

Alice suffers brutal bullying in silence every day. She endures it all to protect them—because her parents kill anyone who hurts her. Yet one by one, her tormentors meet gruesome deaths. But when a raging fire exposes the basement, a horrific shrine inside reveals a truth so twisted it makes murder look like mercy.
![[ENG DUB] Payback in a Poor Man's Clothes](https://acfs3.goodshort.com/dist/src/assets/images/pc/common/f901131c-default-book-cover.png)
Kidnapped as a child, CEO Ryan Luke finally finds his birth parents twenty three years later, and instead of walking in as the head of a company, he comes home posing as a broke nobody. He wants to know if what's waiting for him is real. His sister-in-law sneers at his shabby clothes, relatives whisper behind his back and make no effort to hide their scorn, but his parents pull out a sweater they've kept folded away for years, saved for the son they never stopped waiting for. Moved by their quiet, unconditional welcome, Ryan stays in disguise and quietly starts rebuilding his younger brother's confidence and prospects, while working behind the scenes to expose the relatives circling the family for what they can get. When the truth finally comes out at a public demolition meeting, he reveals exactly who he is, moves his parents and brother into a home worthy of them, and the two brothers celebrate a joint wedding as the family, finally whole, comes together.

A devoted wife is buried alive by her husband and his mistress. She survives. Now she's back—not as the woman they betrayed, but as someone else. Someone with money. Power. And a score to settle. Revenge is a dish best served cold. But Lena's revenge is served with a new face, a new name, and a partner who has just as much to lose.

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.