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  • Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle novel by Sutton Moul

    Married To My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle novel by Sutton Moul

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    I was supposed to marry my fiancé, Kenan, the golden boy of the Sinclair family, tomorrow.

    Instead, I woke up drugged in a hotel bed, wearing a man’s shirt, with my fiancé’s disabled, supposedly ruined uncle, Beckett Sinclair, sitting in a wheelchair across from me.

    Before I could even process the horror, my future mother-in-law busted the door open with a pack of reporters.

    She pointed her finger at me, screaming to the cameras that I was a slut who cheated on her son with his crippled uncle.

    My fiancé texted me immediately.

    “You make me sick. We’re done.”

    Even my abusive adoptive family joined the firing squad, demanding I go crawl back and apologize to the man who just threw me away like trash.

    I was completely set up.

    My mother-in-law orchestrated this whole nightmare just to ruin me and replace me with a wealthy, pregnant heiress.

    I was stripped of my dignity, my future, and my reputation in the blink of an eye.

    But just as I was about to be swallowed by the scandal, the disabled uncle everyone mocked did the unthinkable.

    He took the blame for everything in front of the furious family patriarch.

    Then, he looked at me with calm, calculating eyes and handed me a lifeline.

    “Marry me. It’s your only way out.”

    I looked at the greedy faces of my family and the smug smile of my ex-fiancé’s mother.

    I took his hand, tore up my past, and became the new Mrs. Sinclair.

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    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 1

    Elianna POV:
    The room was spinning before I even finished the champagne.
    It wasn’t a gentle sway. It was a violent, lurching tilt that made the crystal chandeliers of the estate blur into streaks of aggressive light. I gripped the edge of the high table, my knuckles turning white, trying to anchor myself to the floor.
    “You look pale, dear.”
    Kena Whitehead’s voice was smooth, like velvet wrapped around a jagged rock. My future mother-in-law stood too close, her hand resting on my shoulder with a weight that felt less like comfort and more like a restraint.
    “I… I can’t find Kenan,” I managed to say. My tongue felt thick, heavy in my mouth. “He said he’d be right back.”
    “Kenan is busy with the team sponsors, Elianna. You know how important this contract is.” Kena smiled, but her eyes remained cold, calculating. She signaled a passing waiter with a sharp flick of her wrist. “Take Ms. Hayes to the guest suite. She needs to lie down. The champagne was evidently too strong for her.”
    “No, I just need fresh air—” I tried to pull away, but my legs betrayed me. They felt like they were filled with lead.
    The waiter, a man with a face as blank as a slate, took my arm. His grip was firm. “This way, ma’am.”
    He didn’t lead me toward the main staircase where the other guests were mingling. He steered me away from the warmth, down a corridor that grew quieter and colder with every step. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of our footsteps. The air changed, smelling less like expensive perfume and more like old cedar and rain.
    We were in the West Wing. The part of the estate Kenan always told me to avoid.
    “Wait,” I slurred, dragging my feet. “This isn’t…”
    The waiter didn’t answer. He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. He opened it, the hinges groaning in protest, and practically shoved me inside.
    I stumbled, my knees hitting the thick Persian rug with a thud.
    “Kenan?” I called out into the darkness.
    The click of the lock turning behind me was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
    Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp, cutting through the haze of the drug. I scrambled to my feet, swaying, and turned back to the door. I rattled the handle. Locked.
    “Help!” I screamed, but my voice was weak, absorbed by the heavy tapestries on the walls.
    A flash of lightning tore through the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room in a stark, blue-white burst.
    That’s when I saw him.
    He was sitting in the corner, a silhouette carved from the shadows. He wasn’t Kenan. This man was broader, darker. He was seated in a wheelchair, his hands resting motionless on the armrests.
    Beckett Sinclair.
    The fallen god of the ice. The legendary NHL captain. The man the family whispered about with a mixture of pity and disdain.Also Kenan’s uncle.
    He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just watched me with eyes that glinted in the dark.
    The drug surged again, a wave of heat that started in my stomach and clawed its way up my throat. It wasn’t just heat; it was a disorienting vertigo that made the world tilt on its axis. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I just needed safety. I needed Kenan. My confused brain superimposed Kenan’s face onto the man in the shadows.
    I stumbled toward him.
    “Kenan,” I whimpered, tears blurring my vision. “Please. It hurts.”
    I fell at his feet, my hands grasping his knees. The fabric of his trousers was cool against my burning palms. I could feel the rigid metal of his leg braces beneath the cloth, hard, cold, and unyielding against my touch.
    Beckett didn’t flinch. He didn’t kick me away, but he didn’t help me either. He sat there like a statue, a ruined king on a broken throne.
    “You’re in the wrong room, Elianna,” his voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the darkness. It wasn’t the voice of a weak man. It was the growl of something dangerous that had been chained up for too long.
    “Help me,” I begged, the heat becoming unbearable. I tugged at the neckline of my dress, desperate for air. “So dizzy… please…”
    I heard a sharp intake of breath from him.
    “Silas,” Beckett said into the empty air, his voice dropping an octave.
    A small earpiece I hadn’t noticed blinked with a faint blue light. “Lock down the wing. No one enters until I say so. Kena made her move.”
    I didn’t understand what he was saying. My head fell onto his lap. The scent of him—sandalwood, tobacco, and something uniquely masculine—filled my senses, drowning out the cedar smell of the room.
    I couldn’t make out the face of the man above me; I could only vaguely discern his features.
    His facial structure was sharply defined—handsome in a refined yet rugged, masculine way.
    A high, straight bridge of the nose…
    Large hands, with thick, prominent knuckles…
    “Relax a little…”
    “Baby, you’re so tense…”
    The man sighed in a low voice, his large hand firmly gripping mine and pressing it against the cold tiles.
    “…I can’t be gentle at all.”
    His sudden assertiveness made my body tremble; I nearly collapsed to the floor.
    I couldn’t handle it anymore; tears welled up in my eyes as I whimpered,
    “Wh… when will it end?”
    Beckett’s gaze darkened; his large hand, with its prominent veins, shifted to my waist and suddenly tightened its grip.
    “Mmph…” My mind went blank for a moment.
    The man kissed my earlobe, his low, husky voice resonating against my eardrum.
    “Be a good girl—five more times. You count them out, and then we’re done.”
    I let out a breath of relief and parted my lips, a voice full of grievance and frailty escaping them.
    “One… two… five… I’m done counting. Can… can we stop now?”
    “Heh.” Beckett chuckled softly, his deep, dark eyes fixed intently on me.
    “Sweetheart, that’s not the kind of counting I meant…”
    I froze, stunned; before I could process his words, a large hand clamped firmly onto my chin.
    His scent washed over me as he sealed my lips with his own, enveloping me completely in an intense, suffocating aura of raw masculinity.
    Steam billowed through the bathroom, thoroughly blurring my vision.
    Yet, my senses felt sharper than ever…
    Hours later, his hand hovered over my head for a second, hesitant. Then, with a sigh that sounded like resignation, his fingers brushed against my hair. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through my numb body.
    “Sleep,” he commanded softly.
    The last thing I remembered was the terrifying realization that the legs felt as cold and lifeless as stone, encased in their metal prison.

    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 2

    Elianna POV:
    The sound of a key grinding in the lock was violent enough to wake the dead.
    I gasped, shooting up from the pillows. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, like a slapshot ringing against the boards inside my skull. I was in a bed. A strange bed. The sheets were gray silk, cool and slippery against my skin.
    I looked down. My dress was rumpled, the strap hanging off one shoulder.
    “Stay down,” a voice commanded from the window.
    I snapped my head around. Beckett was there, his wheelchair facing the door. He had his back to me, his posture rigid. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket anymore.
    Before I could ask why, he whipped around, holding the tailored black jacket. He threw it at me with the precise accuracy of a former pro.
    “Cover yourself.”
    I barely had time to clutch the jacket to my chest before the door burst open.
    It wasn’t just Kena. It was a full-blown media circus.
    Flashes of light erupted like gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. The blinding white strobes from the sports paparazzi left spots in my vision. I screamed, pulling the jacket over my head, curling into a ball of shame.
    “Oh my God!” Kena’s voice was a theatrical shriek. “Elianna! How could you?”
    She stood in the doorway, hand over her mouth, flanked by three men with cameras and a handful of “concerned” VIP guests who looked more like vultures circling a carcass.
    “Get out!” Beckett roared.
    The sound was so powerful it physically shook the room. The photographers hesitated, lowering their lenses for a split second. Beckett wheeled himself forward, placing his body between the mob and the bed.
    “This is my private sanctuary,” he snarled, his face twisted in a mask of fury. “Get your cameras out of my face before I break them.”
    “Beckett,” Kena stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “We were just looking for Elianna. Kenan was worried sick. And we find her… here? In your bed?”
    “I… I don’t remember,” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “I felt sick. Someone brought me here.”
    “Likely story,” one of the tabloid reporters muttered, snapping another picture over Beckett’s broad shoulder.
    “She was drunk,” Kena declared, turning to the crowd. “Look at her. Disgraceful. Kenanis downstairs playing the heartbroken star captain, and she’s up here throwing herself at his crippled uncle.”
    The word ‘crippled’ hung in the air, heavy and cruel—a sharp, deliberate jab at the man who used to own the ice.
    Beckett’s hands gripped the wheels of his chair so hard I thought the metal might bend. He looked at Kena, then back at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. For a second, I saw something flicker there—calculation? Pity?
    He turned back to Kena. “She didn’t throw herself at me.”
    The room went silent.
    Beckett looked down at his lap, his shoulders slumping in a performance of resignation that was terrifyingly convincing. “We have been seeing each other, Kena. For months.”
    My jaw dropped. “What? No, that’s not—”
    “Quiet, Elianna,” Beckett snapped, though his eyes warned me to shut up. “She came to me because she couldn’t stand the sight of your son anymore. She chose me. We thought we could keep it secret until after the franchise merger, but… clearly, we were careless.”
    Kena blinked. This wasn’t part of her playbook. She wanted me to be the villain, the gold-digging puck bunny preying on a helpless invalid. But Beckett painting himself as the secret lover? It made Kenanlook like a fool who couldn’t keep his fiancée in check, and it made the scandal a consensual, albeit messy, affair.
    “You… you beast,” Kena spat, recovering quickly. “You’re disgusting. Stealing your nephew’s fiancée?”
    “I am what this family made me,” Beckett said quietly. “Now get out.”
    Team security finally arrived, pushing the reporters back into the hallway. The door slammed shut, leaving us in a ringing silence.
    I stared at Beckett’s back. He was breathing heavily.
    “Why?” I whispered. “Why did you say that?”
    He turned his chair slowly. The vulnerability was gone. His face was a mask of stone again.
    “Because if you were the seductress who drugged herself, Kenan would sue you for breach of contract and destroy your family,” he said coldly. “If we are lovers, it’s just a scandal. A mess they have to clean up to protect the franchise’s stock price. I just bought you a lifeline.”
    “A lifeline?” I laughed hysterically, tears streaming down my face. “My life is over. Kenanwill never believe me.”
    “Kenan is the one who let this happen,” Beckett said. “Get dressed. Harrison is waiting in the study. The execution begins now.”

    Married To My Ex’s Powerful Billionaire Uncle Chapter 3

    Elianna POV:
    The walk to the study felt like a funeral procession.
    I pushed Beckett’s wheelchair, my hands trembling on the rubber grips. Silas, his looming shadow of a bodyguard, had been barred from entering the main house by Kena. It was just us.
    Inside the study, the air was thick with the smell of old leather and judgment. Harrison Sinclair III sat behind a desk the size of a small car, polishing a heavy, silver-headed cane with a white cloth.
    Kenan was there.
    My heart leaped. I let go of the wheelchair and took a step toward him. “Kenan! Please, you have to listen to me. I was drugged. I would never—”
    Kenan took a step back. He looked at me as if I were something he had scraped off his skate.
    “Don’t come near me,” he sneered. “You smell like him.”
    The words were a physical blow. I stopped, my breath catching in my throat. “Kenan…”
    “My mother told me everything,” Kenan said, his voice flat. “You’ve been sneaking around with him? Behind my back? You’re even cheaper than I thought.”
    He gestured to Beckett.
    I looked at Kenan—really looked at him—and for the first time, I didn’t see the charming hockey phenom I thought I loved. I saw a coward standing behind Kena’s designer skirt.
    “Enough,” Harrison barked. He stood up, testing the weight of the cane in his hand. “You have brought shame on this franchise, Beckett.”
    Beckett sat with his head bowed. “I know.”
    “You are a waste of space,” Harrison said, walking around the desk. “A broken man with broken morals.”
    He raised the cane.
    I gasped. “No!”
    Thwack.
    The sound of the heavy wood hitting Beckett’s shoulder was sickening—a dull, wet thud. Beckett grunted, his body jerking forward, but his hands stayed white-knuckled on the armrests. He didn’t try to block it.
    Harrison raised the cane for a second strike, his face purple with rage.
    “Harrison, stop!” Kena intervened sharply, stepping between them. “Not in front of her. Think of the PR nightmare and the liability.”
    Harrison lowered the cane slowly, breathing hard. He glared down at Beckett, satisfied with the single, brutal blow that had left him trembling.
    “You are garbage,” Harrison spat.
    Beckett slowly lifted his head. His lip was bleeding where he had bitten it. His eyes were burning with a terrifying intensity.
    “I want to marry her,” Beckett said.
    The silence in the room was absolute. Even Harrison looked stunned.
    “What?” Kenan laughed incredulously. “You want my leftovers?”
    Beckett ignored him. He looked straight at Harrison. “The sports press has the photos. If you cast her out, the headline is Sinclair Golden Boy’s Fiancée Cheats with Disabled Uncle. It makes Kenan look weak going into the playoffs. It makes the front office look chaotic.”
    Beckett paused, wiping blood from his mouth.
    “But if I marry her… the narrative becomes a tragic romance. The star-crossed lovers who couldn’t help themselves. It creates a scandal, yes, but a romantic one. It protects the franchise’s public image and the team’s valuation.”
    Harrison narrowed his eyes. He was a team owner first, a patriarch second. He did the math in his head.
    “He’s right,” Harrison grunted. He looked at Kenan. “This solves the problem of Elianna.”
    “Fine,” Harrison waved his hand dismissively. “Take the trash. Marry her. But you’re cut off from the main accounts. And I am activating the exile clause. You get nothing but your medical stipend. And you don’t step foot in this arena or house again.”
    “Deal,” Beckett said.
    He turned his wheelchair toward me. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead from the pain, but his hand was steady as he reached out.
    “Elianna,” he said softly. “Get me out of here.”
    I looked at Kenan, who was already checking his phone, completely bored. Then I looked at the man nursing a bruised shoulder in the chair, the former hockey legend who had just taken a beating to save me from total ruin.
    I took Beckett’s hand. It was warm.
    “Okay,” I whispered.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine novel by Juline Walden

    Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine novel by Juline Walden

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    I spent a whole year trying to melt my billionaire husband’s icy heart, carefully planning our grand wedding reception.

    Then a trending news alert popped up: Augustine was spotted at the airport, intimately holding his childhood sweetheart, Bianca.

    When I frantically called him, he declined it and sent a cold text.

    “Don’t call.”

    At the family estate, he didn’t even acknowledge my existence. Instead, he announced that our wedding reception was canceled.

    “Bianca and I discussed it,” he stated flatly, as if she were the real wife.

    His aristocratic family just sneered at me. His aunt called me a classless gold digger, and his grandmother demanded I endure the humiliation to protect their public image.

    They even moved Bianca into our penthouse, redecorating the suite for her while I was barred from his office.

    For a year, I gave up my career and dreams, desperately molding myself into the perfect Mrs. Rhodes.

    I thought my devotion would eventually earn his respect, but to them, I was just a pathetic, temporary replacement keeping the seat warm.

    When I saw he had completely blocked me on social media, erasing me with a single click, my heart finally died.

    I didn’t cry or beg for his affection anymore.

    I packed my bags, walked out of that suffocating gilded cage, and sent him a simple text.

    “Let’s get a divorce.”

    I am done playing the tragic clown. This time, I’m taking my life back.

