

Desperate to rewrite her tragic past, Rowena dumps her abusive werewolf fiancé for a seemingly destitute vampire. Little does she know, her new husband is the all-powerful King of the Dark Night.Together, they will unleash hell on the treacherous sister determined to steal Rowena's destiny.

When Empress Maria Devin falls gravely ill, she seeks her long-lost daughter, Lillian Devin, to pass the throne.Once devoted to her husband, Matt Goodwin, Lillian is betrayed and forced into divorce. Protected by the loyal eunuch Jerome Barry and aided by Chris McNeil, she uncovers the truth, punishes the wicked, and rises from abandoned wife to empress, reclaiming her destiny amid betrayal, revenge, and palace intrigue.

Maggie Duncan transmigrates into a classic revenge novel as the story's nastiest female antagonist, immediately saddled with a system that demands she accumulate hatred levels or face the consequences. Then the system glitches. Every unspoken thought she has broadcasts directly into the minds of her entire family. Her scheming inner monologue—the complaints, the calculations, the bewildered asides—plays live in real time to the people she's supposed to be tormenting. The plot derails immediately. Her three brothers, who were meant to despise her, become fiercely protective. The cold fiance Trent Stevens, scripted to regard her with contempt, starts hovering in ways that aren't contemptuous at all.The Duncan family's tragic ending quietly ceases to be inevitable. Maggie watches her villainy progress bar drain to zero and has no idea how it happened.

Someone @'d me on Nextdoor. "Hey, penthouse girl. You're single. What do you need a whole rooftop garden for? My husband's throwing a party. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you two hundred bucks a month for upkeep. You'll make a couple hundred for doing jack shit. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. It was a joke. I was Don Ricci's heir, groomed to run the South Side. But I traded that life for a paintbrush. This apartment was my sanctuary, my quiet place. That rooftop garden wasn't some building perk. It was mine. I'd paid half a million cash for the deed when I bought the place. I turned it into my sunroom studio. And now someone thinks they can have it for two hundred bucks a month? I replied with two words: "Dream on." I didn't expect the building manager and two security guards at my door the next day. Someone had filed a complaint about me "misusing community resources." And now, for the sake of "neighborly harmony," they were demanding my keys. Fine. They wanted to throw civility out the window? They were about to learn what real power felt like.