He laughed, the sound hollow. He set down his glass and crossed the room in three strides, catching her chin in his hand. His fingers were warm, calloused in new places. “You disappeared for five years. You changed your name, your nationality, your entire identity. You let the world believe you were dead. And you think I’m going to let you walk out that door?” “I had my reasons.” “Reasons.” His thumb stroked her jaw, a gesture so familiar it made her stomach ache. “Let me guess. My temper. My… excesses. The way I’d come home smelling of another woman’s perfume.” She jerked away. “Don’t.” “Don’t what? Don’t speak the truth?” He followed her, backing her toward the windows until the glittering city sprawled behind her like a fallen galaxy. “You left because you couldn’t handle what I am. What I’ve always been.” “I left,” she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts, “because you put me in the hospital. Or have you forgotten that part?” The air left the room. Alexander went still, his face draining of color. For a moment, he looked like the boy she’d fallen in love with—all sharp angles and wounded eyes. Then the mask slipped back into place. “I never laid a hand on you.” “No.” She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. “You didn’t have to. Your words did the damage just fine. Your accusations. Your… jealousy.” She swallowed. “The night of the Hamilton gala. When you found me talking to Charles.” “Charles.” The name was a curse. “Your gallerist. The man who just happened to be in your apartment at two in the morning.” “We were preparing for the Basel show! The crates were late, we were—” “Spare me.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair. The gesture was so achingly familiar it stole her breath. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is you’re here. And you’re not leaving.” Her heart stuttered. “You can’t keep me here.” “Can’t I?” He turned back, his eyes dark. “Who would come looking for you, Isabella? Your new friends in Paris think you’re in New York for an auction. Your old friends here think you’re dead. Your family…” He smiled, a cruel twist of his lips. “Your family sold you to me, remember? For the right price.” The truth landed like a physical blow. Her parents had been more than happy to marry their artistic daughter to the Vance fortune. The prenuptial agreement had been longer than their wedding vows. “What do you want?” The words were barely audible. “I want what’s mine.” He closed the distance between them again, but this time his touch was different. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks with a gentleness that felt like another kind of violence. “I want the five years you stole from me. I want the nights you should have spent in my bed. I want the children you should have given me.” Her breath caught. Children. They’d talked about it, early on. Before everything went wrong. “Alexander…” “No.” His mouth was on hers again, but this kiss was different. Softer. More devastating. It tasted of regret and whiskey and something else—something like hope, which was somehow worse than anger. “No more talking. Not tonight.” He picked her up—she’d forgotten how easily he could do that—and carried her through the penthouse to the bedroom. Her bedroom. The one she’d designed herself, with its silk wallpaper the color of twilight and the enormous canopy bed she’d found at a flea market in Provence. Nothing had changed. Not the books on the nightstand. Not the lavender sachets in the drawers. Not the photograph on the dresser—the two of them on their honeymoon in Santorini, wind-tousled and sunburned and stupidly happy. He laid her on the bed, following her down, his body covering hers. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, his eyes tracing every feature as if memorizing her all over again. “I looked for you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “For three years, I hired men to find you. They traced you to Marseille, then to Lisbon, then to a village in Morocco. Then nothing. You vanished.” Tears pricked her eyes. “I had to.” “Why?” The word was ragged. “If I was so terrible, why not divorce me? Take half of everything? You would have been entitled to it.” “Because I loved you.” The confession tore from her, raw and ugly. “Even after everything. Even when I was packing my bags in the middle of the night. Even when I was changing my name in a government office in Paris. I loved you. And I knew if I saw you again, if you touched me…” She swallowed hard. “I knew I’d forgive you. And I couldn’t.” Something in his face shattered. The anger, the cruelty—it all melted away, leaving behind the man she’d fallen in love with. The man who wrote her terrible poetry and cooked her breakfast even though he burned everything and cried at sad movies when he thought she wasn’t looking. “Isabella,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to hers. “My Isabella. What did I do to us?” It was her undoing. That broken whisper. The feel of his tears mixing with hers. Five years of carefully constructed walls crumbled to dust. Her hands came up to cup his face, her thumbs wiping away the wetness on his cheeks. “We destroyed each other,” she whispered back. “We were too young. Too passionate. Too… everything.” He kissed her then, and this time it was different. An apology. A plea. A beginning and an ending all at once. His hands shook as they undressed her, as if she were something fragile, something holy. When she was naked before him, he knelt at the foot of the bed, his eyes worshipful. “You’re even more beautiful,” he said, his voice reverent. “Time has been kind to you.” “Come here,” she whispered, holding out her arms. He undressed quickly, his body familiar yet new—broader in the shoulders, a scar on his ribs she didn’t recognize, more tattoos curling around his biceps. Then he was with her, skin to skin, and the world dissolved into sensation. His mouth on her breasts, her stomach, the inside of her thighs. His hands mapping her body as if relearning sacred geography. The slide of his skin against hers, hot and desperate and perfect. When he entered her, they both cried out—a sound of homecoming, of wounds reopening and healing all at once. He moved within her with a tenderness that shattered her, his whispers of love and regret a litany against her skin. Afterward, they lay tangled together in the dark, the city’s lights painting silver patterns across their bodies. His hand stroked her hair, his heartbeat steady under her cheek. “I’m not letting you go again,” he said quietly. “Not ever.” She knew she should argue. Should remind him of the reasons she left. The fights. The broken trust. The toxic spiral they’d been in. Instead, she turned her face into his neck, breathing him in. “Okay,” she whispered. Just that one word. But it felt like a promise. Like a beginning. Like forgiveness. Outside, a siren wailed, distant and mournful. Alexander tightened his arms around her. “Sleep,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ll be here when you wake.” And for the first time in five years, Isabella—Elizabeth—whoever she was—slept without dreaming of running. She was already home.