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    Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine Chapter 1

    “Mr. Rhodes’s family crest will be hand-carved by a Michelin three-star chef.”
    The wedding planner, Mr. Price, gestured toward an illustration of an elaborate ice sculpture. His voice was slick with a practiced reverence that made Eve’s stomach tighten.
    She sat alone at a long polished table in the Vera Wang VIP suite. Spread before her were blueprints for a life she was supposed to want: samples of “ocean heart” themed china, photos of white roses flown in from France, fabric swatches for tablecloths.
    Across from her, an empty velvet chair seemed to mock her. It was where Augustine was supposed to be.
    “It looks perfect,” Eve said, forcing a smile that felt brittle on her lips. “Let’s go with that plan.”
    Mr. Price glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. “Will Mr. Rhodes be joining us today? There are a few seating arrangements for the guests that require his personal confirmation.”
    Eve’s fingers tightened around her porcelain coffee cup. The heat did nothing to warm them. “He has an international conference call. He couldn’t get away.”
    The lie was smooth, practiced.
    “I can decide on the seating,” she added, her voice quiet but firm.
    A flicker of understanding—and something like pity—crossed Mr. Price’s face before it was masked by a professional smile. “Of course. You are the lady of the house.”
    He said the words, but his hand subtly pushed a guest list marked “Top Priority” to the center of the table. The message was clear. Some decisions were above her pay grade.
    Eve’s gaze swept over the names. Vanderbilt. Rockefeller. The weight of centuries of old money pressed down on her. The air in the room felt thin.
    She took a slow breath and began. “The Astors will be at table three, with the Carnegies. They summer together.”
    She moved through the list, her memory sharp, her arrangements flawless. Mr. Price’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
    Two hours later, every detail was finalized. Augustine’s phone had gone unanswered the entire time.
    Then, a text.
    I’m busy. You decide.
    The words were cold, efficient. A tiny, sharp pain pierced through the numbness in her chest.
    She typed out a reply: Okay. Rest early.
    Her thumb hovered over the send button. The sentence looked pathetic. Needy.
    She deleted it.
    OK.
    She hit send.
    Outside, the cool New York evening air was a welcome shock to her skin. She dismissed the driver, needing to walk, to feel the hard pavement under her feet.
    Fifth Avenue’s glittering windows showcased jewels and gowns, each one a silent testament to a fantasy she was failing to live.
    She ducked into a small café, the warmth a temporary comfort. Her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Chloe Hayes.
    You okay, honey? Don’t wear yourself out.
    Eve typed back a smiling emoji. I’m fine. Everything’s going smoothly.
    She opened her news app, scrolling to the finance section. It was one of the few ways she tried to understand Augustine’s world.
    A push notification flashed across the top of her screen. An entertainment headline.
    Billionaire Augustine Rhodes, Wedding Imminent, Spotted with Mystery Blonde at Airport!
    Her breath caught. It had to be a mistake. Clickbait.
    She tapped the link.
    The air left her lungs. Her blood turned to ice.
    The photo was brutally clear. Augustine, in the VIP airport terminal, wearing the dark grey overcoat she had picked out for him that morning. But he wasn’t wearing the tie she’d matched with it.
    He was angled slightly, shielding a woman from the imagined press. His hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture of casual, confident possession.
    The woman, a cascade of brilliant blonde hair, wore sunglasses but her smile was radiant. She was pressed against his side, a perfect fit.
    Eve knew her instantly. Bianca Cherry.
    Augustine’s childhood sweetheart. The one the Rhodes family had always wanted for him. The one who had left for Paris three years ago.
    The caption beneath the photo read: A source reveals Ms. Cherry’s return may be to reclaim what was rightfully hers.
    The warm café air grew thin, suffocating. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the small table.
    Heads turned. Eve didn’t notice. Her world had shrunk to that single, damning photograph and the words: reclaim what was rightfully hers.
    She scrambled to her feet, grabbing her purse and phone, and stumbled out of the café, desperate to escape the unseen eyes, the silent judgment.
    She dialed Augustine’s number.
    This time, it didn’t just ring.
    It was declined.
    A second later, a text from him appeared.
    Don’t call.
    Eve stood frozen on the bustling sidewalk, the city’s vibrant life a blur of noise and light. She was a clown in a tragedy only she was performing in.
    She remembered their wedding day, a year ago. The contract. “Our marriage is a business arrangement,” he had told her, his blue eyes as cold as a winter sky. “Don’t have any expectations of me.”
    She had been so naive, thinking she could melt the ice.
    Now she understood. The ice wasn’t meant to be melted. His spring just belonged to someone else.
    Her phone rang again. The caller ID read: Mrs. Davis. The housekeeper.
    Her hand trembled as she answered.
    “Ma’am?” Mrs. Davis’s voice was hesitant. “Will you be returning for dinner? Mr. Rhodes… he will not be coming home tonight either.”

    Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine Chapter 2

    The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silent air. Eve sat on the sprawling white sofa, a cashmere throw clutched around her shoulders. The coffee on the table in front of her was cold. She hadn’t slept.
    The penthouse was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the minimalist clock on the wall. The door to the master bedroom, his bedroom, remained closed. An unbreached fortress.
    She picked up her phone. The screen glowed with yesterday’s news. She mechanically refreshed the page.
    More photos had appeared. A video.
    Augustine and Bianca at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Bianca, laughing, reached across the table to adjust his tie. He didn’t pull away.
    The comments section was a viper’s nest.
    “OMG, they look so perfect together!”
    “Who is this Eve Clarke person? A temporary replacement?”
    “Poor girl. Just another casualty of a dynastic marriage.”
    The word “replacement” made her stomach clench. She shut off the phone, the screen going dark like a closing eye.
    She stood up and walked into the kitchen. Her body moved on autopilot, pulling out the ingredients for Augustine’s breakfast. Freshly squeezed orange juice. The specific brand of Irish oatmeal he preferred. It was a pathetic, ingrained habit, a ritual for a god who never showed up.
    Mrs. Davis entered the kitchen, her kind face etched with worry. “Ma’am, you…”
    “I’m fine, Mrs. Davis,” Eve said, her voice a hollow echo of itself. “Just a bad night’s sleep.” She packed the oatmeal into a thermal container. “If Mr. Rhodes comes back, please make sure he eats this.”
    The housekeeper’s eyes were filled with a deep, sorrowful pity. “Of course, ma’am.”
    Eve went to the walk-in closet to get dressed. Her clothes occupied one side, his the other. A stark, physical representation of their lives. Separate. Untouching.
    She decided to go to his office. It was something she had never done before, showing up unannounced. A violation of their unspoken rules.
    At the gleaming lobby of Rhodes Tower, the receptionist stopped her with a polite, impenetrable smile. “I’m sorry, Ms. Clarke. Without an appointment, I can’t let you up. Mr. Rhodes is in a very important meeting.”
    “I’m his wife,” Eve said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.
    The receptionist’s smile didn’t waver. “We’re aware, but company policy is absolute.”
    It was the ultimate humiliation. His wife. Barred from entry like a common stranger.
    Just as she was about to turn away, defeated, Augustine’s executive assistant appeared. He was impeccably dressed, his expression neutral.
    “Ms. Clarke,” he said smoothly. “Mr. Rhodes asked me to convey a message. He said that all wedding matters are at your discretion. He has complete faith in your taste.”
    The words were a perfectly constructed wall, blocking any possibility of a real conversation. He was managing her. Handling her.
    Eve walked out of the building, the city’s noise a dull roar in her ears. She felt like a joke. The whole world knew her husband was with another woman, and she, the wife, couldn’t even get past his front desk.
    She sat in her car for a long time, the engine off. Her phone vibrated.
    The screen read: Eleanor Rhodes.
    Augustine’s grandmother. The matriarch.
    Eve took a deep, steadying breath and answered. “Grandmother.”
    Eleanor’s voice was warm, like aged whiskey. “Eve, my dear. I saw the news. Don’t you pay it any mind. Augustine has his moods, and men will be men. Your wedding is what’s important.”
    The words were meant to be soothing, but they felt like ice water. Eleanor wasn’t concerned about Eve’s pain. She was concerned about the wedding. The family’s image.
    “This weekend, I want you to come to the estate,” Eleanor continued, her tone shifting from gentle to commanding. “We’ll have a family meeting. Settle these details once and for all.”
    It wasn’t a request.
    “Yes, Grandmother,” Eve murmured.
    Hanging up, a profound sense of powerlessness washed over her. In this marriage, everyone cared about the title “Mrs. Rhodes.” No one cared about Eve.
    On the drive home, she passed a newsstand. The front page of a tabloid featured a large photo of Augustine and Bianca, side-by-side. The headline screamed: OLD FLAME RETURNS, WHERE IS THE NEW WIFE?
    Eve slammed on the brakes, pulling the car over to the curb. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.
    After a few minutes, her phone rang again.
    The name on the screen made her heart leap with a stupid, desperate hope.
    Augustine.
    She snatched it up. “Hello?”
    His voice was low and devoid of any emotion. “I heard you came to the office today.”
    Her lips parted. She wanted to scream, to ask about the photos, about Bianca, about where he was last night.
    But all that came out was a weak “I… I just wanted to talk to you.”
    “There’s nothing to talk about,” he cut in, his voice sharp with impatience. “Don’t do that again. It’s disruptive. I won’t be home tonight. Make your own arrangements.”
    The line went dead.
    Eve held the silent phone to her ear, staring blankly through the windshield. The last, flickering ember of hope had been extinguished.

    Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine Chapter 3

    The Rhodes family estate on Long Island was a monument of old stone and older money. When the butler led Eve into the grand drawing room, Augustine was already there, seated in a wingback chair, coolly flipping through a financial journal.
    He didn’t look up. He didn’t acknowledge her existence.
    The familiar sting of his indifference was dulled by a growing numbness. Eve sat on a sofa as far away from him as possible, her posture rigid.
    A moment later, Augustine’s aunt, Caroline Rhodes, descended the grand staircase. She was a severe woman in a Chanel suit, her face a mask of perpetual disapproval. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, raked over Eve from head to toe, lingering on the simple, off-the-rack dress Eve wore. A faint, contemptuous smile touched her lips.
    Finally, Eleanor Rhodes entered, leaning lightly on a silver-handled cane. She took her seat at the head of the room, and an immediate, heavy silence fell.
    “I’ve had the public relations team handle the news,” Eleanor began, her gaze sweeping over Augustine and Eve. “Augustine, be more discreet in the future. The Rhodes family cannot afford any negative press before this wedding is finalized.”
    Her words were a reprimand for Augustine, but Eve heard the true emphasis: before the wedding is finalized. The act itself didn’t matter, only the timing.
    Augustine grunted in assent, his eyes still fixed on his journal.
    Caroline let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “You’re too soft, Grandmother. Some people are simply not fit to carry the Rhodes name. If she can’t even keep her own husband in line, what good is she?”
    Eve’s body went rigid. Her nails dug into the soft skin of her palms. She knew Caroline was talking about her.
    She said nothing, just lowered her gaze to her lap, where her hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.
    Her silence seemed to infuriate Caroline further. “Can’t even speak for herself. Utterly lacking in breeding.”
    “That’s enough,” Augustine said, finally lowering his journal. His brow was furrowed, not in defense of Eve, but in annoyance at the disruption.
    He turned his cold, blue eyes on Eve. His voice was flat, like a CEO announcing a corporate restructuring.
    “Bianca and I have discussed it. To prevent further media speculation, we’ve decided that the wedding reception… will be postponed indefinitely.”
    Indefinitely. A polite word for canceled.
    The reception she had spent months planning, the one that was supposed to celebrate their union, was being erased by a single sentence. A decision he had made with her.
    Eve’s mind went blank. She stared at him, her voice a disbelieving whisper. “You discussed it with who?”
    “Bianca,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “She is one of the parties involved in the media narrative. It was logical to get her input.”
    Caroline let out a triumphant little scoff. “Did you hear that? Auggie discusses his decisions with Bianca. They are a team. What are you?”
    The blood rushed to Eve’s head, then drained away, leaving her hands and feet icy cold. Her wedding. Her husband. Discussing its cancellation with another woman. The humiliation was a physical blow.
    She stood up, her legs trembling slightly. She looked directly at Augustine. “So, in your mind, she is your family, isn’t she?”
    A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crossed his face. He looked away, refusing to answer.
    His silence was the most brutal confirmation of all.
    Eleanor tapped her cane on the thick Persian rug. “Enough. The matter is settled. A postponement is wise. It will prevent further complications.”
    Eve looked around the opulent room. The cold husband, the vicious aunt, the calculating grandmother. She was an intruder in their world, a laughable, temporary fixture.
    She didn’t say another word. She turned, straightened her spine, and walked out of the suffocating room.
    Behind her, she heard Caroline’s parting shot, “No manners at all.”
    The winter sun outside felt as cold as the drawing room. She got into her car, started the engine, and pressed the accelerator, fleeing the gilded cage.
    Only when she was on the highway did she realize her vision was blurred by tears.
    She pulled over onto the shoulder, dropped her head to the steering wheel, and finally let the sobs come. Months of quiet desperation, of forced smiles and swallowed pain, erupted in a raw, ragged storm.
    When the tears subsided, she looked at the diamond ring on her left hand. It was a beautiful, brilliant lie. It mocked her.
    With a choked cry of frustration, she yanked it off her finger. Her hand flew up, ready to hurl it out the window. But it stopped, trembling, halfway.
    Defeated, she unclenched her fist and shoved the ring deep into the pocket of her coat.
    After the storm of tears came a vast, hollow emptiness. She wiped her face, her eyes strangely calm. She started the car again.
    But she wasn’t driving back to the penthouse.
    She was driving to the one place she hadn’t been in a year. Her grandmother’s house.
    As she made the turn, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time washed over her.
    Relief.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel by Janna Lemay

    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel by Janna Lemay

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    I was about to marry Dante, a ruthless New York Mafia boss.
    However, just three blocks away from the cathedral, his ex-wife sent a text message saying their son was coughing up blood.
    This was the third time, and Dante abandoned me at the altar once again, transferring a hundred million dollars to me as compensation instead.
    I accepted the money, but his ex-wife did not stop there. She moved into my home with her son, faked an illness, and tried to force me out.
    The last straw that broke me happened at the airport, when the little heir, instigated by his mother, viciously pushed me from behind.
    I fell hard onto the cold marble floor and lost the child I did not even know I was carrying.
    As I lay in a pool of my own blood, Dante’s mother coldly gave an order over the phone:
    “The child is dead. You need to protect the living heir and Isabella’s status.”
    Dante looked at me, his face full of guilt, but eventually, he turned and walked away with them.
    To compensate for the child I lost, he threw a massive business empire at me, expecting me to continue waiting in the shadows while he enjoyed his family’s bliss.
    I finally understood that in the face of his mafia bloodline, my loyalty meant absolutely nothing.
    With a steady hand, I signed the asset transfer documents and did not hesitate to liquidate all the properties he had given me.
    Then, I boarded a private cartel jet flying to Switzerland.
    This time, I am going to build an empire of my own!

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    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 1

    Valentina’s POV
    The bulletproof car idled quietly in the shadows of an old apartment building, three blocks away from the cathedral where I was supposed to have my wedding.
    At that moment, my fiancé’s burner phone let out a low, urgent vibration.
    It was a text message from his ex-wife: “Dante, Leo is coughing up blood again. Come quickly, or your son will die before you say your vows.”
    I stared at the faintly glowing screen. The hum of the engine transmitted through the floorboards into my bones, feeling like a heavy tremor.
    Sitting beside me was Dante Salvatore, the head of a New York Mafia family, a man who commanded a ruthless empire.
    His daily routine consisted of nothing more than fighting for street turf and brutal expansion.
    Yet, inside this cramped cabin, the air was thick with the scent of his cologne. Beneath the heavy aroma of sandalwood, there was a faint trace of whiskey and gunpowder, adding an atmosphere of mystery and danger.
    His gaze was heavy, as if it could press down the surrounding air, possessing a power that could make even the toughest men bend their knees.
    Dante stared at the text message, all the color draining from his face until his bronze skin looked like wax-covered bone.
    His large, scarred hands tightly gripped the leather armrest, forming a sharp contrast against the dark material.
    I looked at him, then looked down at my custom-tailored wedding dress. I had been looking forward to this wedding so much.
    Even though this was already the third time.
    Three times we had been ready to take our vows before the priest, and three times his ex-wife Isabella had called due to a sudden critical emergency with their son, Leo.
    I had a very strict rule: three strikes, and after the third time, it is over.
    I understood that our world was transactional, and I knew the Mafia demanded loyalty, blood, and sacrifice.
    But I never expected that I would be the one sacrificed time and time again for the sake of his past.
    Dante looked at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Valentina…”
    I didn’t let him finish. Putting on the perfect, considerate posture of a Mafia woman, I forced a stiff smile.
    “Go.”
    Dante let out a shaky breath and reached out to grip my hand tightly.
    “I will make it up to you,” he promised. I simply nodded and signaled the driver to pull over.
    The heavy lock clicked open. I stepped out of the car and stood on the cold, dark curb. A biting, freezing wind blew off the river, hitting my bare shoulders and making me shiver involuntarily.
    I stood there, watching the convoy of black SUVs swiftly pull a U-turn. The tires shrieked against the asphalt.
    Then, they disappeared in the opposite direction. They had completely abandoned me, leaving me standing alone on this grime-covered sidewalk, wearing a wedding dress.
    I raised my hand and hailed a passing yellow cab. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes full of silent questions.
    My phone vibrated in my clutch. I took it out and saw a notification from my offshore bank account, a wire transfer had just cleared.
    One hundred million dollars. That was laundered “blood money” from the Salvatore family accounts.
    The screen’s phosphorescent glow stung my retinas; that long string of zeros looked piercingly cold and white in the darkness of the cab.
    I accepted the money without hesitation; as my protector, Dante no longer held any value.
    I opened an encrypted underground social network on my phone and found that the Mafia gossip forum had already exploded. Someone had leaked a blurry photo of me hailing a cab in my wedding dress.
    The comments flooded in. They called me a pathetic stray dog, mocking how the Mafia boss had abandoned this “gold digger” for the third time, leaving her hanging at her own wedding.
    They ridiculed my complete failure to secure the ultimate symbol of Mafia power.
    I scrolled through these mocking words expressionlessly, decided not to read any further, and simply turned off my phone.
    When I finally returned to my private penthouse, I took off the heavy wedding dress, letting the expensive silk fall carelessly onto the floor, and changed into a simple pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.
    Walking into the kitchen, I boiled a pot of water and made a simple bowl of pasta, adding nothing but a little olive oil.
    I placed the bowl on the cold marble countertop, took a picture, and posted it to my private feed without any caption.
    Within minutes, the women from other Mafia families left a string of sarcastic comments. They mocked my cheap meal and laughed at my miserable life.
    My phone vibrated again. It was another bank notification. Dante had transferred another three million dollars, with only a short sentence in the memo: “Take care of yourself.”
    The corner of my mouth curled into a cold, ruthless smile.
    Five years ago, on the night of Dante’s first divorce from Isabella, when he showed up at my tiny apartment exhausted and covered in bruises, this simple pasta was exactly what I had cooked for him.
    But he had long forgotten its meaning; he only knew how to use money to cover up his guilt.
    Suddenly, my private encrypted phone rang. I answered it and heard Camila’s voice. She was my longtime mentor and a legend in the underground world, having successfully married the head of a Swiss banking cartel.
    “Valentina, are your psychological defenses still holding up?” Her voice was clear and cold, without a trace of pity.
    “I am calculating my next move, but I regret getting involved in his power games.”
    A soft sigh came from the other end of the line.
    “Switzerland has a higher level of power and security,” Camila said. “I can get you out and give you sanctuary in Zurich. There is no need for you to stay here and be his sacrificial lamb.”
    I looked down at the simple bowl of pasta, quickly calculating my new wealth and my odds of winning, just like I always did.
    “Make the arrangements.”

