I've Dug Two Graves Mga Nobela at Kwento

I came home from abroad to save my nephew's company from going bust, and also to attend his wedding with his sweetheart. But just as the banquet was about to start, a barrage of comments suddenly popped up before my eyes: [Thank goodness the sweetheart is clever and came up with the idea of framing the substitute for poisoning! The male lead will definitely be over with the substitute after this!] [Exactly! So what if the substitute has stayed by his side for ten years? The male lead still loves his sweetheart the most!] Elaine Geston, decked out in a luxury wedding gown, strutted up to me with her nose in the air, looking smug. "So you're the woman Nolan has cherished for ten years? I hate to break it to you, but you're just a substitute for me! You should get lost if you know what's good for you!" I glanced down at my phone, checking the stock prices, not in the mood to deal with her. She suddenly looked shocked. She picked up one of the two glasses of wine prepared for the newlyweds, sniffed it, then pointed a finger at me and yelled, "What a vile woman! You actually poisoned the wine! Just because Nolan loves me, you want to kill us both!" Hearing this, the security guards instantly surrounded me, looking hostile. I was totally baffled. I pointed at my nephew, who was chatting with guests outside the venue, and said, "What substitute? Ask your husband if he dares to treat his own aunt as a substitute. Does he want his whole family to beat him up? Does he want his company to go bankrupt?" The comments went wild. [Oh crap, she's not a substitute but his aunt? The sweetheart's messed up big time!]

When my husband is away on a business trip, I'm left at home with my brother-in-law. One night, he hands me a glass of milk that's been laced. Then, he violates me…

For the past three months, I've slept only three hours every day just so my team and I can create an app. Thanks to our hard work, the app goes absolutely viral to the point we've garnered over 100 million registered users on the first week of its launch. At the afterparty, my wife, Stacie Woodward, announces that her godbrother, Tory Frost, who's the PR manager, will be the one receiving the million-dollar bonus. She then tosses me a few 50% discount coupons that can be used in shopping malls as my bonus. "You're just a code monkey—why do you need that much money anyway? You can have these discount coupons. Use them on anything you want. At least buy some nice clothes for yourself. Don't go around wearing these rags. You'll just end up humiliating me more." I plead to her in a low tone, "Have you gone crazy, Stacie? My dad needs the money for the best medication in order to save his life! Can you please stop joking around?" But Stacie clings to Toby's arm, looking high and mighty. "Your dad's dying, isn't he? He might as well stop wasting the public resources! I can always choose him a better grave and hold a nice funeral for him when his time comes!" As I look at Stacie's smug face, I just smile at her instead of getting mad at her. She must have forgotten that the app's core algorithm and the user growth model are built using my private, undisclosed technology stack. That means the copyright is mine and has nothing to do with the company. I just smile while nodding at Stacie. That night, I activate the technology stack's self-destruct and migration protocols.

I had been married to Derek for six years, and we had a three-year-old son. He was poor, earning only $2,000 a month, but I had no complaints; I took care of everything at home for him. After getting dinner on the table for the whole family, I finally had a minute to check my phone. A video popped up on my feed: a twenty-two-year-old girl from a rural area whose hands, roughened by years of hard labor, looked like they belonged to a sixty-two-year-old woman. I looked down at my own hands, just as worn and scarred, and stared at them blankly before tapping into the comments. I expected people to feel bad for her. However, to my surprise, the comments section was flooded with a single sentiment: "Why would anyone marry a penniless loser?" One of the top-liked comments came from a couple; in their photo, they were pictured holding hands—fingers tightly intertwined—with the girl sporting a massive diamond ring. The accompanying caption read: "A man who truly loves you would never bear to let you suffer." I felt a pang of envy. Given the choice, who wouldn't want a glamorous life? As I was about to close the app, I accidentally tapped on the couple's photo, enlarging it. In the background, previously too blurry to make out, was a face I recognized. It looked exactly like my husband, Derek Sterling. I froze, and almost against my will, I tapped into the account's profile. Post after post of lavish photos of them together flooded my screen. And then I saw him clearly. The scar above his brow, the one he got when a shelf fell on him while protecting me, was still plainly visible. It was my husband. It was Derek.

