Who Wrote 'To Late Mr White' And Why?

Seven years into her marriage, Maria was diagnosed with brain cancer. For her husband Richard and son Jonathan, she bet on a 50-50 percent chance of survival. Enter Eleanor, her husband's old flame and one true love. It was then that Maria realized the painful truth: her marriage to Richard was nothing but a scam. When Eleanor appeared, everything changed. Richard made her his secretary at work, while his best friend addressed her as Mrs. Shaw—a title that should belong to Maria. Even Jonathan came to believe that Eleanor would make a better mother. Maria gave up entirely. In a final act of despair, she severed all ties with Richard and Jonathan before vanishing into thin air. When Richard and Jonathan finally saw Maria's cancer diagnosis, they were filled with regret. They traced her overseas and groveled at her feet, begging for her forgiveness just so she would look their way—but she didn't spare them a glance. Who needs a heartless husband and an ungrateful son?

Claire finally signed the divorce papers to escape a marriage that was already dead. But hours later, a devastating car crash wipes the last five years from her ruthless billionaire husband's mind. When Raphael wakes up, he doesn't remember the coldness. He doesn't remember the tragic miscarriage that shattered them. And he certainly doesn't remember the divorce. He only remembers being fiercely, desperately in love with his wife. Suddenly, the emotionally absent CEO is gone, replaced by the affectionate, protective man Claire thought she lost forever. He looks at her like she is his entire world. But for Claire, every sweet touch is a ghost, and every perfect promise is built on forgotten pain. Raphael is finally the husband she always begged him to be. But how do you love a man who only wants you because he forgot how he broke you?

The night before our wedding, my fiancée let her so-called "best friend" butcher the gown my late mother had sewn, chopping it into a revealing mini dress. I rushed over with the ruined dress in my arms, ready to demand answers: only to catch their voices through the door: "Imagine him expecting me to wear something a dead woman stitched. What a curse!" Through the narrow gap, I saw my distant, frigid fiancée flushed with color, straddling his lap. "What we did at the bridal shop wasn't enough," she murmured. "Tomorrow, walking down the aisle in this tiny dress you made me, it'll be even more exhilarating." Their lips met. My hand froze against the door, and inside, something broke with a soundless crack. If she longed for thrills, I would grant her some.

For five years, I paved the way for my wife, Samantha Cole. After helping her resolve the company's troubles one last time, I called her and asked, "Darling, I'm so cold. Can you come home and hug me?" On the other end of the phone, Samantha had only just pulled herself away from a moment of intimacy with her young lover, Oliver White. When she finally answered, her voice was impatient. "Joshua Davidson, will it kill you to stop being so dramatic?" Indeed, it would. I slammed the phone down and then died on our bed. Later, Samantha—the woman who had kept me trapped in that lonely house for five years—held my portrait in her arms and finally learned what regret felt like.

My mother was once adored and protected by three men. As such, I had three fathers. After her death, I was raised by one of the greatest doctors, the richest man in Theala, and an award-winning actor. For 13 years, I was showered with overwhelming adoration. That was until three years ago—the day they adopted Erin, an orphan girl. From then on, they began to dote on her. When she accused me of stealing her necklace, they tore my room apart in their search, smashing my most cherished music box in the process. They only felt remorse when they saw me sobbing over the shards. As compensation, they bought me every music box they could find. When she claimed I mocked her for being an orphan, they forced me to write a hundred apology letters as punishment. They only massaged my hands in remorse upon seeing them trembling so badly that I could no longer feed myself. When Erin accused me of shredding her gown, they locked me in the dark basement, starving me for three whole days. When I was let out, they were filled with remorse upon realizing how much weight I had lost. Their bloodshot eyes watched over the grand feast they prepared as an apology. All of that lasted until Erin poisoned my cup of water. I kept coughing up blood as my body grew weaker by the day. Daniel only diagnosed me with malnutrition and made me take prescribed supplements. Unbeknownst to him, those supplements only hastened the poison's effects. After I collapsed at school, I went to the hospital for treatment. "You only have three days left to live," the doctor said. Why then… Why did my fathers drown themselves in sorrow and kill Erin after my death?

Lydia Darnell died after betrayal. She was framed by her family, abandoned by her husband, and discarded like trash. But death wasn’t the end. She wakes up three months before her murder with one chilling resolve. Once bitten, twice shy. This time, she would never take the fall for her sister’s crimes. She would not stoop low to beg for her cold billionaire husband’s attention. Lydia sets out to dismantle the gilded cage they had used to imprison her. And she certainly will never let the so-called “gratitude” be used as a leash. Adrian Blackwell watches in stunned silence until the wife he ignored becomes the woman he can’t live without. Now that he is obsessed with her, he would do anything to win her back. But Lydia’s done playing victim. Her revenge is quiet, lethal, and flawless without an iota of empathy. Along comes Lucas Costello, a kind architect who shows her what real love looks like. And Adrian realizes too late that the woman he had been hell-bent on destroying is the only one who ever truly loved him. He wants her back again, but some second chances, they come too late.