    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 2

    Valentina’s POV
    Dante didn’t return to the penthouse that night, nor the next day.
    The apartment was unusually quiet. Taking advantage of this rare peace, I opened my laptop and began organizing the assets under my name.
    Over the years, Dante had gifted me numerous properties, luxury cars, and shell companies. I contacted hidden brokers, requesting to legally liquidate all assets. I needed untraceable, liquid cash.
    On the fourth day, the sound of a key turning in the lock came from the front door. I calmly closed my laptop and slid it under a magazine.
    Dante walked in, looking haggard. Behind him was Isabella, tightly holding the hand of a pale seven-year-old boy, Leo, the heir to the Salvatore family.
    “Leo’s condition is unstable,” Dante said in an unquestionable tone. “Isabella has a fever, and the estate is too far from the clinic. They are staying here temporarily.”
    He didn’t ask for my permission; he simply issued an order.
    I looked at Isabella. She was wearing a soft cashmere sweater, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she were chronically cold, and her eyes remained cast downward.
    I nodded silently, accepting the Don’s order without a single word of rebuttal.
    Seeing my obedience, Dante visibly breathed a sigh of relief. Carrying the faint scent of hospital disinfectant, he kissed me gently on the forehead and walked toward the kitchen to call his men.
    That night, as I sat on the edge of the large bed in the master bedroom, the door creaked slightly, and Isabella slipped in quietly.
    She offered a forced, polite smile, looking extremely strained.
    “Sorry to intrude, Valentina,” she said softly.
    I didn’t answer.
    She walked over to my nightstand and pointed to a silver-framed solo photo of Dante.
    “Leo is having trouble sleeping,” she said. “He needs to look at his father’s picture to feel safe.”
    She reached out and took the frame. I simply showed cold apathy toward her action.
    Isabella clutched the photo tightly to her chest and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, an unusual glimmer of tears flashed beneath her eyelashes.
    “I am so jealous of you,” she whispered. “I am jealous that you get to sleep in his bed.”
    Before I could respond, the hurried sound of little footsteps came from the hallway, and Leo rushed into the bedroom, his face flushed red.
    “You’re bullying my mom!” he yelled at me.
    He lunged at me and forcefully pushed my shoulder.
    Caught off guard, I was pushed a step back. My ankle accidentally tripped over the edge of the floorboards, and a piercing pain shot up my calf straight to my brain.
    I fell heavily onto the smooth floor. The impact made my entire body go numb, and the palms of my hands stung as I braced my fall.
    Taking advantage of this, Isabella immediately let go of the photo frame, letting it smash onto the floor with a sharp shattering sound. Then she grabbed Leo and shielded him behind her.
    “Valentina, I am so sorry!” Isabella cried out in a panicked voice, deliberately raising her volume as if trying to make sure someone at the end of the hall could hear. “Please don’t hurt him! He is just a child!”
    Leo instantly dropped his innocent disguise and gave me a cold, contemptuous smile.
    “Just wait until we go back to the main estate, my dad will definitely back me up,” he said through gritted teeth. “Then I will never have to look at your ugly face again.”
    Just then, steady footsteps came from the hallway. Dante emerged from the shadows.
    His pitch-black eyes immediately narrowed as he scanned the chaotic scene before him. His gaze shifted from me, sitting on the floor, to the scattered glass shards.
    Isabella immediately knelt beside me, hovering her hands over my arms in a fabricated display of helpless panic.
    “Dante, I am so sorry!” she sobbed with a trembling voice. “The photo triggered Leo’s trauma, and Valentina was just trying to take it back.”
    In between her sobs, she quickly cast a glance at Leo, passing a hidden signal through her eyes.
    Catching the hint, Leo immediately let out a loud scream, clutched his chest tightly with both hands, rolled his eyes back, and collapsed heavily onto the floor, starting to convulse.
    “Dad!” he shrieked.
    All the color vanished from Dante’s face. He shoved me aside, causing my already bruised shoulder to slam hard against the nightstand.
    He scooped up the convulsing Leo and rushed out of the room.
    “Isabella, go get the medical kit!” Dante roared.
    Isabella wiped her dry cheeks and quickly chased after him.
    With a heavy slam, the door shut, and silence descended upon the room once again.
    Dante had completely ignored me, not even stopping to ask if I was hurt.
    I sat alone in the quiet room. Slowly, I stood up, limped into the master bathroom, and calmly applied ointment to my sprained ankle.
    Just then, my phone vibrated on the marble counter. It was a text from Dante.
    “Leave the penthouse for now. Your presence is causing the child stress. I have transferred the deed to the luxury safehouse in the West End into your name. Go there.”
    I stared at the glowing words on the screen, and the anger that should have been in my heart turned into pure calm.
    With steady fingers, I typed my reply and hit send.
    “Understood.”

    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 3

    Valentina’s POV
    The private dining room of the Mafia club was dimly lit. The air was thick with the rich aroma of truffles, mixed with the faint scent of old money that carried a touch of corrupt sweetness.
    Today was my birthday.
    Dante had booked the entire VIP section, promising me that tonight would involve absolutely no “family business.”
    He sat across from me, wearing a dark suit, looking breathtakingly handsome.
    He reached across the pristine white tablecloth, gently took my hand, and fastened a heavy, cold bracelet around my wrist.
    I looked down. It was a string of priceless “blood diamonds,” tied to violence and exploitation.
    “Valentina, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. I know this period has been very hard for you.”
    I forced a smile and looked up at him. “It’s fine.”
    Right at that moment, the heavy mahogany door was pushed open silently.
    Isabella stood in the doorway, pulling a visibly reluctant Leo. Her hair was a mess, and she looked perfectly panicked.
    “Dante!” she gasped for air, as if she had just run a long distance. “Leo is sick, and his special medicine is missing from the estate!”
    The string quartet in the corner immediately stopped playing.
    The accompanying “family members” and their wives in the hall turned their heads, and whispers spread outward like ripples.
    They gossiped, their voices clearly audible, saying that the head of the family had actually abandoned his sick heir to have dinner with his mistress.
    Leo broke free from his mother’s hand and ran straight to Dante.
    “Dad, my chest hurts so much!” Leo cried, throwing himself into Dante’s arms.
    Suddenly, he pointed a trembling finger at me.
    “It’s her! She’s stealing you away!” he screamed, his face full of resentment.
    In the next second, Leo grabbed a glass of expensive red wine from the table and threw it fiercely at me.
    The dark red liquid splashed all over my chest, slowly dripping down my skin.
    The muscles in Dante’s jaw twitched slightly.
    He stood up abruptly. The chair made a loud bang against the hardwood floor before tipping over.
    “Apologize to Valentina immediately!” Dante commanded, his voice carrying a chilling authority.
    Leo stubbornly crossed his arms and glared at me fiercely, refusing to apologize.
    Isabella immediately stepped forward, her posture slightly bent as if bearing immense pressure.
    She lowered her head and began to sob.
    “Don’t yell at him, Dante,” she said between sobs. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t raise him right. I’m a terrible mother.”
    I looked around, feeling the critical gazes of the family wives darting through the open door.
    I waved my hand, my tone calm and composed.
    “Go take care of your family, Dante,” I said peacefully.
    Dante looked hesitant. He looked at my stained dress, then at his crying ex-wife and sick child.
    Ultimately, he yielded to duty. He picked up the boy and hurriedly left the restaurant, with Isabella following closely behind.
    I sat alone at the dining table.
    Picking up a napkin, I calmly wiped the wine stains from my skin, refusing to let a single tear fall.
    I looked over at the musicians, who stood frozen in the corner.
    “Keep playing,” I ordered.
    After dinner, I used my own black card to pay the exorbitant bill.
    A waiter approached me nervously.
    “Miss Rossi, would you still like your birthday cake?” he asked cautiously.
    “Bring it,” I replied.
    They brought out a small, delicate cake, and I lit the single candle.
    I made a silent wish in my heart.
    I wished for complete freedom, to be rid of all chains.
    After blowing out the candle, I took a picture of the cake and uploaded it to the family’s secure network.
    I didn’t add any caption.
    As I walked out of the club, my phone vibrated.
    Dante had sent a long text message, desperately apologizing for what just happened.
    Immediately following that was a bank transfer notification. He had wired another three million dollars into my account.
    That night, I sat on the couch in the new safehouse.
    The room was completely silent. What broke the quiet was not a sound, but a subtle shift in air pressure.
    Then, the hinges let out a faint friction sound.
    My hand instinctively reached into the crevice of the sofa cushion, my fingertips touching the cold, hard grip of a gun.
    The dim yellow light from the hallway spilled through the crack in the door as the lock turned and the door slowly pushed open.
    Dante walked in, holding a brown paper bag containing my favorite takeout.
    He placed the food on the coffee table, sat down next to me, and tried to pull me into his arms.
    “Leo’s heart rate spiked suddenly, and I had to take him to the clinic. You have to understand me, Valentina.”
    I calmly placed my hand on his chest and pushed him away.
    “No explanation needed,” I said.
    Dante frowned, a flash of obvious panic in his eyes.
    He sensed a fundamental shift in my attitude.
    “You are too quiet,” he said. “Why aren’t you arguing with me?”
    “Because I don’t care anymore,” I replied coldly.
    Dante stared at me, clenching his jaw, his expression turning dangerous.
    Before he could probe further, I quickly appeased his ego, reaching out to gently touch his cheek.
    “You are a good father, Dante. I admire that about you.”
    Dante let out a long breath, leaning into my palm.
    “I swear on my life, once the boy recovers, we will have a grand wedding, and you will become my wife.”
    Right then, his burner phone rang, the harsh ringtone shattering the brief, fragile moment.
    He glanced at the screen. It was Leo.
    He answered the phone and pressed it to his ear.
    “Dad, I want to hear a bedtime story!” the child’s voice came through the phone, thick with tears.
    In the background, Isabella’s voice could be heard softly humming a lullaby, with that kind of softness that carried a manipulative undertone.
    Dante showed a hesitant expression again, turning to look at me with pleading eyes.
    I stood up and waved toward the door. “Go.”
    Dante stood up, dropped a kiss on my cheek, grabbed his coat, and hurried out of the room.
    He left in such a rush that the phone remained connected.
    I stood in the center of the empty living room, listening to his footsteps gradually fade in the hallway, eventually completely cut off by the muffled thud of the heavy fire door.
    A moment later, a low-frequency vibration came up from the floorboards. It was the sound of an engine starting on the street below.
    On the other end of the line, the woman’s lullaby still hadn’t stopped.
    I picked up the phone, pressed the end-call button, the screen went black, and the entire apartment was left with only the low hum of the refrigerator.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • My Heartless Ex-Husband Volunteers To Be My Baby Daddy by honey keyboard

    My Heartless Ex-Husband Volunteers To Be My Baby Daddy by honey keyboard
    👉 READ NOW

    For three years, Georgia devoted herself to being the perfect housewife, only for her husband to hand her divorce papers the moment his first love returned.

    She erased every trace of herself and vanished from his life completely. By the time she reappeared, powerful men were competing for her attention, and her countless hidden identities had left everyone stunned.

    Her usually composed ex finally lost control after noticing her baby bump.

    “Whose child is it?” he demanded.

    Georgia scoffed. “Some jerk’s.”

    Desperate to keep her close, he replied, “Then let me volunteer to be the baby’s daddy.”

    👉 READ NOW

    My Heartless Ex-Husband Volunteers To Be My Baby Daddy Chapter 1 Love Only Makes Fools Out Of People

    “Do you truly want to end our marriage?” Georgia Campbell stared at the divorce agreement lying before her. Every trace of happiness disappeared as the truth sank in and turned her blood cold.

    “I do. Isabel’s back,” Cayden Marshall, her husband, said without warmth.

    Today was their third wedding anniversary. Georgia had visited the market, chosen fresh ingredients, and spent hours preparing a special dinner. In return, Cayden had placed a divorce agreement in front of her.

    What a surprise, she thought bitterly.

    “If any part of the settlement troubles you, let me know,” Cayden added. He regarded the quiet, obedient woman before him with the same distant calm he used during business negotiations.

    Georgia dropped her gaze and read through the document as quickly as she could. Cayden had offered her generous compensation, including a valuable shop facing a busy street, a villa downtown, and fifty million dollars in cash. The entire settlement was worth no less than a billion dollars. She could spend the rest of her life in comfort without ever worrying about money.

    One billion dollars would repay her for enduring a marriage of three years without love or sex. Anyone looking at the arrangement would say she had received more than enough.

    Georgia knew the sensible choice was to accept the offer without objecting. But she had not married Cayden for his money in the first place.

    Silence dragged on until Cayden placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He inhaled slowly before looking at her through narrowed eyes. “Tell me if you want anything changed in the agreement.”

    Georgia raised her head and held his distant gaze. “Cayden, did you ever care about me at all during our three years together?”

    “Not once.”

    The answer came at once, firm and merciless, and crushed the final hope she had kept alive. Pain spread heavily through her chest.

    “Now I understand,” she murmured as her lashes lowered to conceal the hurt in her eyes.

    The weakness passed quickly, and her familiar gentle smile returned. “I cooked your favorite dishes. Could you stay and share one final dinner with me?”

    Cayden only frowned and offered no reply.

    Georgia swallowed her tears before carrying the dishes from the kitchen and arranging each plate in front of him.

    At that moment, Cayden’s phone began ringing.

    “Cayden, I’m in so much pain. Will you please come to the hospital and stay with me?” a woman asked softly through the phone.

    Georgia stood near enough to hear every word. Her hands closed into tight fists.

    “All right. Try to be good until I arrive,” Cayden replied. “I’ll be there shortly. Tell me what you’d like to eat, and I’ll bring it with me.”

    Georgia had never heard him speak to her with that kind of tenderness. The light faded from her face as she realized that love could make someone treat two people in completely different ways.

    When Cayden moved to leave, she hurried forward and caught the hem of his shirt. Her plea carried the same quiet obedience she had always shown him. “Cayden, will you stay until we finish dinner? Please, just this once.”

    “Georgia, don’t turn this into a scene.” Cayden removed her hand without care and walked away without looking at her again.

    Georgia pressed a hand against the pain in her chest. Her control finally broke, and warm tears streamed down her cheeks.

    Three years ago, Cayden had approached her and proposed marriage. She had loved him quietly for years, so accepting his proposal had required no thought at all.

    After marriage, they had treated each other with courtesy and kept their distance. She had given up her own life to become a housewife and devoted herself to caring for his every need. Cayden had never shared her bed as a true husband, yet even that empty marriage had once been enough to make her happy.

    Cayden’s grandfather had died two weeks earlier. Georgia had stood beside Cayden and handled the funeral arrangements. Once the funeral ended, Cayden began returning home less often. Tonight, he even asked for a divorce because Isabel Brooks, the woman he had always loved, had come back to the country.

    Georgia remained alone in the living room and let grief swallow the passing hours. By the time she forced herself to stand, stiffness had spread through her entire body. She gathered the untouched food and dumped it into the trash. The abandoned meal felt too much like her broken marriage.

    The shower didn’t help her relax. When she lay in bed, Cayden’s familiar scent surrounded her, making it impossible to sleep.

    A sudden chime from her phone broke the silence.

    For one hopeful second, Georgia believed Cayden had sent her a message. Instead, she opened a series of photographs delivered by an unfamiliar number.

    Every picture showed Cayden resting comfortably against Isabel’s shoulder with his eyes closed.

    A message appeared beneath the photographs. “Cayden is in love with me. Holding on to him will change nothing, so stop embarrassing yourself, Georgia.”

    Georgia tightened her grip on the phone and saw how close they were. The ache inside her chest soon grew too painful to bear.

    She stayed on the bed until morning arrived. Ian Dale, Cayden’s assistant, later entered the room carrying the divorce agreement.

    Sympathy crossed his face when he noticed how pale and exhausted Georgia looked. Still, he forced himself to deliver the message.