The Day I Was Reborn, I Rejected the Alpha In my previous life, on my third year as Luna, I took an arrow tipped with wolfsbane meant for my Alpha mate Julian. My wolf was nearly killed, and I lay comatose for three full years. When I finally woke, Julian held my sister Lyra's hand and told me they were in love. He wanted me to step aside. My adoptive mother, Eleanor, pressured me to accept it. I refused. When the three of them closed in on me, I appealed to the Council of Elders. In the end, the Council ruled that Lyra be exiled. She couldn't bear the humiliation, and took her own life. Julian let me keep my title as Luna, but he hated me for the rest of his life. He would look at me with cold, dead eyes. "You should never have woken up. Then I wouldn't have lost Lyra." My adoptive mother blamed me too — for killing my sister, for destroying our family. Seven years later, grief and alcohol had hollowed Julian out completely. On his deathbed, the cold mask slipped. He gripped my hand. "In the next life... will you let me have Lyra?" Something in me went numb. After Julian was gone, the pack fell apart without an Alpha. Every one of them cursed me for being the one still alive. In the fighting that came after, my own pack handed me over to a rival pack. They put a dozen arrows through me. I died alone in the wilderness. When I opened my eyes, I was back — back to the day I first woke up.

On the day the college entrance exam results are released, I rank first in the entire province. A top student from another school, Heather Cliffton, publicly reports me for cheating on the Englorian exam. She says, "Someone who's never scored above 145 points in Englorian could never have a higher total score than I do." My seatmate, Louis Henderson, steps forward as a witness. He says, "She copied my answer sheet during every exam." The Department of Education launches an investigation, and my admission to a top-tier university is put on hold. My mother cries all night. My father is nearly fired from his job. The entire internet brands me as a cheater. During a livestream, Heather chokes back tears and says, "I just want justice for myself." I am about to explain when she adds, "If the one who scores 145 points in Englorian can sit down and pass an Englorian college entrance exam paper on the spot, I'll kneel down and apologize." I smile. I'm a Canalian-track student. I don't even take the Englorian paper in the college entrance exams.

I stumbled across an encrypted folder on my husband's phone, filled with photos of a little girl I'd never seen before. From newborn to first steps, sorted by month—two full years' worth. But the child in those photos wasn't our daughter. When I confronted him, he said she was a girl named Rosie from the children's home I sponsored. The director sent growth updates, and he'd been saving them for me. I never imagined that my warm, thoughtful husband would use my charity to spin a lie. Because every single photo was geotagged to the apartment complex next to his office. And the children's home was on the other side of the city. I didn't call him out right then. Because I wanted to know whose child she really was.

"Two families are here today hoping to adopt. You can choose which one you'd like to go with." In my previous life, I chose the Parkers, who owned a small neighborhood store. Life wasn't particularly comfortable, but they cherished me like their own. They fully supported my writing and helped me become a moderately successful novelist. Meanwhile, Sean Lowe chose the affluent Bennett family. Their home was comfortable, but cold and detached. He spent more than a decade trying to earn their affection, but never truly became part of the family. Now that I'd been given a second chance, the moment I saw the Parkers again, I nearly called them Mom and Dad. But Sean beat me to it. He threw himself forward and said, "Mrs. Harper, I want to go with the family that owns the store! I love snacks the most. I'll be good and listen to everything they say!" He buried himself in Claire Parker's arms like a kitten that had finally found its way home. I stopped behind him and didn't move. If my guess was right, he had been reborn too.

I got hurt and lost consciousness on the battlefield. When I woke up after a three-day coma, I suddenly wanted to pull a prank on my mate. “Who are you?” When I saw my mate freeze, I wanted to laugh, but he suddenly saluted. “Miss Selena, I’m your comrade, Galeis.” He then pointed at his brother. “He’s Leonore, your mate.” I froze. Leonore stepped forward. “Yes, I’m your mate.” I forced out a smile. “Take me home, then.”

I woke up from a nightmare, and I was back. Back in the year the Falcone family went to war with the Morozovs for the shipping lanes. I was the Donna of the Falcone family. The woman they all envied. And the first thing I did? I got rid of the baby in my belly. My husband's child. Don Enzo's. Because in my last life, on the day I gave birth, Enzo held up a baby with blue eyes. His own eyes were blazing. "How dare you sleep with a Morozov," he snarled, "and birth their blue-eyed bastard!" The family sentenced me to death. They threw me in a cell. I didn't learn the truth until the very end. That baby belonged to Eliana—Enzo's first love. She was the one sleeping with our sworn enemy. The Morozovs. And Enzo? He stole my rightful heir and swapped him for her bastard. They made me the family traitor. And left my body to rot in a cold, damp cell. And my own son—his mind twisted by that bitch—stood over my corpse and cursed my name. When I opened my eyes again, I was three months pregnant. I didn't hesitate. I walked into a clinic and ended it. Before I left, I took a different kind of shot. High-grade hormones, straight from the black market. It fakes the signs of pregnancy. Fools even the best blood tests. Enzo needed a baby to cover for Eliana's sins. Fine. Let's play.