The Arrogant Captain's Regret: Chasing My Ex-Wife

I spent two years as the perfect, dutiful wife to Foster Baird. I was his unpaid PR consultant and his emotional punching bag, enduring his mother’s snide comments about my orphan background all for the sake of a "marriage" I thought was real. But when I went to the City Clerk’s office to replace a damaged document, the clerk looked at me with genuine pity. "There is no record of a marriage license for you and Foster Baird. Legally? You aren't married." The betrayal went even deeper. I returned to our penthouse to find Foster’s mistress on our sofa, alongside a five-year-old boy who shared Foster’s exact features. Foster hadn't just cheated; he had a secret family that predated our entire relationship. He had even bribed a doctor to lie to me about being infertile just to keep me docile and focused on his business. When the mistress moved into my guest wing the next day, Foster demanded I act as their hostess and serve them dinner. I watched them play happy family in the home I built, realizing I was never a wife—I was just "cheap labor" he intended to discard once his company stock stabilized. He thought I was a barren charity case with nowhere to go. He was wrong. That same afternoon, I received a call from the executor of the Arthur Kensington estate. I wasn't a nobody; I was the long-lost biological daughter and sole heir to a five-billion-dollar fortune. While Foster was busy planning my replacement, I was accessing the Kensington Trust. I didn't scream, and I didn't cry. I simply bought a fifty-million-dollar mansion and hired a team of forensic accountants to dismantle the Baird Group from the inside out. I crushed my old phone under my designer heel and looked at my new security detail. "Let's get to work," I said.

Brought back from a rusty trailer park, I was supposed to be the Turner family's obedient marriage pawn. But the night before my engagement, I caught my wealthy fiancé and my beloved stepsister rolling around naked in the hotel's presidential suite. I filmed the whole thing, but my biological father didn't care about the truth. He called me an ungrateful wretch, claiming I drugged my stepsister out of jealousy. He released a midnight press statement canceling the engagement due to my bad morals and threatened to cut off my grandmother's life-saving medical payments. To fill the massive hole in the family trust fund, my father quickly found a new use for me. He sold me off to Dedric Black, the notoriously ruthless, paralyzed head of the Black family who allegedly sent his last three fiancées straight to the psychiatric ward. They thought they were throwing a helpless country bumpkin into the wolves' den. What they didn't know was that I am actually a top-tier underground surgeon. Even better, I had just run into my terrifying new fiancé in a men's restroom earlier that night-standing on two perfectly healthy legs. "Tell my father I accept the marriage." I smiled coldly. It was time to see how long my new husband could keep up his little act.

For four years, Krystle had given up her brilliant academic career to be the perfect wife to her billionaire husband, Damion. But on the night of their anniversary, a $350,000 jewelry charge shattered her illusion. Hiding by the garage, she overheard him laughing with a friend, admitting the extravagant gift was actually for his ex-girlfriend, Dana. "Krystle? She's just the perfect trophy wife to keep my family off my back." The nightmare only worsened from there. When Krystle rushed to save his sister from a bloody car crash, his family falsely accused her of causing it. Damion publicly berated her, choosing to comfort Dana who had merely shown up with flowers. The final, devastating blow came when she overheard Damion promising Dana he would never let Krystle bear his heir, terrified the orphan would touch his fortune. Every sacrifice she made, every lonely night she endured, was just an unpaid, high-end housekeeping service to him. How could she have been so blindly devoted to a man who saw her as nothing more than a disposable placeholder? When an enraged Damion tried to force himself on her, thinking a child would chain her to him forever, Krystle finally snapped. She kneed him hard, leaving him groaning in agony on the floor, and dragged her suitcase out of the bedroom. "Damion Winters, we're done." Stepping out of the suffocating villa, she dialed her old mentor with chilling calm: "I need the best divorce lawyer you know."

I surrendered my mafia inheritance and let my father exile me just to marry Silas. He was a broken soldier who knelt in the rain, claiming he gave up his territory to save me from a forced marriage. But when I went to surprise him with my pregnancy ultrasound, I overheard him laughing with the reigning Don I was supposed to marry. His downfall was a fake, a ploy so his mistress could seamlessly take my place. When I confronted them, his mistress pushed me onto the wet concrete. I woke up in the underground clinic, agonizing in pain, as Silas handed me a crushed pill. He told me the fall caused catastrophic tearing and the baby wouldn't survive, weeping as he claimed he had to abort it to save my life. But days later, his mistress walked into my room with white lilies. She smiled and told me Silas deliberately sacrificed our child to keep my blood clean for her rare illness transfusions. He murdered our baby just to ensure his mistress had no parasitic competition. Yet, he still held my hand every day, playing the devoted, grieving husband with flawless, sickening perfection. The full scope of his betrayal didn't bring tears, but a ringing in my ears that awakened the dormant code of Vendetta in my blood. I picked up the phone to call my ruthless father. "I will give you absolute supremacy, Papa." This time, I would swallow their territories whole and ascend the throne alone.

Julia was anchored to the freezing concrete floor, forced to watch the man beside her get his head blown off. The mechanical system in her head announced she had transmigrated into the apocalyptic novel Wasteland Frenzy-right at the villain's execution phase. A tall figure in an immaculate black suit stepped through the blood. Byron Serrano, the man the original host had tormented for years, grabbed her jaw with an ice-cold leather glove. "My dear fiancée, now, it is your turn." His henchman pulled out a rusted skinning knife, aiming the serrated edge directly at Julia's right eye. The system blared a fatal crisis warning. She was going to be brutally tortured, skinned, and murdered to pay for the sadistic games of the body's previous owner. The agonizing phantom pain and the suffocating stench of rotting meat paralyzed her. She screamed internally, cursing the chains and the unfairness of it all. Why did she have to die for a vicious persona she never chose? Just as the blade touched her skin, the system triggered a time rewind. Julia gasped, waking up in a luxurious bed exactly three months before the apocalypse outbreak. The system immediately ordered her to take a bloody whip and punish the heavily injured Byron downstairs to maintain the plot. Julia coldly refused. Instead, she sold her fifty-million-dollar inheritance for five million in immediate cash, bought an underground doomsday bunker, and secretly bandaged the bleeding villain's wounds in the dead of night. This time, she would survive her own way.

Charity woke up in a hellish, acid-rain-soaked slum, trapped inside a bloated body covered in festering, toxic sores. She was the exiled Grand Princess of the Empire. But the real nightmare wasn't her ruined body. It was the fact that the original owner had used her royal authority to force genetic marriage contracts onto four top-tier, powerful men. Now, she was bound to them, and they absolutely loathed her. Hjalmar, chained to a bed in her filthy room, smiled like a feral beast and promised to rip her head off the second his chains snapped. Braden, a ruthless military officer, saved her from a mutated rat only to look at her with pure disgust. "If you want to die, go die somewhere else. Don't dirty my patrol sector." Even the locals mocked her fallen status, and a wealthy heiress publicly framed her for stealing a hundred-thousand-coin energy core just to see her rot in a dark cell. She was universally despised, physically repulsive, and a lethal biological toxin gave her exactly 59 days left to live. How was she supposed to survive this absolute hell when her starting affection with her partners was at negative 100? Then, a mechanical voice echoed in her skull, activating a survival system. To purge the poison, she had to harvest emotional energy by making these four men fall for her. Charity accepted the mandate, unlocked a top-tier culinary skill, and grabbed a rusted meat cleaver to start her counterattack.