    “Ma’am, Mr. Marshall asked you to sign this. He’ll accept any terms you wish to add.”

    Georgia said nothing for a long while. Then she picked up the pen and placed her signature on the document. She did not want any compensation from Cayden and chose to leave with nothing. His wealth was never the reason she had married him, after all.

    Ian stared at her in surprise. “Ma’am, are you certain you don’t want any of the settlement?”

    She answered with a quiet hum.

    Georgia left soon afterward. A few changes of clothes were all she packed before leaving the home she had shared with Cayden for three years.

    All the happiness she had carried into the marriage was gone. Nothing remained for her to take when she walked away.

    Beyond the front door, a hollow feeling settled inside her. She no longer knew where she belonged. Even so, she understood that her life had to go on.

    Cayden had never loved her, and she refused to keep chasing someone who didn’t want her.

    Georgia pulled out her phone and called her closest friend, Jake Mitchell. “Jake, my marriage is over. I’m divorcing Cayden.”

    Jake arrived without keeping her waiting. His car stopped beside her and sent a cloud of dust across the road.

    “Love only makes fools out of people. Leaving that marriage might be the smartest decision you’ve ever made,” he remarked.

    “Enough with the nonsense. Start driving.” Georgia took out her phone, entered the surveillance network, and deleted every record that could reveal her whereabouts.

    She gave the house one final look, then faced forward and left without a moment of doubt.

    My Heartless Ex-Husband Volunteers To Be My Baby Daddy Chapter 2 Now This Is Interesting

    In the CEO’s office on the top floor of Marshall Group, Cayden looked at Ian and asked, “Did Georgia put her signature on the divorce agreement?”

    “Yes, but she refused the entire settlement,” Ian replied as he passed Cayden the signed agreement.

    Brief surprise showed on Cayden’s handsome face when he learned that Georgia had walked away without asking for anything.

    He hadn’t realized she possessed that much pride. In fact, he had expected her to make the divorce difficult. Instead, she had accepted it without making a fuss, which left him with an uneasy feeling he couldn’t explain.

    For three years, she had done nothing except manage their home. She had no career or friends to rely on. He couldn’t help wondering how she planned to support herself after leaving the marriage empty-handed.

    The concern made him frown. Once he recognized that he was worrying about her future, he immediately drove the thought from his mind.

    Their divorce would soon be final, and he reminded himself that her life would no longer concern him.

    He dropped the agreement into a desk drawer without care. Then he raised his head and asked, “Have you located Kendra Leigh?”

    “We still haven’t found her,” Ian responded. “She knows how to disappear completely, and none of the places she’s visited have given us a trail to follow.”

    “Offer a reward through the Dark Web,” Cayden instructed. “Anyone who gives us reliable information about her location will receive 100 million dollars.”

    Three years ago, Isabel had been poisoned by an extremely rare toxin. Cayden had visited every respected doctor in the country, but no one could treat her. She’d been staying overseas for treatment these years, but her condition had only deteriorated.

    He later heard that there was a legendary doctor named Kendra Leigh. Stories about her remarkable medical skills claimed that she could rescue patients whom everyone else had given up on.

    Finding Kendra seemed like Isabel’s last chance for a cure.

    “I’ll handle the bounty immediately,” Ian responded.

    Meanwhile, Jake drove Georgia to a private villa.

    “This will be your home from now on,” he muttered. “Have you decided what you’ll do next?”

    “Not yet,” Georgia answered.

    Jake set his phone down in front of her. “Someone has posted a reward of 100 million dollars for your location. Does that offer interest you?”

    Georgia barely glanced at the screen. “Not at all.”

    “Fine. Take some time to rest,” Jake replied lightly. “There’s still the Douglas family assignment you accepted earlier. They’ve contacted us several times. When do you think you’ll be ready to visit them?”

    “I’ll go on Saturday,” she answered briefly.

    “Understood. I’ll send them your decision.”

    Georgia arranged the few belongings she had brought before shopping for everything she needed. She also replaced her phone number and cut the final thread connecting her to her former life.

    Saturday arrived sooner than expected.

    Jake drove Georgia to the Douglas residence, where she treated Laura Douglas, an elderly member of the family.

    As they departed, their car passed a black Bentley. Georgia looked through the window at the passing vehicle and briefly saw a man with sharply defined features sitting inside.

    Cayden? She couldn’t imagine what had brought him here.

    Thirty minutes ago, Cayden had received word that Kendra planned to treat Laura at the Douglas residence. He had rushed over with Ian.

    Kendra left no trail and avoided appearing before strangers. Since there was no other way to approach her, Cayden decided to wait at the residence himself.

    By the time he arrived, the Douglas family informed him that the doctor had already gone. The failed meeting darkened his face.

    He remembered the car that had just pulled away from the property. He spun around, climbed behind the wheel, and pressed hard on the accelerator to chase it.

    Through the rearview mirror, Jake spotted the black Bentley staying close behind them. “Someone is following us. Is that the husband you’re divorcing?”

    Georgia checked behind them and recognized Cayden’s car. Her heartless husband was the one pursuing them.

    Her face remained calm as she gave Jake a short command. “Lose him.”

    Jake slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and the car surged forward with enough force to press them into their seats as it tore down the road.

    Cayden had no intention of losing them. His Bentley stayed close behind their car while he pursued them with relentless focus.

    Both vehicles sped along the road as each driver fought for the lead.

    Several attempts to pull ahead ended in failure, and frustration began wearing down Jake’s patience. “Damn it, I never thought he’d be this good behind the wheel. He clearly won’t give up until he forces us to stop!”

    Georgia’s eyes opened at once. “Move over. I’m taking the wheel.”

    After exchanging seats with Jake, she fixed her attention on the road ahead. She pushed the accelerator to its limit and aimed the car toward Devil’s Bend 303, the most famous curve in the city.

    Behind them, Cayden’s black Bentley continued gaining ground and steadily reduced the space between the two cars.

    Georgia brought the car to a sudden stop when they arrived at the base of the mountain. She waited until Cayden almost reached them before hitting the accelerator again.

    Every turn came with a quick sequence of movements. She braked, worked the clutch, changed gears, guided the car through the curve, and accelerated out of it without breaking her rhythm.

    Only a few curves later, Cayden’s Bentley had fallen far into the distance.

    Georgia rolled down the window and extended one hand outside. Then she raised her middle finger toward the car chasing them.

    The rude gesture made her confidence impossible to ignore.

    Cayden’s expression sharpened at the sight. The hand outside the window looked slender and smooth enough to belong to a woman. And something about it seemed strangely familiar to him.

    When Cayden finally crossed the finish line, the other vehicle had already vanished.

    Ian held the grab handle with both hands while his heart hammered against his chest. Never before had he watched Cayden lose a race to a woman. He expected the defeat to send Cayden into a terrible temper, but an unsettling smile appeared on his face instead.

    “Now this is interesting,” Cayden said.

    Ian couldn’t agree with him. The race had left him feeling as though he had narrowly escaped death.

    “I don’t care what it takes—find that woman and bring me every piece of information you can uncover about her,” Cayden demanded.

    His reason for pursuing Kendra remained unchanged. She was the only doctor who might be able to save Isabel.

    My Heartless Ex-Husband Volunteers To Be My Baby Daddy Chapter 3 She Had Cut Him Off

    Once they arrived at the villa, Jake showed Georgia the payment notice on his phone. The Douglas family had already transferred three million dollars for the treatment.

    “I’ll send the full amount to your account,” he said.

    Three million dollars wasn’t a fortune, but it at least made their trip worthwhile.

    He continued, “Are you still turning down that 100 million dollars? People with too much money don’t come along every day, especially ones willing to spend it so carelessly. You paid 40 million dollars for this villa alone.”

    Over the years, Georgia had devoted herself to becoming Cayden’s perfect wife and hadn’t accepted any work. Purchasing the villa had drained almost all of her savings. It was time to begin earning money again and enjoy a more comfortable life.

    “I’ll accept the assignment if it won’t put me in danger,” Georgia said. “Before agreeing to anything for me, investigate every detail and make sure there are no hidden problems.”

    Jake knew what had made her so careful. Three years earlier, Georgia had saved someone’s life during a job, but the rescue had damaged the interests of some dangerous people, who had hired assassins to eliminate her. Without her quick instincts and Jake’s help, she might not have survived that attack.

    “Understood. I’ll meet with them first and find out what they really want,” Jake replied.

    After leaving Isabel at the hospital, Cayden drove to Celeste Estate, the home he had once shared with Georgia.

    The darkness surrounding the villa reminded him that she no longer lived there.

    Cayden remained inside his car and lit a cigarette. He smoked it to the end in silence before stepping out and entering the house.

    As he looked around the living room, he somehow thought of how Georgia used to keep the lights on and wait for him to come home.

    He had taken those quiet, warm moments for granted, but now they were gone. Their absence irritated him more than he wanted to admit. He approached the liquor cabinet, poured himself a drink, and swallowed it all at once.

    He took out his phone and searched for Georgia’s number before calling her. However, the number was no longer in service.

    Cayden checked the number and confirmed that he hadn’t made a mistake. Once he understood what Georgia had done, a short laugh escaped him without any real amusement.

    He was surprised to realize that she had cut him off even more firmly than he had expected.

    Throughout their three years together, she had remained quiet, gentle, and easy to control. Even when he asked for a divorce, the pain on her face had made it obvious that she wasn’t ready to let him go.

    Only a few days had passed, yet she had already canceled the number he knew.

    Cayden called Ian and gave him a firm order. “Find Georgia.”

    …

    The next day, Ian approached Cayden. “Mr. Marshall, I couldn’t locate Ms. Campbell.”

    Back then, Georgia had entered Cayden’s life without warning. He discovered that she was an orphan, and since he needed a wife who could satisfy his family, he chose her.

    She had no powerful background or personal influence, which meant she couldn’t threaten his position. Those qualities had made her the safest choice.

    Cayden never imagined that the woman who accepted nothing from him would disappear so thoroughly after leaving. No one could tell him where she had gone.

    “Continue searching!”

    He refused to believe that Georgia could vanish without leaving a single clue.

    Just then, Cayden received a call from the hospital.

    “Mr. Marshall, the toxin has caused Ms. Brooks to suffer another episode. She’s only partly conscious and keeps asking for you. She refuses to settle down until she sees you, so we had no choice but to call.”

    “Tell her I’m coming now.” Cayden ended the call, rose from his seat, and hurried out.

    Three years ago, Cayden’s enemy had tricked and drugged him. While the drug threatened his life, he had become intimate with a woman he believed was Isabel.

    Since that night had been her first time, guilt and sympathy led him to accept responsibility for her.

    Even so, something had always felt wrong whenever Cayden spent time with Isabel. Instead, he had found himself more relaxed and at ease whenever he was with Georgia.

    Thoughts of Georgia’s sudden disappearance tightened Cayden’s expression.

    Shortly after Cayden entered the hospital, Georgia arrived wearing a baseball cap and a mask.

    She rode the elevator upstairs and made a call after stepping into the hallway. “I’ve arrived. Where should I meet you?”

    The directions led Georgia to the neurosurgery director’s office.

    “Benjamin!” she called out.

    Benjamin Gordon, her former classmate, recognized the voice immediately. He turned around and pulled her into a tight hug. “You finally came back. Where have you been the last three years? You disappeared without giving me a single word.”

    “I got married,” Georgia replied plainly.

    Shock crossed Benjamin’s face. “You got married? Who is your husband?”

    He could hardly believe that someone had convinced a woman like Georgia to become his wife.

    Georgia ignored the question and gave him a different answer. “I’m divorcing him.”

    Benjamin went quiet as uncertainty crossed his face. The congratulations he had nearly offered never left his mouth.

    Georgia showed no concern as she sat down. “What made you reach out to me?”

    “Our mentor has a longtime friend who requires surgery. The family came to me because they wanted my help, but the patient is elderly and the condition is difficult. I don’t trust myself to handle the operation alone, so I hoped you would assist me.”

    Benjamin had contacted her without expecting much. Georgia had vanished for three years without a single message, so reaching her the previous night had come as a complete surprise.

    One of Georgia’s eyebrows rose. “I haven’t entered an operating room in years. What if my skills have become rusty and I end up damaging your reputation?”

    Benjamin refused to entertain the idea. “If a surgeon as skilled as you could fail, then I have no right to attempt the operation by myself.”

    “Alright. Show me the patient’s scans first.”

    After reviewing the scans, Georgia rose from her chair. “Choose a time for the surgery and send me the details.”

    Another thought came to her and she added, “Find out which hospital room Isabel Brooks is in.”

    Benjamin asked without thinking, “Who is Isabel? Is she someone you know?”

    “She’s the love of my husband,” Georgia said casually. “Our marriage is ending because of her.”

    Benjamin stared at her in shock and couldn’t think of anything to say.

    Georgia soon located Isabel’s room and looked through the glass panel in the door. Isabel rested on the bed in striped hospital clothes. Her soft, innocent features were the kind that easily stirred a man’s protective instincts. Still, Georgia found nothing especially beautiful about her. In fact, Isabel was not nearly as beautiful as she was.

    Cayden must’ve been both blind and stupid to choose a woman like that. His taste was truly terrible.

    Beyond the glass, Cayden peeled an orange with his own hands and fed Isabel one piece at a time. He spoke to her gently, and a soft smile occasionally appeared on his face.

    Cayden had always treated Georgia properly throughout their marriage, but an unseen wall had kept them apart. Not once had he shown her the tenderness he now gave Isabel so freely.

    Georgia refused to watch any longer and ruin her own mood, so she turned away.

    Some instinct made Cayden raise his head at that exact moment. He then left his chair and hurried into the hallway, where he caught sight of a familiar figure disappearing around the corner.

    The person looked very much like Georgia.

    Cayden went after her but crossed paths with Ian, who had arrived to take him to the office.

    “Mr. Marshall, is something wrong?” Ian asked.

    Cayden stopped and asked him in a low voice, “Did you pass anyone on your way here?”

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit by Maui

    The Silent Heiress's Million Dollar Gambit by Maui
    👉 READ NOW

    My stepmother’s bodyguards were seconds away from dragging me back to a life that was essentially a prison cell wrapped in silk. I couldn’t even scream for help because the words always died in my throat—a clinical condition called selective mutism that felt like drowning on dry land.

    I had just discovered the sickening truth: my father was planning to sell me to a sleazy investor named Sterling to cover his company’s bankruptcy. They were going to drug me, ship me off to a private island, and strip away the only thing I had left—my late mother’s multimillion-dollar art trust.

    When I arrived at the manor, my stepmother Lydia handed me a glass of wine laced with bitter sedatives, her smile sharp as a razor.

    “Drink up, darling. It’ll make the transition to Mr. Sterling much easier.”

    My stepsister Harper stood in the corner, wearing a dress bought with my mother’s stolen money, mocking my inability to speak. My father didn’t even look me in the eye as he calculated my price tag, treating his own daughter like a piece of damaged, mute inventory.

    They thought because I didn’t speak, I didn’t hear them laughing about the “accident” that killed my mother or how they planned to burn her final restoration work. They assumed my silence was a sign of surrender, a white flag waved by a broken girl who would never fight back.

    How could the people who were supposed to be my family treat me like a commodity to be traded? Did they really think my silence meant I was weak, or that I didn’t know every dirty secret they were hiding in their ledgers?

    I didn’t drink the wine. Instead, I burst into the VIP suite of Carlisle Pierce, the most cold-blooded billionaire in New York, and slammed a crumpled napkin on his table with a desperate, last-second gambit.

    “MARRY ME. NOW. $1 MILLION.”

