Wife Chasing Short Dramas

Ava Dickson, beautiful, calculative and some might say cold, fought to win the heart of Adam Hart. Using her father's influence and money, she helps Adam build one of the biggest Shipping companies in the world. Ava's only request to Adam is that he remain faithful and committed to her even though she knows his heart once belonged to Ella Madden. Ella still waits for Adam to come back to her, and she takes her chance when the opportunity presents itself.Adam believes that he can and will only love Ella, even if Ava's father managed to convince him to marry his daughter. But a chance meeting with Ella reignites old feelings and soon, a romance ensues. They try hard to keep their secret relationship from Ava. Their once beautiful romance produced a child which Adam kept hidden from Ava successfully.Things spiral out of control when Ava finally learns the truth. Will Ava turn the other cheek and forgive Adam for his temporal weakness accepting his other family, or will Adam finally leave Ava and be with the love of his life. The twists and turns of this drama series ask, what if the bad guy wins? Will there be a happily ever after? I guess we have to stay tuned to find out.

Everyone knows Adrian loves me more than life itself. When that car crashed, he threw himself over me and took the hit. First thing he said when he woke up in the hospital: "Where is she? Is she okay?" Everyone says I married the best man in the city. What they don't know is this man has married me ten times. And divorced me ten times. All for the woman he's never gotten over. The first time, I got on my knees and begged him not to leave. He just looked at me with those cold eyes and said, "Don't embarrass yourself." The fourth time, we were fighting in the car. Then we crashed, and I lost our baby. By the seventh time, I stopped crying. Just signed the papers, packed my things, waited for him to come back like he always did. My tears, my compromises, all those times I bent until I nearly broke. What did I get? Him coming back like clockwork, just to do it all over again. This time, when he slides that tenth divorce agreement across the desk, I finally get it. Some people's hearts never had room for you in the first place. So this time, I'm throwing him out. Him and this whole Mrs. Hayes charade. Straight into the trash where they belong.

I put up with my husband's cheating because I needed money for my brother's medical bills. Until I found the heart donor report he'd been hiding in his study for three months. 98% match. He'd signed it "postpone." That night, fireworks filled the London sky, his mistress laughing in the background. Standing over my brother's body, I finally got it—he'd been killing my brother all along. I ripped up his check, sold every piece of jewelry he'd ever given me, and threw the divorce papers in his face. "Murderer"—that's all I said. Three years later, I'm getting a standing ovation at the Golden Hall. He shows up in the snow, eyes red, begging for forgiveness. I just smiled. "Charles, you died three years ago."

On our fifth anniversary, my Mafia Don husband kissed my cheek, then switched to Corsican to tell our adopted daughter how much he enjoyed getting her pregnant piece by piece. He didn't know I spoke seven languages. Corsican included. He didn't know that in three days, I would vanish — no body, no trail, no goodbye. When I disappeared, he lost his mind. Now it was my turn to teach him what losing someone really meant.

You think the most mortifying thing is accidentally sending lingerie photos to your professor ex? Wrong. The most mortifying thing is him showing up at your door minutes later, eyes blazing with hunger. When my pipes burst and he's helping me fix them—soaking wet, muscles straining against his shirt—I figured we were headed straight for round two. Until my brother walks in with his spare key, casually calling me "sis." I watched the blood drain from his face in real time. He thinks he's been lusting after his own student's girlfriend. His whole moral code just imploded. Now this ridiculously upright, devastatingly hot man is caught between wanting to devour me and hating himself for it, running scared from his own desire. So here's my dilemma: Do I keep enjoying watching him completely unravel over me, or do I put him out of his misery and tell him the truth—that the "rival" he's been losing his mind over is actually my brother?

Last lifetime, my mate, Kael, had faked his own death just to openly sleep with his sister-in-law without judgment. I screamed until my throat bled, pointing at the man pretending to be his dead twin brother. For telling the truth, he dragged me to the sacred altar and burned my mark off my skin, while our four-year-old son was thrown into a pitch-black cell for crying out for her father. We were banished, torn apart by rogues. But the Moon Goddess is fair. She woke me up on the exact day of the funeral. As the pack howls in mourning for their "dead" Alpha, I look at the man hiding in his brother's skin. I won't expose him this time. If Kael wants to play a dead man just to play house with his whore, I'll make sure he stays dead forever.

At my seventh wedding, they replaced me. The Oracle pointed at me and screamed one word: "CURSED." Father's hand cracked across my face. Mother tore the wedding dress off my body and shoved my cousin Seraphine into it. "She'll marry him instead," Father said. "You'll destroy us all." What they didn't know? A thousand years ago, our family made a blood pact with the Shadow Lord himself: if the eldest Ashford daughter remained unmarried on her twenty-sixth birthday, she belonged to HIM. Today was my twenty-sixth birthday. I begged Julian to run. "Please. We have until sunset." He laughed. "The Shadow Lord's a fairy tale, Anna. Seraphine's just going through the motions. You're being dramatic." Then he told my parents everything. They locked me in the tower. But the Shadow High Priest's warning was clear—at sunset, the Shadow Lord would come. And when he did, I'd drink the Potion of Forgetting and lose everything. My memories. My name. My soul. The clock struck five. He was coming.

He hung up on me while the killer's knife plunged into my body. Seventeen seconds. That was our final call after seven years of marriage. He was at the hospital with my "depressed" stepsister, convinced I was just being dramatic again. He didn't even let me finish. I died that rainy night, taking a secret with me he'll never know. Three days later, my husband—the city's chief medical examiner—caught a brutal case: female victim, face destroyed by acid. He worked the autopsy with his usual precision. Methodical. Clinical. Until the facial reconstruction software completed its rendering. When he recognized my face on that screen, blood exploded from his mouth. He hit the floor hard.