    👉 READ NOW

    The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 1

    The heavy scent of cheap cologne and severe halitosis filled the air.
    A fifty-something, balding man with a mouth full of yellow teeth and a height that barely reached Emilee’s shoulders was trying to pin her to the bed. He looked incredibly sleazy and weak, a pathetic excuse for a man.
    “You think you’re some high-and-mighty heiress?” the old man, Mr. Henderson, sneered, looking her up and down like a piece of cheap trash. His foul breath made Emilee nauseous. “Take a good look at yourself. You’re nothing but a useless, unwanted mute. A pathetic piece of garbage. You aren’t even fit to shine my shoes! But your stepmother, Lydia, sold you to me for a good price. Your father threw you away like a stray dog. So just lie back, spread your legs, and take what I give you.”
    Emilee did not hesitate. She spun around and delivered a vicious, bone-crushing kick directly to his groin.
    The old man let out a high-pitched squeal, collapsing to the floor and clutching himself in agony, unable to stand. Without a second glance, Emilee bolted out of the room.
    Ripping the door open, Emilee bolted.
    Worn combat boots hit the plush carpet of the Obsidian Club’s VIP corridor without a sound. That was the problem with expensive places—designed to absorb noise, keep secrets, and swallow people whole.
    Lungs burning, Emilee refused to look back. That disgusting old man’s bodyguards and the stepmother’s men would both be coming.
    Rounding the corner, a shoulder slammed hard into the wall. Pain shot down the arm, sharp and grounding. A door was the only salvation. Any door.
    The throat constricted. Selective mutism. That was the clinical term. It felt more like drowning on dry land. Any scream for help would just die in the throat.
    Frantic eyes darted down the dim hallway.
    There. At the very end of the hall, a heavy black door with gold trim stood slightly ajar. It was a sliver of hope in a tunnel of despair.
    She threw her weight against the door and stumbled into the room.
    The air inside was cooler. It smelled of expensive leather, aged whiskey, and something sharp and masculine.
    She turned immediately, her fingers fumbling with the lock. Click. The sound was louder than a gunshot.She pressed her back against the wood, her chest heaving. Heavy footsteps thudded outside. “Check the stairwell,” a deep voice grumbled. “She couldn’t have gone far.” The footsteps faded.
    Emilee let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone.
    She snapped her eyes open.
    In the shadows, a man was watching her. He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, an arm draped casually over the backrest. He was terrifyingly still.
    Her blood ran cold. Even with her heavy makeup, she recognized him from financial reports. The third-generation heir to the Pierce media empire.
    An image of her father’s face flashed through her mind. It wasn’t fear she remembered seeing when her father spoke of this man, but a sickening, fanatical desperation to climb the social ladder. She vividly recalled how her father had acted like a fawning, tail-wagging dog, trying desperately to curry favor with the man sitting before her. To get even the slightest connection with Carlisle Pierce, her father would have gladly offered up everything he owned on a silver platter, begging for just a few crumbs from this man’s table.
    And that was perfect. She was cornered, penniless, hunted. It couldn’t get worse than the bald bastard behind her. If she had to gamble, she would gamble on him.
    Emilee pushed herself off the door. Her legs were shaking, but she forced them to move. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled napkin and a black eyeliner pencil.
    Carlisle watched her approach, his finger tapping rhythmically against the crystal glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. He assumed she was another “gift” from his grandfather.
    She stopped in front of him. Then, with a sudden, fierce motion that surprised even him, she planted both hands on his shoulders and shoved him back onto the velvet sofa. She caged him there, leaning over him, her wild, kohl-rimmed eyes burning into his.
    Carlisle raised an eyebrow, his body tensing under her hands, a dangerous stillness coiling in him.
    She uncapped the pencil with her teeth, scribbled quickly, the tip tearing the paper. Then she slammed the napkin onto his chest.
    Carlisle looked down.
    The handwriting was jagged, rushed. MARRY ME. NOW. $1 MILLION.
    A flicker of genuine novelty crossed his features. “A napkin proposal,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, like gravel wrapped in velvet, with a hint of dark amusement. “That’s a first. Creative.”
    He looked up at her, his expression cooling again. “But I’m not interested in playing charity. Get out.” He reached for the phone to call security.
    Emilee lunged and grabbed his wrist. Her hand was small, her fingers ice cold.
    Carlisle froze. He looked at her hand on his wrist, then up at her face. Her eyes were terrified. Not the fake terror of a bad actress, but the primal fear of a trapped animal.
    Outside the door, the heavy footsteps returned. “Did you check the VIP suites?”
    Emilee’s grip tightened. Her nails dug into his skin. She shook her head frantically. Please. The word wasn’t spoken, but it screamed from her expression.
    Carlisle looked at her, his deep eyes unreadable. He set the phone down. He twisted his wrist, breaking her grip, and then caught her hand in his. He pulled her closer. She stumbled, her hip bumping against the table, her breath catching as his face came inches from hers.
    “Can you afford me, little wildcat?” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, a hint of dark amusement playing on his lips.
    Emilee didn’t hesitate. She nodded vigorously, her eyes as stubborn as a cornered little beast that still wanted to bite. She tapped the IOU with her free hand.
    Seeing her like this, a flicker of surprise crossed Carlisle’s eyes, quickly followed by a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor.
    For years, he had maintained a strict, self-imposed celibacy, completely immune to the allure of any woman. Countless stunning socialites had tried to bridge the distance, yet none had ever managed to stir even a ripple in his stagnant pool of desire. But now, as her unique scent—a delicate trace of vanilla intertwined with the sharp tang of adrenaline—filled his senses, and the ghost of her cold fingers lingered on his skin, a strange, unfamiliar warmth began to thrum in his veins. It wasn’t a crude, overwhelming lust, but a quiet, undeniable awakening of senses he thought were long dead.
    He looked at this chaotic, heavily made-up wildcat, genuinely caught off guard by the sudden, involuntary tightening of his own muscles. The sheer absurdity that she was the one to make his pulse tick faster after years of absolute numbness was intriguing. If her mere proximity could spark a dormant instinct back to life, perhaps keeping her around wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
    A faint, enigmatic smile touched the corners of his lips.
    “Alright,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a low, gravelly weight that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.
    He stood up and towered over her. He picked up his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It engulfed her small frame. It smelled like cedar and power.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    He led her not to the main door, but to a panel in the wall. A hidden exit.
    At the bottom, a black Maybach was waiting in the alley.
    “City Hall,” he said to the driver. Then he pulled out his phone. “Archer. I need a marriage license prepped. Now. Yes, I’m serious. Get a judge on the line and arrange a judicial waiver for the waiting period. I want it done tonight. Meet me there.”
    Emilee sat huddled in his jacket. She watched him. He was efficient. He was commanding.
    She looked at his watch. A Patek Philippe.
    Carlisle caught her staring. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said coldly. “You can’t pawn that.”
    Emilee looked away, her cheeks heating up under the thick white foundation.
    When they arrived at the City Clerk’s office, a man in a sharp suit was waiting with a folder. He looked stressed.
    “Sir,” the man said, eyeing Emilee’s fishnets with horror. “Are you sure about this?”
    “Give me the pen, Archer,” Carlisle said.
    Emilee signed her name. Her hand shook, but the letters were legible. Emilee Oneill.
    Carlisle signed next to her. His signature was aggressive, sharp.
    She felt a wave of relief so strong it made her dizzy. She was married. According to her mother’s trust fund stipulations, she was now an adult in the eyes of the estate. She was free.

    The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 2

    The wind outside City Hall was biting. It whipped Emilee’s hair across her face, strands of black sticking to her dark lipstick. She stood on the sidewalk, the marriage certificate clutched tightly in her hand. It was just a piece of paper. But it was the heaviest thing she had ever held.
    Carlisle stood next to her. He buttoned his coat, looking unbothered by the cold or the insanity of the last hour. “Archer,” he said, turning to his assistant, who was already holding out a second, more ominous-looking document and a pen. “The addendum.”
    Carlisle took the document and held it out to Emilee. “One last signature. Consider it a condition of our arrangement. A non disclosure agreement. A silent covenant. You don’t speak about me, my business, or this night to anyone. Ever.”
    Emilee looked from the paper to his cold, unyielding eyes. This was the real price. Not the million-dollar IOU, but her silence, legally weaponized and turned against her. It was a cage of a different kind, but one she was choosing. She took the pen and signed, her signature a final act of surrender.
    “Now,” Carlisle said, turning to her with a commanding presence. “We need to have a conversation about a non disclosure agreement.”
    Before he could finish, Emilee’s phone buzzed frantically in her pocket. Startled, she pulled it out. It was a text from Harper, her stepsister. An image loaded on the screen. It was a photo of a silver Zippo lighter, the flame lit, hovering inches above a canvas. It was one of her mother’s paintings. The last one she had restored before she died.
    Emilee’s hand spasmed. Rage and panic flooded her veins. They were threatening the only thing that mattered to her. She didn’t have time for this conversation.
    She turned to face Carlisle. She knew exactly how powerful and wealthy this billionaire was, and a wave of genuine guilt washed over her for using him like a shield. She reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills. It was all the cash she had on her. She grabbed Carlisle’s hand, slapping the bills into his warm palm as a token of her sincere apology. The million-dollar IOU she gave him earlier was her genuine promise of compensation, even though she knew he absolutely did not lack money.
    Carlisle looked down at the money. George Washington stared back at him, wrinkled and sad. Forty dollars. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What is this?”
    Emilee held up her phone. She had quickly typed a note in the Notes app. “Cab fare. I am sorry for using you. The million dollars is my real compensation. I will contact you. Keep your phone on.”
    Carlisle read the screen. His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. “You are tipping me?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.
    Emilee nodded, giving him a small, awkward thumbs-up. Then, before he could react, she spun around and flagged down a passing yellow taxi. It screeched to a halt, and she dove into the backseat.
    “Hey!” Archer shouted, stepping forward.
    Carlisle raised a hand, stopping him. He stood on the curb, holding the forty dollars and the marriage certificate copy she had left behind in her haste. He watched the taxi merge into traffic. A laugh escaped him. It was short, sharp, and devoid of humor. “She tipped me,” he muttered. He looked at the bills again.
    Carlisle stood on the curb, his expression a complex mix of disbelief and dark amusement. He was a billionaire with a net worth in the hundreds of billions, a man whose hourly asset fluctuations amounted to more than most people earned in a lifetime. And yet, he had just been dismissed with forty dollars by a young girl who looked barely twenty, her face painted with absurdly heavy makeup. He chuckled, genuinely angered by the sheer audacity of it.
    The black Maybach pulled up. Archer opened the back door, looking like he was about to have a stroke. “Sir,” Archer said, his voice trembling. “That was unexpected.”
    Carlisle slid into the car. The warmth of the interior did nothing to thaw the ice in his chest. “Investigate my special new wife,” Carlisle said. He tossed the forty dollars onto the leather seat next to him. “I want to know everything. Who she is. Who sent her. What she wants.”
    Archer tapped on his tablet. “Already on it, sir. I pulled the security footage from the Obsidian Club.” He handed the tablet to Carlisle.
    The video was grainy, black and white. It showed Emilee in the bathroom of the club, moments before she burst into his room. She was leaning over the sink, splashing water on her face. For a brief second, she looked up at the mirror. The camera caught her profile.
    Carlisle paused the video. He zoomed in. The heavy makeup was smeared, revealing the skin beneath. Her bone structure was delicate. Her nose was straight, her jawline soft but defined. But it was her eyes. Even in the grainy footage, they were striking. Large. Expressive. And familiar.
    Carlisle frowned. A memory scratched at the back of his mind, something from a long time ago. Something buried under years of corporate takeovers and family betrayals. He couldn’t place it.
    “She doesn’t look like a spy,” Archer ventured. “She looks scared.”
    “That makes her a good spy,” Carlisle snapped. He handed the tablet back. “Find out where that taxi is going.”
    In the back of the yellow cab, Emilee deliberately left her heavy, grotesque makeup untouched. She delusionally hoped that this bizarre, dark look would scare off the impending danger waiting for her at home. The “useless” daughter. The “mute” girl. The fragile doll.
    She gripped her phone tightly. Words didn’t work on her family. Only leverage worked. And now, she had leverage. She touched her chest, feeling the folded marriage certificate tucked inside her inner pocket.
    The taxi slowed down. They were pulling up to the Oneill Manor. It was a sprawling estate in the Hamptons that seemingly belonged to her and her late mother, but in reality, it had been completely taken over by her father and stepmother. Everything her father owned, every business deal he made, was built on her mother’s fortune. Yet, the moment her mother died, her father immediately married Lydia. He tacitly allowed his new family to humiliate Emilee at every turn. Because of his silent approval, even the servants had begun to insult and mistreat her at will.
    The driveway was lined with cars. Expensive cars. A party. Of course. They were hosting a gala while threatening to burn her mother’s legacy.
    Emilee paid the driver. She didn’t tip. She couldn’t afford to. She stepped out onto the gravel driveway. The cold air hit her face. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up.
    The security guard at the gate recognized her. He sneered. “Late again, Princess?” he muttered.
    Emilee didn’t look at him. She walked past him, her boots crunching on the stones. She could hear the music coming from the main house. Laughter. The clinking of glasses. It sounded like a different world.
    She walked around to the side entrance. She wasn’t going to walk in the front door. Not yet. She needed to see the battlefield first.
    She paused at the glass patio doors, looking in. Her father, Gavin Oneill, was standing in the center of the room. He was laughing, holding a glass of champagne. He looked happy. He looked like a man who had just made a very profitable deal.
    Emilee placed her hand on the cold glass. Her reflection stared back at her. Pale. Determined. She wasn’t the scared girl who ran out of here three hours ago. She was a married woman.
    She pushed the door open. The wind rushed in with her, extinguishing a nearby candle. Emilee stepped into the warmth of the lion’s den.

    The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 3

    Emilee didn’t enter the main hall immediately. She knew this house better than the people who owned it. She knew which floorboards creaked. She knew which doors didn’t latch properly.
    She slipped through the servants’ corridor, her boots silent on the linoleum. She took the back stairs, taking them two at a time. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the music thumping from below. She reached the second-floor landing.
    She crouched in the shadows of the balcony, peering through the banister. The Great Hall was filled with people. Men in tuxedos. Women in gowns that cost more than a car. It was a sea of fake smiles and hidden agendas.
    Her eyes scanned the room. There. Her stepmother, Lydia, was draped in emerald green silk. She was clinging to the arm of a man Emilee recognized with a shudder. Mr. Sterling.
    Mr. Sterling was a notorious investor. He was short, balding, and sweating profusely, rubbing his greasy hands together in an impatient, vulgar manner. Emilee had looked into his private life earlier. It was rumored that Sterling had three previous wives, and none of them survived their wedding night. When their bodies were brought out, they were mutilated beyond recognition. The man had a sick obsession with barely legal girls and was known for his ruthless, perverted methods.
    And yet, her own biological father, along with her stepmother, was actively handing her over to this monster just to save a failing company. Pushed to this despicable corner, Emilee had no choice but to save herself.
    “She will be down any minute,” Gavin was saying, bowing slightly with a pathetic, fawning smile, treating Sterling like a god. “She is just preparing herself. You know how shy she is.”
    Lydia chimed in, her posture equally submissive as she poured Sterling more wine. “Oh yes, Mr. Sterling. We have kept her pure and untouched, just for a distinguished man like you.”
    Sterling licked his lips greedily, his eyes darting around nervously. “Shy is good. I cannot wait to tear that shyness apart.”
    Emilee’s stomach churned. Bile rose in her throat. They were selling her. Not metaphorically. Literally. They were trading her for a capital injection to save the failing company.
    Miles away, in the penthouse office of Pierce Global. Carlisle sat behind his massive mahogany desk. The city lights of Manhattan sprawled out behind him, a glittering grid of power. Archer placed a tablet in front of him.
    “We found her,” Archer said. “Emilee Oneill. Eldest daughter of Gavin Oneill, the struggling CEO of Oneill Corp. Her mother was the renowned artist, Seraphina Vance.”
    Carlisle looked at the screen. A student ID photo stared back at him. The girl in the photo was breathtakingly beautiful. She had delicate, flawless features that radiated a pure, untouched elegance, looking completely different from the goth disaster he had just married. He stared at her pretty face, highly surprised by the contrast.
    “She hasn’t spoken in ten years,” Archer continued. “Selective mutism following the car crash that killed her mother.”
    Carlisle tapped the screen. “Mute?”
    “Yes, sir. The family keeps her out of the public eye. Rumor has it she is mentally unstable.”
    Carlisle leaned back. “Unstable people don’t negotiate million-dollar contracts on napkins.”
    “The Oneill company is on the brink of Chapter 11 bankruptcy,” Archer added. “They need cash. This marriage… she could be looking for a payout.”
    “Or,” Carlisle said, his eyes darkening, “she is looking for protection.” He remembered the terror in her eyes. The way she checked the exits.
    “Should I annul it?” Archer asked. “I can have the judge wake up right now.”
    “No,” Carlisle said. He stood up and walked to the window. “If she is a spy, letting her go is dangerous. If she is a gold digger, I want to know who put her up to it.” He turned back to Archer. “Keep the marriage active. And tap into the Oneill Manor security system. I want to see what my wife is up to.”
    Back at the manor. Emilee pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened an app she had coded herself when she was sixteen. It connected to the house’s Bluetooth sound system. Realizing that a ridiculous disguise would not deter a monster like Sterling, Emilee finally walked into the bathroom and scrubbed her face clean.
    Downstairs, Lydia was tapping a spoon against her glass. Ding. Ding. Ding. The room went quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Lydia announced, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Please welcome the guest of honor. Our beloved daughter, Emilee.”
    All eyes turned to the grand staircase. Emilee stood up. She stepped out of the shadows. She wasn’t wearing a gown. She was wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. Her face was scrubbed clean. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. She looked stark. Real. She began to descend the stairs. Her steps were slow, deliberate.
    Sterling’s jaw dropped. He dropped his champagne flute. It shattered on the marble floor, but no one looked at it. They were looking at her. Without the heavy makeup, without the hood, she was breathtaking. Her beauty was haunting. It was the kind of beauty that made people uncomfortable because it felt too raw. Harper, standing in the corner, turned a shade of red that clashed with her dress. She gripped her wine glass until her knuckles turned white. Gavin’s eyes lit up. He saw dollar signs.
    Lydia recovered first. She rushed to the bottom of the stairs, her arms outstretched. “Darling!” she cried. “You look unique. Come, say hello to Mr. Sterling.” She reached for Emilee’s hand. Emilee sidestepped. Lydia grabbed empty air. She stumbled, her smile faltering.
    Emilee walked past her. She walked straight up to Sterling. The man smelled of sweat and expensive musk. He leered at her, reaching out a hand to touch her face. “Beautiful,” he wheezed. “Worth every penny.”
    Emilee didn’t flinch. She stared at him. Her eyes were cold, dead. She tapped her phone screen. Suddenly, a high-pitched, ear-splitting screech erupted from every speaker in the room. SCREEEEEEEEECH. Guests covered their ears. Glasses rattled on the tables. Sterling recoiled, clutching his head. “What the hell?” The noise was deafening. It was a sonic weapon. And Emilee stood in the center of it, calm, silent, watching them all writhe.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival by Mattie Valelly

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex's Rival by Mattie Valelly
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    Amelia sat alone at the City Marriage Bureau, watching the clock tick down to closing time.

    Fifteen minutes before the doors shut, a phone call shattered her last flicker of hope. Her fiancé, Kayson, wasn’t coming. He had abandoned their wedding registration because Kamila-her stepsister-had twisted her ankle.

    It was his ninth broken promise.

    When Amelia returned home, there was no comfort. Her biological mother sneered at her humiliation, shielding the stepsister while ordering Amelia to apologize to Kayson.

    “Who would she marry without Kayson?” her mother mocked. “Let’s see how long she survives out there without his money.”

    Meanwhile, Kayson arrogantly dismissed her absence. Finding out she had vanished, he just laughed it off with his assistant.

    “It’s just a tantrum to force my hand,” Kayson smirked. “She still can’t live without me.”

    After nine years of absolute devotion, she was nothing but a convenient placeholder to the man she loved, and a worthless joke to her own family. The suffocating weight of their betrayal finally snapped something inside her.

    She packed a single suitcase, threw away nine years of anniversary gifts, and permanently blocked Kayson’s number.

    Standing in the freezing wind, she pulled out her phone and dialed the private number of Kayson’s biggest, most ruthless rival.

    “Mr. Thornton, what you said seven months ago… does the offer to marry me still stand?”

    Ten minutes later, a sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb.

    👉 READ NOW

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival Chapter 1 The Abandoned Bride

    Amelia Frye glanced at the Van Cleef & Arpels watch on her wrist.
    The delicate gold hands pointed to 4:45 PM.
    Fifteen minutes until the New York City Marriage Bureau closed for the day.
    Her thumb unconsciously picked at the already frayed skin beside her index fingernail. It was a nervous habit, one she thought she had kicked years ago.
    Clerk Sullivan, a kind-faced woman with salt-and-pepper hair, poked her head out of the office for the ninth time. Her eyes were full of a pity that made Amelia’s stomach clench.
    “Maybe it’s the traffic, dear,” Ms. Sullivan offered, placing a cup of lukewarm water on the small table beside Amelia’s chair.
    Amelia forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster. “Yes, New York traffic is always terrible.”
    Her gaze drifted to the poster on the wall. A beaming couple, with the words “Happy Marriages Start Here” printed in cheerful script below them. The irony felt like a physical weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
    A vibration buzzed from her handbag.
    Her heart leaped into her throat. Kayson.
    She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy and cold. The screen lit up, but the name flashing wasn’t his.
    It was “Leo Foster.” Kayson’s assistant.
    The last flicker of hope inside her died, leaving a cold, dark void. She took a sharp breath, the air stinging her lungs, and answered the call.
    “Ms. Frye,” Leo’s voice was polite, professional, and utterly detached. “My sincerest apologies. Mr. Edwards has an urgent situation. Ms. Carlisle twisted her ankle during a rehearsal, and he had to go to her immediately.”
    Kamila Carlisle.
    The name was a familiar poison, seeping through the phone and directly into her brain. It was always Kamila. The reason for the first missed anniversary, the third missed birthday, and now, the ninth missed promise.
    Amelia said nothing.
    She simply ended the call.
    The phone’s screen went black, reflecting her own pale, numb face. She looked like a stranger.
    She opened her message thread with Kayson. Her thumbs moved with a strange, detached precision.
    “Kayson Edwards, we’re over.”
    Send.
    Then, without a moment’s hesitation, her finger found the option: “Block and Delete Contact.”
    A profound silence filled her head as she did it. The giant stone that had been crushing her chest for years finally rolled away. She could breathe again. The air, once thin and sharp, now felt full and clean.
    She stood up so abruptly that the chair scraped against the linoleum floor with a screech.
    Ms. Sullivan jumped, her expression shifting from pity to alarm.
    Amelia walked to the clerk’s desk and placed the untouched cup of water down gently.
    She looked Ms. Sullivan directly in the eye, her voice clear and steady in a way it hadn’t been in years.
    “I’ve decided. I’m not getting married.”
    Ms. Sullivan’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
    Amelia added, more to herself than to the clerk, a vow whispered into the sterile office air. “Not ever again.”
    With that, she turned and walked out of the Marriage Bureau.
    The cold November wind hit her face, but it didn’t chill her. It woke her up.
    She pulled out her phone again, scrolling through her contacts to a name she had saved seven months ago. A number she had never called.
    She remembered the man. Kayson’s biggest rival. He had cornered her at a gala, his blue eyes full of a mocking amusement, and said something utterly absurd to her.
    At the time, she’d dismissed it as a provocation, a way to get under Kayson’s skin.
    Now, it was her only option.
    Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pressed the call button.
    The phone rang only once before it was answered. A deep, magnetic voice cut through the city noise.
    “Who is this?”
    Amelia closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let the words rush out before she could lose her nerve.
    “Mr. Thornton, what you said seven months ago… does the offer still stand?”
    There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by a low, dangerously amused chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine.

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival Chapter 2 Ten-Minute Flash Marriage

    The soft chuckle vibrated through the phone, a sound so full of cynical amusement it made Amelia’s cheeks burn.
    “Which offer was that?” Garrett Thornton’s voice was a slow, deliberate drawl. “I have a terrible memory for things I’ve been turned down for.”
    Amelia bit her lower lip, the small pain grounding her. She forced her voice to remain steady. “You said if I ever needed a husband, I could call you.”
    She took another breath, pushing the rest of the words out. “You said you needed a wife to deal with your family.”
    The line went quiet again. This time, the silence stretched longer, so long that Amelia thought he was about to hang up. She could hear the faint rustle of fabric, as if he were shrugging on a jacket.
    Then his voice returned, stripped of all its earlier playfulness. It was sharp, direct, and decisive.
    “Where are you?”
    Amelia’s heart skipped a beat. She answered automatically, her voice barely a whisper. “The City Marriage Bureau.”
    “Good,” Garrett said. “Stay right there. Give me ten minutes.”
    She was stunned into silence. “Ten minutes?”
    “Thornton Tower is three blocks from there,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m coming over. We’ll register.”
    The line went dead.
    Amelia stood frozen on the sidewalk, the phone still pressed to her ear. Her mind was a complete blank. It had been an act of pure, desperate impulse, a last-ditch effort to prove to herself that she had some control over her own life. She never thought he would actually agree.
    Panic began to set in, a cold wave washing over her. Her first instinct was to run, to hail a cab and disappear back into the quiet misery of her life.
    But then she pictured Kayson’s face, his brow furrowed with performative concern for Kamila. The thought of returning to that life, of waiting for the tenth broken promise, was more terrifying than this insane gamble.
    She took a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to stand straight, like a soldier awaiting her fate.
    Meanwhile, on the top floor of the Edwards Corporation building, Kayson was pacing his office, a knot of irritation tightening in his gut.
    He had sent Amelia a text.
    “Babe, sorry. Kamila’s situation was an emergency. I’ll make it up to you later.”
    But the message was met with a stark red exclamation point. Delivery failed.
    He frowned, assuming it was a network issue. He tried again. Same result.
    Pressing his fingers to his temples, a familiar gesture of frustration, he decided to call.
    A cold, automated voice met his ear: “The user you are calling is currently unavailable.”
    A surge of annoyance, sharper and more potent than usual, coursed through him. Amelia never did this. She was always there, always waiting, always forgiving.
    He concluded she was throwing a tantrum, a bigger one than usual, but a tantrum nonetheless. He’d let her cool off. She’d come around. She always did.
    Nine minutes later, a black Maybach pulled up to the curb in front of Amelia, its tires letting out a soft, arrogant hiss.
    The back door opened, and a long leg, encased in impeccably tailored trousers, emerged.
    Garrett Thornton unfolded himself from the car. He was taller than she remembered from the gala, with dark hair and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He radiated an aura of raw, untamed power.
    He didn’t look at her at first. His gaze went to the sign above the door: City Marriage Bureau. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. Only then did his eyes land on her.
    His gaze was intensely invasive, sweeping over her from head to toe as if he were assessing a potential acquisition.
    Amelia instinctively took a half-step back, feeling exposed and judged.
    The corner of Garrett’s mouth quirked up. He extended a hand towards her, his voice a low, possessive rumble.
    “Did you bring your ID and documents, future Mrs. Thornton?”

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex’s Rival Chapter 3 Wedding Vow

    Amelia stared at Garrett’s outstretched hand. It was large, with long, strong fingers. A hand that looked like it could build things or break them with equal ease. It represented a future she couldn’t possibly imagine.

    An image of Kayson, his hand gently resting on Kamila’s bandaged ankle, flashed in her mind.

    Her spine stiffened. The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

    She placed her trembling hand into his. His palm was warm and dry, his grip firm as it enveloped her cold fingers. It wasn’t a comforting hold; it was a claim.

    A triumphant smirk played on Garrett’s lips. He tightened his grip, giving her no chance to pull away, and led her back towards the entrance of the Marriage Bureau.

    Ms. Sullivan was just packing up her desk when she saw Amelia return, this time with a tall, devastatingly handsome man in tow. The clerk’s jaw dropped.

    Garrett flashed Ms. Sullivan a smile so charming it could have melted glaciers. “Ma’am, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

    Under the force of Garrett’s sheer presence, the entire process became a blur. Paperwork was filled out with swift efficiency.

    When it was time for the photo, Amelia’s face was a stiff, unnatural mask. Garrett leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear.

    “Smile, Amelia,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel straight through her. “From now on, you’re the winner.”

    Her breath hitched. She looked up at him, into those deep blue eyes, and for the first time, she saw something other than mockery. It was a flicker of… something else.

    A small, genuine curve touched her lips as the camera flashed, capturing a wedding photo.

    When the stamped marriage certificate was placed in her hand, it still felt unreal.

    Amelia Frye was now Amelia Thornton.

    The moment they stepped back outside, Garrett released her hand.

    He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a set of keys and a sleek, black card, pressing them into her palm.

    Amelia looked down. A beautifully designed apartment key and an American Express Centurion Card.

    “What is this?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

    “The key to a penthouse on the Upper East Side. Your new home,” Garrett said, his tone casual, as if he were handing her a brochure. “The card has no password and no limit. Use it.”

    He paused, his eyes glinting. “Consider it pocket money for being Mrs. Thornton.”

    The weight of the key and card felt scorching in her hand. “This wasn’t part of our agreement.”

    “It is now.” Garrett’s voice was flat, leaving no room for negotiation. “My wife doesn’t live frugally. Especially not in front of Kayson Edwards.”

    He said Kayson’s name, and everything clicked into place. This wasn’t just a marriage of convenience. It was an act of war. And she was his newest, most strategic weapon.

    He opened the Maybach’s door for her. “Get in. I’ll take you to get your things.”

    Amelia slid into the plush leather seat, the scent of mint and expensive leather filling her senses. It was the smell of a world she didn’t belong to.

    She recited the address of the imposing Carlisle family estate.

    The car pulled smoothly away from the curb. After a moment of silence, Garrett spoke, his eyes on her in the rearview mirror.

    “You are heading to the Carlisle estate?”

    Amelia froze. The address she’d given was the grand home shared by her biological parents. Yet, ever since her mother, Kristen Carlisle, had acknowledged her and brought her back, Kristen had coldly claimed there were “no spare rooms” in the massive house, relegating Amelia to a cramped maid’s room. In that sprawling mansion, she was treated as nothing more than an unwanted burden.

    Her reply was cold and sharp. “My name is Frye.”

    Garrett watched her in the mirror, catching the flicker of resentment in her eyes. A soft, knowing hum escaped his lips, a sound that was neither a laugh nor a sigh.

    He didn’t press further. Instead, he took out his phone, opened a social media app, and snapped a picture of the marriage certificate in his hand.

    He framed it carefully, showing only the official seal, the date, and the word “Married,” but hiding their names.

    He typed a single word as the caption.

    “Married.”

    And then he hit post.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game by Xiu Luo

    The Neglected Wife's Vicious Comeback Game by Xiu Luo
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    On our third anniversary, my husband canceled our dinner, claiming a sudden work emergency.

    I tracked his phone to an exclusive French restaurant, only to find him tenderly fastening a blessed bracelet—one I had flown across the world to get for him—onto his college ex-girlfriend’s wrist.

    The sheer shock triggered a violent placental abruption. Bleeding out in my car just across the street, I frantically called his number. Through the window, I watched him glance at his screen, frown in annoyance, and press decline to focus on his lover. While I was wheeled into a freezing operating room for an emergency C-section utterly alone, he took his mistress back to our marital bed.

    He didn’t even bother to check if I was alive, completely oblivious that our premature daughter was fighting for her life in the NICU. I soon discovered our entire marriage was a sham. He had used my family’s wealth to save his company, and now he was trading me to secure a massive business deal with his ex’s father. The man I loved didn’t exist; he only saw me as a disposable asset.

    “I’m going to make him wish he had never been born.”

    After secretly securing my baby in a private retreat, I ordered a medical-grade silicone pregnancy belly to hide my flat stomach. I stepped back into our penthouse, ready to burn his precious empire to the ground.

    👉 READ NOW

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 1

    “I made the reservations at Per Se, just like you wanted.” Adalynn Craig smoothed down the silk of her dress, her voice a little too bright in the cavernous silence of their penthouse apartment. She ran a hand over her seven-month belly, a reflexive, protective gesture.
    Across the room, Julian Hawthorne didn’t look up from his phone. “Cancel it.”
    The words, clipped and cold, hung in the air. Adalynn’s fingers tightened on the photo album she was holding—a leather-bound collection of their three years of marriage, her anniversary gift to him. “But… it’s our anniversary, Julian. I thought we could—”
    “Something came up at work. Emergency board meeting.” He finally looked at her, his expression impatient, as if she were a minor annoyance he had to deal with. “We can do it another time.”
    He never specified when “another time” would be. It was his standard line, the one he used to brush her off for the last six months. A familiar, cold knot formed in Adalynn’s stomach. She forced a smile, the muscles in her face feeling stiff. “Okay. Of course. Work is important.”
    She watched him grab his keys, his movements brisk and final. He didn’t kiss her goodbye. He didn’t even glance at her belly. The heavy front door clicked shut, leaving her alone with the perfectly set dinner table for two and the scent of the roast cooling in the oven.
    Disappointment, sharp and bitter, rose in her throat. She sank onto the velvet sofa, the photo album a heavy weight in her lap. She wouldn’t let him ruin this. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he was just stressed. An idea sparked—a desperate, hopeful one. She would go to him. She would bring him a thermos of the soup he loved, show him she supported him. A surprise.
    A few minutes later, dressed in the dress he once told her made her eyes look like the sea after a storm, she grabbed the gift and headed for the garage. As she started the car, a familiar, sick feeling of doubt crept in. It was a small, ugly habit she’d developed—checking his location. She told herself it was just for peace of mind.
    She opened the app on her phone. Her thumb hovered over his icon. The screen refreshed, and a small dot appeared on the map. It wasn’t at the Hawthorne Group headquarters downtown. It was pulsing steadily over a small, exclusive block in the West Village. Over Le Ciel, the most expensive, most romantic French restaurant in the city.
    Her breath hitched. Maybe it’s a surprise, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. A reverse surprise. He’s waiting for me there. The thought was flimsy, a paper-thin shield against a much darker possibility, but she clung to it.
    She drove, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. A light rain began to fall, blurring the city lights into long, weeping streaks. Her stomach churned, a mixture of bad premonition and pregnancy-induced nausea.
    She parked across the street from the restaurant. The rain was heavier now, drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof of the car. Through the enormous, floor-to-ceiling window, she saw him. He was seated at a secluded corner table, bathed in the warm, intimate glow of a candle.
    And he was not alone.
    Across from him sat Carlene Shaffer. His college girlfriend. The one he’d sworn was just a part of his past. Carlene looked elegant, her blonde hair catching the light as she laughed at something he said. Julian was smiling back, a soft, unguarded smile that Adalynn hadn’t seen directed at her in years. It was a physical blow.
    Then, he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet pouch. From it, he drew a bracelet made of dark, polished sandalwood beads.
    Adalynn’s vision tunneled. She felt the air leave her lungs in a painful rush. It was the bracelet she had flown twelve hours to a remote temple to get for him, a blessing for his loyalty and success that she had prayed over for hours. He had promised to wear it forever.
    She watched, frozen, as Julian leaned across the table. He took Carlene’s delicate wrist in his hand and gently, tenderly, fastened the bracelet around it. Then he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.
    A sound escaped Adalynn’s throat—not a scream, not a sob, but something raw and involuntary, like an animal caught in a trap. Her hand flew to her mouth, pressing hard against her lips as if she could force the sound back inside. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She pressed her other palm flat against the cold glass of the car window, her fingers splaying wide, her breath fogging the pane in short, ragged bursts.
    Her entire body began to tremble—not from the cold, but from a seismic shift happening deep within her. The woman who had climbed into this car an hour ago, still clinging to the hope that her marriage could be saved, was dying. And in her place, something else was being born. Something cold. Something unforgiving.
    She didn’t cry. She didn’t look away. She pressed her hand against the cold glass of the car window, her eyes burning into the scene in front of her, and she burned every detail into her memory. The way his thumb stroked Carlene’s wrist. The way Carlene tilted her head, basking in his attention. The way her bracelet—her blessing, her prayer, her twelve-hour flight—dangled from another woman’s arm like a trophy. She would remember this. When the time came, she would remember every single detail. And she would make sure he regretted it with every breath he took.
    The world tilted. The gift box in Adalynn’s lap slid to the floor, landing with a dull, final thud. At the same instant, a vicious, searing pain tore through her abdomen. It was a cramp so intense it stole her breath, making her double over. It wasn’t like the Braxton Hicks contractions she was used to. This was different. This was violent.
    With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and dialed Julian’s number. She watched through the window as he glanced at his screen, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he pressed the decline button.
    The pain sharpened, a hot blade twisting deep inside her. She tried again. He declined it again, this time silencing his phone and placing it face down on the table, his full attention returning to Carlene.
    She watched Carlene glance at the phone, then look up at Julian with a knowing smile. She watched Carlene’s lips form the words: “Is it her again?” She watched Julian shrug—actually shrug—as if his wife’s life-or-death emergency was a minor inconvenience. And then she watched Carlene laugh.
    A wave of dizziness washed over her. Another cramp, stronger this time, made her cry out. A sudden, warm gush of fluid soaked through her dress and onto the leather seat. Her water had broken. Panic, cold and absolute, seized her.
    She fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with sweat. She couldn’t think. 911. She had to call 911. She managed to dial the numbers, her voice a choked whisper as she gave the operator her location.
    Inside the restaurant, Julian raised his wine glass, toasting the woman across from him. He was completely oblivious to the flashing lights that were now approaching, to the wife who was fighting for her life and the life of their child just a few feet away.
    The paramedics were gentle but firm, pulling her from the car and onto a gurney. As they lifted her into the ambulance, her gaze found the restaurant window one last time. Julian was leaning in, his eyes locked on Carlene’s, his expression full of a tenderness that had once been hers.
    The doors slammed shut, and Adalynn’s heart shattered into a million pieces. The physical agony and the emotional devastation merged into a single, overwhelming wave of blackness.
    At the hospital, a doctor with tired eyes, Dr. Foster, spoke to her in urgent, clipped tones. “Severe placental abruption. The baby’s in distress. We need to do an emergency C-section. Now.”
    They wheeled her into the sterile, freezing operating room. There was no one to hold her hand. No Julian to whisper that everything would be okay. His wedding vow, “I will never let you be alone,” echoed in her mind, a cruel, mocking joke.
    As the anesthesia began to pull her under, a single thought burned through the pain and the fog: My baby. Please, let my baby live.
    She was vaguely aware of frantic voices, the words “hemorrhaging” and “losing her” floating somewhere above her.
    Hours later, after a romantic dinner and a nightcap in his office, Julian Hawthorne finally checked his messages. He saw the missed calls from Adalynn and rolled his eyes, assuming it was just another one of her needy episodes.
    In the hospital, Adalynn was fighting for her life.
    When she finally stabilized, her daughter had already been born. Lily Craig Hawthorne, weighing just three pounds, was whisked away to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit before Adalynn even had a chance to see her.

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 2

    The first thing Adalynn felt when she woke was a line of fire across her lower abdomen. The pain was a brutal confirmation that the night before had not been a nightmare. It was real. The empty chair beside her hospital bed was also real.
    A kind-faced nurse named Olivia Price came in to check her vitals. “How are you feeling, sweetie?” she asked, her voice soft with a pity that made Adalynn’s skin crawl.
    “My baby,” Adalynn rasped, her throat raw. “Is she…?”
    “She’s a fighter,” Olivia said with a reassuring smile. “Stable for now. She’s in the NICU, getting the best care.”
    A sliver of relief pierced through the fog of pain and betrayal. Stable. That was enough for now. The anger, however, was becoming clearer, sharper. She reached for her phone on the bedside table, her movements slow and agonizing. She would give him one last chance. One final opportunity to not be the monster she now knew he was.
    She dialed his private number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, someone picked up.
    But it wasn’t Julian’s voice.
    “Hello?” The voice was feminine, husky with sleep, and sickeningly familiar. It was Carlene Shaffer.
    Adalynn’s heart stopped. In the background, she could hear the distinct sound of the rain showerhead in their master bathroom. Their bathroom. In their home.
    “Julian’s in the shower right now,” Carlene continued, her tone dripping with smug ownership. “Can I take a message?” A beat of silence, then, “If this is a business matter for Mr. Hawthorne, you can try his office later.”
    The implication was clear. She was the personal. Adalynn was the business.
    While Adalynn had been bleeding on an operating table, her husband had taken his mistress home to their bed. The bed where their child was conceived.
    Adalynn’s voice, when it came, was not the broken whisper of a wounded wife. It was ice. “Carlene,” she said, and she heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line—the sound of a woman realizing she had been caught. “You’re in my house. Wearing my bracelet. Sleeping in my bed. Enjoy it while it lasts. Because when I’m done, you won’t even be a footnote in his story. You’ll be the punchline.”
    She hung up before Carlene could respond.
    Without a word, Adalynn ended the call. The last, fragile thread of hope she didn’t even know she was holding onto snapped. It wasn’t just an affair. It was a complete and utter replacement.
    A cold, terrifyingly clear thought formed in her mind. He cannot know about the baby. Lily was not a Hawthorne. She was a Craig. She was hers alone. This child would not be a pawn in a divorce, a bargaining chip for a man who didn’t deserve the title of father.
    Her hands shook as she scrolled through her contacts and found Sloane Hayes. Her best friend. Her rock.
    Sloane picked up on the first ring. “Addy? What’s up? Ready for our yacht weekend?”
    A choked sob escaped Adalynn’s lips. “Sloane,” she whispered, and then the dam broke. The story spilled out in a torrent of broken, gasping sentences—the restaurant, the bracelet, the rejected calls, the emergency surgery, Carlene answering his phone from their bed.
    On the other end of the line, Sloane’s silence morphed from shock into pure, unadulterated rage. “That son of a bitch,” she finally hissed. “That absolute, grade-A piece of human garbage. I’m going to make him wish he was never born. I’m coming. Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
    After hanging up, Adalynn wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were dry, burning with a new, cold fire. She was done crying. She was done being a victim.
    In the penthouse, Julian stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. Carlene was perched on the edge of his desk, wearing nothing but one of his dress shirts. Her face was pale, her hands trembling slightly.
    “Your wife called,” she said, her voice lacking its usual smug confidence. “I answered for you.”
    Julian frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He rubbed at his temples. “What did she want?”
    “She… she knew I was here. She said—” Carlene stopped, unable to repeat Adalynn’s words. “She’s not what you told me she was, Julian. She’s not weak.”
    “She’s always dramatic,” Julian muttered, pouring himself a scotch. “It’s exhausting. Whatever she said, ignore it. She’s harmless.”
    Carlene opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Harmless. The woman on the phone had not sounded harmless. She had sounded like a promise.
    He accepted the explanation without question. It was easier than confronting the truth.
    Twenty minutes later, Sloane burst into the hospital room, her face a mask of fury and concern. She took one look at Adalynn’s pale face, the IV in her arm, and the slight mound under the blanket where her stomach was bandaged, and her eyes filled with tears.
    “Oh, Addy.”
    Adalynn met her gaze, her own eyes steady and resolute. “I’m going to hide her, Sloane,” she said, her voice low and even. “He can never know she was born.” She took a breath. “Secure the child, ditch the father.”
    Sloane stared at her, the shock on her face quickly replaced by a fierce, predatory grin. “Damn right,” she said, her voice full of admiration. “That’s my girl. We are not letting that bastard or his dragon of a mother use that baby to control you or the trust fund. Not happening. When we’re done with him, he won’t even be able to afford the shirt on his back.”
    Sloane immediately took charge. “You rest. I’m going to go meet my goddaughter.” She squeezed Adalynn’s hand. “And don’t you worry. He’s going to pay for this. For every single thing.”
    As Sloane left, Adalynn’s phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification. A new post from Carlene Shaffer. The photo was a selfie, taken from behind Julian’s desk, the glittering skyline of the city spread out behind her. Her chin was tilted up in a look of triumph. On her wrist, the sandalwood bracelet was prominently displayed.
    The caption read: “A new chapter.”
    Adalynn stared at the photo. Then, very calmly, she took a screenshot. She created a new folder on her phone and labeled it: “Evidence.” The screenshot went in, alongside the call log showing her rejected calls to Julian, the timestamp of her 911 call, and a photo of her empty hospital room.
    “A new chapter,” she murmured to herself. “You have no idea.”
    Sloane, who had paused in the doorway to check her own phone, saw it at the same time. A low growl escaped her throat. “I am going to rip her hair out.”
    “No,” Adalynn said, her voice stopping Sloane in her tracks. It was quiet, but held a core of steel. “Not yet. We don’t get emotional. We get strategic.” She looked at her friend, her eyes dark with purpose. “She just publicly wore stolen property and called it a new chapter. When I’m done with her, her entire story will be a cautionary tale that women whisper about at dinner parties for the next twenty years.”
    Sloane saw the look on her face and knew it was true. The sweet, accommodating Adalynn Craig she had known was gone. In her place was a woman who had been pushed past her breaking point and had come back as something far more dangerous.

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 3

    After Sloane left for the NICU, Adalynn’s gaze kept returning to the picture of Carlene on her phone. To the bracelet. The memory was so vivid it felt like it was happening now. A year ago, she had taken a solo trip to a small, secluded monastery in the mountains of Bhutan. Julian’s company had been on the verge of a hostile takeover, and he had been a wreck, consumed by anxiety.
    She’d spent two days with the monks, praying for him, for his peace of mind, for the protection of his legacy. They had blessed the sandalwood beads, infusing them with prayers for fidelity and strength. When she gave it to him, he’d been moved to tears. He’d kissed her and promised he would never take it off, that it would be a symbol of their unbreakable bond.
    Now that symbol was on another woman’s wrist, a trophy of his betrayal. The memory, once a source of comfort, now felt like a shard of glass in her heart. But she didn’t flinch. She let it cut. Let it bleed. Every scar from this moment forward would be a reminder of what she was fighting for.
    Meanwhile, on the fifth floor of the very same hospital, Julian was trying to charm Mr. Knight, a key investor whose health was failing. Carlene was by his side, playing the part of the concerned, attentive associate. They had ridden the elevator up, completely unaware that Julian’s wife was lying in a hospital bed two floors below, recovering from major surgery.
    After the visit, they stopped by the nurses’ station to inquire about scheduling a follow-up. As they approached, they could hear two nurses, Patty Hicks and Olivia Price, talking in low voices.
    “That poor woman in 302, Mrs. Craig,” Patty said, shaking her head. “So beautiful, and she had to go through that emergency C-section all alone. The husband hasn’t shown his face once.”
    Olivia sighed, refilling a cup with water. “I know. And the baby, a little girl, so premature she’s still in an isolette. What kind of man misses a moment like that?”
    Julian froze. The name “Craig.” The room number “302.” The word “C-section.” A cold finger traced down his spine. He turned to the nurses, his voice sharper than he intended. “What did you say the patient’s name was?”
    Patty looked up, startled. “Mrs. Craig. Adalynn Craig. She came in last night. Emergency C-section. Almost didn’t make it. Why—do you know her?”
    For one breath, for one heartbeat, the truth hung in the air between them. Julian opened his mouth—
    And Carlene’s hand clamped down on his arm. “Julian,” she said, her voice tight. “We’re going to be late for your meeting.”
    He hesitated. He looked at the nurses. He thought of Adalynn—his wife, his pregnant wife, who was supposed to be at Sloane’s, safe and angry at him, not bleeding out on an operating table. But Carlene’s grip was insistent, her nails digging into his sleeve. And the truth was too big, too terrifying. If he acknowledged it, everything would change.
    So he didn’t.
    “No,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t know her.”
    He turned away from the nurses’ station and walked toward the elevator, Carlene’s hand still on his arm. He didn’t look back. But the words echoed in his head with every step: emergency C-section. Almost didn’t make it. Husband hasn’t shown his face once.
    He knew. Some part of him knew. But he had already chosen not to care.
    Just as they turned the corner, Sloane Hayes walked directly into their path, coming from the direction of the NICU.
    Sloane stopped dead in her tracks. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Hawthorne,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Fancy meeting you here. Of all the hospitals in all the world.”
    Julian’s face darkened. “Sloane. What are you doing here?”
    Her eyes flicked dismissively over to Carlene, then back to him. “I’m visiting a friend,” she said, her voice sharp as a blade. “A friend whose husband was too busy wining and dining his mistress to answer his phone while she was bleeding out on the side of the road. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Julian?”
    The blood drained from Julian’s face. For a split second, he looked like a man who had just been punched in the gut. Carlene’s grip on his arm tightened convulsively.
    “Watch your tone, Sloane,” he managed, but his voice had lost its commanding edge. It sounded weak. Defensive. Guilty.
    Sloane just laughed, a cold, humorless sound. She didn’t give away a single detail about Adalynn’s current condition. She didn’t need to. “You’d better hope you haven’t done anything you’ll regret, Julian,” she said, her smile vanishing. “Because I’ve seen what happens to men who cross the Hayes family. Spoiler alert—they don’t recover. And you?” She looked him up and down with utter contempt. “You crossed the wrong woman. And you don’t even know it yet.”
    Carlene, sensing the conversation was about to escalate into a full-blown scene, pulled Julian’s arm again, more insistently this time. “Let’s just go, Julian. She’s not worth it.”
    Julian shot Sloane one last glare before letting Carlene lead him away. The encounter left him feeling irritated and vaguely uneasy, but more than that—he felt exposed. Sloane knew something. Something about Adalynn. Something he should know but was too afraid to ask.
    Sloane watched them go, her fists clenched. She took a deep, calming breath before turning back towards Adalynn’s room. She decided not to mention the run-in. Adalynn didn’t need the extra stress.
    When she entered the room, her expression was bright. “She’s beautiful, Addy,” she gushed, pulling out her phone to show Adalynn a picture she’d snapped through the glass of the isolette. “She’s tiny, but she has your nose. And she’s a fighter. I can already tell.”
    Adalynn stared at the image of her daughter, a tiny, perfect creature connected to a web of wires and tubes. A fierce, primal wave of love washed over her, so powerful it momentarily eclipsed everything else. This tiny person was all that mattered now. The last lingering shred of attachment she might have felt for Julian, the man who co-created this life, severed completely. He was nothing. A stranger. An obstacle.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • From Wolfless Omega To The Rival Alpha’s Queen by Jun Shangye

    From Wolfless Omega To The Rival Alpha's Queen by Jun Shangye
    👉 READ NOW

    For three years, I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into building Blackwood Group for Alec, my Alpha and the man I thought was my mate.

    But on the day of our work anniversary, I stood outside his office door and heard him talking with his Beta, shattering my entire world.

    “Kay is just a wolfless Omega, useful for paperwork,” Alec sneered coldly.

    “The bonding ceremony is just a show for the elders. The real Luna, the one who carries the bloodline that matters, is Breanne. I’m transferring all of Kay’s core project files to Breanne tomorrow. Let her take the credit.”

    He even texted me later, telling me to wear a blue dress to the upcoming gala because it made me look “obedient.”

    I had turned down a Wharton scholarship for this man. I had spent countless nights fixing his mistakes, building his empire, and giving him my youth.

    Yet to him, I was nothing but a disposable placeholder, expected to smile and bow while another woman stole my life’s work and my place by his side.

    The agonizing pain in my chest didn’t break me; it forged me into ice.

    I didn’t cry, and I certainly didn’t beg.

    Instead, I wiped his servers clean of every strategy I had ever created, left a wax-sealed resignation on his desk, and accepted a job offer from his most ruthless rival.

    👉 READ NOW

    From Wolfless Omega To The Rival Alpha’s Queen Chapter 1

    Kay POV:
    I stood outside the frosted glass door of the Alpha’s office, my fingers locking around the cardboard tray until the paper cups groaned.
    As the official project lead for Blackwood Group’s expansion in Chicago, I was used to managing multi-million-dollar logistics. But today, my hands trembled. Inside the cups were two lattes—extra vanilla syrup for him, just the way he liked it. It was a small, devoted detail I had kept up for seven years, ever since I had sacrificed my full scholarship to Stanford to help Alec Collins build his empire.
    I was a wolfless Omega—a broken, shifting-less anomaly in a world ruled by bloodlines and teeth. Alec was the blood-born Alpha of the Blackwood Pack, the powerful CEO of the conglomerate, and, unofficially, the destined mate I was supposed to bind with next month.
    Now, standing in the quiet corridor, my sharp ears picked up the low, serious murmur of voices from behind the cracked door.
    I recognized them instantly: Alec, and his loyal Beta, Ethan Hayes, the second-in-command of our pack.
    “Are the preparations for the bonding ceremony finalized?” Ethan’s voice was low, laced with a tension I couldn’t place.
    A sharp, impatient sound—a scoff from Alec—cut him off.
    “It’s a formality, Ethan. A show for the elders to secure the final votes for the merger. You know that.”
    The cardboard tray in my hands suddenly felt flimsy. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim, scalding my skin, but I barely felt it.
    My breath hitched. A formality?
    “But Alec,” Ethan pressed, his voice dropping lower. “Kay has been by your side for seven years. She literally designed the entire market strategy that saved our expansion. She’s earned the title of Luna.”
    “Earned what?”
    Alec’s voice was laced with a chilling amusement that made my stomach clench. “The privilege of being my Luna? She’s a wolfless Omega, Ethan. She should be grateful I even look at her. Her devotion is expected. It’s the least a defective creature like her can do to prove her worth to this pack.”
    The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. Wolfless. The dirty little secret the pack pitied and scorned me for, now spoken by my destined mate as a measure of my uselessness.
    “Her work on the acquisition strategy was brilliant,” Ethan argued, a hint of desperation in his voice.
    “Her work was adequate,” Alec corrected him coldly. “It was a good way for her to contribute, to make up for… other deficiencies. And now that Breanne is back…”
    Breanne Weiss. The name was a whisper of silk and old money. A true-blooded, noble Omega who possessed the perfect bloodline and the inner wolf I lacked.
    “Breanne is who I want.” Alec’s voice was raw, stripped of all pretense. “She is the Luna this pack deserves. Her bloodline, her grace… she is my equal.”
    My equal. The words echoed in the sudden, roaring silence of my mind. If she was his equal, what was I?
    A placeholder. A tool. A seven-year-long convenience.
    “So, the plan is still to reject Kay after the merger is finalized?” Ethan asked.
    “I can’t risk the instability now.” Alec said, his voice hardening again, becoming the Alpha. “We’ll go through with the ceremony to appease the elders. Once everything is settled, I’ll handle the rejection. She’s weak, Ethan. She’ll cry, but she won’t fight it. Where would she even go without us?”
    A wave of nausea washed over me. The phantom mate bond on the back of my neck, the one-sided connection I had cherished, flared with a white-hot, agonizing pain.
    “And her project? The Phoenix Initiative?”
    “I’m giving it to Breanne.” Alec said, the casual cruelty of it knocking me back a step. “A welcome home present. Let her put her stamp on it.”
    My project. My baby. The one I had built from the ground up.
    A bitter, metallic taste filled my mouth. It was the taste of betrayal. Of my own foolishness. I had given up a full scholarship to an Ivy League school for him. I had believed his promises, his whispered words in the dark, his assurances that my lack of a wolf didn’t matter to him.
    Lies. All of it.
    “I’ll pick Breanne up from the airport this weekend.” Alec continued, his voice shifting, becoming lighter. “We’ll have dinner.”
    This weekend. Saturday. My mother’s birthday—the one he had promised we would celebrate together.
    It was over. The perfect, fragile illusion I had built my entire adult life around had just been shattered into a million pieces.
    I heard the scrape of a chair inside the office. Footsteps. Ethan was leaving.
    My body moved before my mind could catch up. There was no conscious thought, only a primal instinct for survival. I couldn’t let him see me. I couldn’t let them know I’d heard.
    I spun around, my movements swift and silent. The trash receptacle, a sleek stainless steel cylinder, was three feet away. In one fluid, decisive motion, I tipped the tray. The two vanilla lattes, the symbols of my pathetic, hopeful love, dropped into the bin with a soft, final thud.
    Not a single drop spilled on the pristine carpet.
    I didn’t look back. I didn’t wait to hear the office door open. I slipped into the adjacent doorway, pushing open the heavy metal door to the fire escape.
    It slammed shut behind me, the boom echoing in the concrete stairwell, plunging me into dim, dusty silence.
    The sound finally broke my paralysis.
    I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the gritty steps, my corporate suit jacket bunching around my waist.
    No tears came. Only a vast, cold emptiness.
    My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out with a trembling hand. The screen lit up, showing my wallpaper: a smiling photo of Alec and me from last year’s pack gala. His arm was around me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked so happy. He looked like he loved me.
    A cold, hard fury, something I hadn’t felt in years, began to burn through the shock. It started in my gut and spread through my veins, chasing away the ice.
    My fingers moved with a new, chilling precision. I went into my settings and changed the wallpaper to the phone’s default, a bland, abstract swirl of blue. The photo of us vanished.
    I opened my notes app. I created a new, encrypted file. I titled it: “Extraction Protocol.”
    Another buzz. An email notification flashed across the top of the screen. It was from HR.
    Subject: URGENT: Venue Confirmation for Collins-Silva Bonding Ceremony.
    The email asked for my digital signature to confirm the booking.
    A laugh escaped my lips. It was a harsh, ugly sound in the quiet stairwell.
    I tapped the notification. The email opened. At the bottom were two buttons: “Approve” and “Reject.”
    My thumb hovered over the screen for a single, heartbeat. Then, I pressed “Reject.” A confirmation box popped up. “Are you sure you want to reject this request?”
    I pressed “Yes”.
    And then, for good measure, I deleted the email.
    I closed my eyes. I didn’t pray to the Moon Goddess for strength or guidance. I made her a promise. I would not be the weak, crying Omega Alec expected. I would not accept this sham of a bond. I would not be his fool.
    After a few minutes, the shaking stopped. The cold fury settled into a block of ice in my chest. I stood up, brushing the dust from my skirt. I straightened my jacket, smoothing the wrinkles with methodical, detached movements.
    I pushed the fire escape door open and stepped back into the plush, silent hallway. The air was no longer filled with promise. It was just recycled, sterile air.
    I didn’t go back to my desk. I didn’t go to the restroom to fix my face.
    I walked directly to the elevator bank and pressed the down button.
    The elevator descended. As it passed the lower floors, I made a decision. I wasn’t just going to leave. I was going to erase myself from his life and his company so completely that it would be as if I had never existed.
    The doors opened onto the lobby. The cold Chicago wind hit me as I pushed through the revolving doors, a blast of reality that felt like a baptism. It didn’t make me shiver. It made me feel awake.
    I didn’t walk to my car. I walked to the curb, raised my hand, and hailed a cab.
    As I slid into the back seat, giving the driver my address, I knew exactly what I had to do first.

    I was going to draft my formal notice of mate rejection.

    From Wolfless Omega To The Rival Alpha’s Queen Chapter 2

    Kay POV:
    The taxi ride back to my apartment was a blur of steel-grey buildings and headlights, but my mind was operating with the cold, clicking precision of a high-end server.
    I had spent seven years building a fortress for a man who planned to tear me down; now, it was time to dismantle it brick by brick.
    Inside my apartment, the silence was absolute. I didn’t turn on the lights. I walked straight to my home office, my steps even and measured, illuminated only by the faint city lights of Chicago cutting through the blinds.
    I woke up my MacBook. The cool, blueish light reflected off my face, devoid of any expression.
    First things first.
    My fingers flew across the keyboard, navigating through firewalls and encrypted servers with a muscle memory honed over seven years. I accessed the Blackwood Group’s central database. My database. The one I had designed.
    I began the download. Every project file, every financial model, every marketing strategy, every piece of intellectual property I had ever created for them. The ones with my name on them, and more importantly, the ones without. It was a massive amount of data. The progress bar crawled. It would take hours.
    My phone, sitting face down on the desk, lit up. It buzzed once.
    From: Alec
    Don’t forget the charity gala tomorrow night. 7 pm. The Vanderbilts will be there. Be ready.
    No “hello.” No “how was your day.” Just a command. The casual entitlement of it, the sheer arrogance, sent a fresh wave of cold fury through me. He was ordering me around while planning my replacement.
    I stared at the message, the name “Alec” at the top seeming alien. A corner of my mouth lifted in a sneer. I didn’t reply. I just flipped the phone back over, silencing it.
    I opened a new Word document.
    The words came easily, stripped of all emotion. It was a legal document, not a breakup letter.
    NOTICE OF MATE REJECTION
    Pursuant to the sacred laws upheld by the Moon Goddess and recognized by all packs, I, Kay Silva, formally and irrevocably reject you, Alec Collins of the Blackwood Pack, as my fated mate.
    This rejection is final and absolute.
    Let this document serve as the complete and total severance of the bond between us.
    I typed my name at the bottom. As my finger hovered over the last key, a faint, sharp sting pricked the back of my neck, right over the spot where his mark should have been. It was the bond, a phantom limb, protesting its own amputation.
    I ignored it and hit “Print.”
    The whirring of the printer was the only sound in the apartment. It was the sound of a life being unmade. The paper slid out, warm to the touch. I didn’t reread it.
    To ensure it couldn’t be dismissed as a prank or a fit of pique, I found one of the Blackwood Group’s official letterhead envelopes I kept for work. It had the embossed wolf seal. I folded the notice, slid it inside, and sealed it with a firm press of my thumb. Official. Undeniable.
    I wouldn’t give it to him myself. That would lead to a confrontation, to him trying to use his Alpha presence to force me into submission. No. I would give it to Ethan. Let the Beta deliver the news.
    With the letter lying on my desk like a verdict, I turned my attention back to the future. I opened my LinkedIn profile. It was painfully out of date. I started drafting a new summary, my mind already shifting from the past to the practicalities of survival.
    As I navigated to my inbox to clear out old messages, I saw it. An unread email, sent three days ago. The subject line made my heart skip a beat.
    From: Hamilton Jarvis, CEO, Vertex Group
    Subject: Strategic Consultant Inquiry
    Vertex Group.
    The name alone was enough to make any Alpha in the Midwest break a sweat. They were Blackwood’s biggest rival on the East Coast, a shadowy, powerful conglomerate run by a man spoken of only in whispers. Hamilton Jarvis. A Lycan. A creature of legend, more powerful, more ancient than any Alpha.
    My hand trembled slightly as I clicked the email open.
    Ms. Silva,
    Your work has come to my attention. Specifically, your unsigned strategic analysis on the Sterling-Cross acquisition and the risk-mitigation model for the Tundra Logistics merger. They were… impressive.
    Vertex Group is expanding its operations. We require a strategist with your unique foresight. I am prepared to offer you the position of Chief Strategic Advisor.
    The compensation package will be triple your current salary at Blackwood. Relocation to our Manhattan headquarters will be fully covered.
    I believe your talents are being wasted. Let’s rectify that.
    H.J.
    A cold shock went through me. Hamilton Jarvis knew. He had bypassed Alec’s public credit-stealing and pierced the Blackwood corporate veil to find the true brain behind the empire. A profound sense of validation—something I had been starved of for seven years—bloomed in my chest.
    I didn’t reply immediately. This could be a trap, a corporate espionage play. I spent the next hour researching Vertex Group’s recent market activity, cross-referencing their known holdings with their latest SEC filings. It was all legitimate. They were poised for a massive move into the Midwest. They were coming for Blackwood.
    *
    The next evening, I stood in front of the mirrors at the hotel ballroom. I had chosen a simple, severe black sheath dress.
    It wasn’t designed to attract attention. It was armor.
    I walked into the glittering ballroom, took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and retreated to the shadows near the grand entrance.
    I spotted them instantly.
    Alec was in the center of the crowd, holding court like a king. And clinging to his arm was Breanne Weiss, wearing a blood-red gown that left nothing to the imagination. She laughed, a high, tinkling sound, and did a pathetic, theatrical wobble on her high heels, collapsing against his chest.
    Alec didn’t push her away. He smiled, his hand coming up to steady her, his fingers splayed possessively across the small of her back.
    I watched them, my hand holding the champagne flute perfectly steady. I felt nothing. No jealousy. No pain. Just a profound, pitying disgust for the woman I used to be, the one who would have been shattered by this sight.
    “They look perfect together, don’t they?”
    I turned.
    Chloe Sullivan, my childhood best friend, stood beside me. She had known every sacrifice I had made for Alec, yet her eyes held a malicious glint of triumph. She was already aligning herself with the winning side—the new, noble Luna.
    “A true Alpha and his noble Luna,” she said, her voice dripping with faux admiration. “It’s what the pack has always needed.”
    I looked at her, really looked at the cheap ambition in her eyes.
    “You’re right,” I said, my voice quiet, flat, and lethal. “They are a perfect match.”
    I paused, holding her gaze.
    “A bitch and a dog usually are.”
    Chloe’s face went white, her mouth opening and closing like a fish landed on concrete. Before she could recover from the sheer venom in my tone, I turned my back on her, leaving her sputtering.
    I navigated the edge of the ballroom and spotted Ethan Hayes near the restrooms, coordinating security on his phone. I waited.
    When he finished, I stepped into his path.
    He frowned when he saw me. “Kay. You should be with Alec. The Vanderbilts are asking for you.”
    “I have something for you,” I said, my voice devoid of warmth. I held out the thick, sealed envelope with the gold wolf seal.
    He looked at it, then at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s this?”
    “Give it to him,” I said. It wasn’t a request. It was an order. I pushed the envelope against his chest until his fingers automatically closed around it.
    Before he could ask another question, I turned and walked toward the exit. I didn’t look back.
    The cool night air of the city street was a relief. I took a deep breath, the scent of exhaust fumes and damp pavement filling my lungs. It was the smell of freedom.
    I pulled out my phone, my fingers no longer trembling. I opened the email from Hamilton Jarvis. My thumb hovered over the reply button.
    Then, with a decisive tap, I began to type.
    Mr. Jarvis,

    I accept your invitation for a meeting.

    From Wolfless Omega To The Rival Alpha’s Queen Chapter 3

    Kay POV:
    The Uber glided through the steel and glass canyons of Manhattan. I watched the city blur past, a stark contrast to the familiar, almost provincial feel of Chicago’s business district. Here, ambition was a physical presence, humming in the air.
    The car stopped in front of a skyscraper that seemed to scrape the clouds. A single, minimalist silver word was etched into the black marble facade: VERTEX.
    I took a deep breath, smoothed the front of my dark blue suit, and pushed through the revolving glass doors.
    The lobby was a cathedral of cold, gray minimalism. Polished concrete floors, a massive, raw-stone reception desk, and a ceiling so high it felt like open sky. There was no gold, no mahogany, none of the opulent, almost gaudy luxury that defined the Blackwood Group headquarters. This place wasn’t trying to look rich. It just was. It exuded a quiet, terrifying confidence.
    “Kay Silva for Hamilton Jarvis,” I said to the receptionist, a woman with a severe haircut and an earpiece.
    I gave her the appointment code from the email. Her eyes widened fractionally as she scanned it. Her professional demeanor instantly warmed with a deep, ingrained respect.
    “Of course, Ms. Silva. Right this way.”
    She didn’t point. She personally escorted me to a private elevator bank, a sleek, unmarked panel that slid open at her approach. Inside, there was no button for the top floor. She pressed her thumb to a biometric scanner.
    “Mr. Jarvis will meet you in his office,” she said, her voice a respectful murmur. “The elevator will take you directly there.”
    The doors slid shut, and the elevator ascended with a stomach-dropping speed. A faint sense of pressure built in my ears. I gripped the railing, my knuckles white, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was it. The point of no return. I forced myself to let go, to stand straight, to breathe.
    The elevator slowed to a smooth stop. The doors opened not onto a reception area, but a long, wide hallway. At the far end, a single set of massive, dark walnut doors stood closed.
    I walked the length of the hall, my footsteps silent on the dark wood floor. I reached the doors and hesitated for a half-second, my hand raised to knock.
    Before my knuckles could touch the wood, a soft green light glowed on a panel beside the frame. With a near-silent hiss, the heavy doors slid open, retracting into the walls.
    The office was vast. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window offering a breathtaking, god-like view of Manhattan.
    A man stood with his back to me, his hands clasped behind him, looking out over the city he seemed to own.
    He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a bespoke dark suit that fit him like a second skin. He didn’t turn immediately. He let the silence stretch, a subtle assertion of power.
    I stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind me.
    At the sound of my footsteps, he turned.
    The air in the room crackled. It was like a sudden drop in barometric pressure. A wave of pure, undiluted power washed over me, a force so immense it was almost a physical weight. It was the presence of a Lycan. Primal. Ancient. Absolute.
    My Omega instincts screamed at me to lower my eyes, to bow my head, to show submission. My knees felt weak.
    I locked them. I lifted my chin and met his gaze.
    His eyes were a startling shade of gray-blue, the color of a stormy sea.
    A flicker of something-surprise? respect?-passed through those cold eyes.
    “Ms. Silva,” he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that vibrated in the air. It held no warmth, only a deep, calm authority. “Please, sit.”
    He gestured to one of the two leather armchairs positioned in front of a massive, clean-lined desk. I walked forward, my back straight, and sat down. The leather was cool against my skin.
    He didn’t move to sit behind his desk, the throne of his power. Instead, he walked to a discreet wet bar built into the wall.
    “Water? Something stronger?”
    “Water is fine,” I said.
    He retrieved a bottle of sparkling water and a glass. He didn’t pour it over ice. He poured the room-temperature water into the glass and brought it to me, placing it on the small table beside my chair.
    It was a small thing, but it was a calculated one. He had noticed. He had noticed the slight tremor in my hand, the tension in my shoulders. An Omega in distress, especially one who had just severed a mate bond, would be physically and emotionally chilled. Ice water would have been a shock to the system.
    This wasn’t just a CEO. This was a predator who noticed every detail.
    He finally moved to his side of the desk, settling into his large chair. He steepled his long fingers, his gray-blue eyes fixed on me.
    “The Sterling-Cross acquisition,” he began, dispensing with any pleasantries. “Your strategy was to create a shell corporation to buy up their debt anonymously, forcing them to the negotiating table at a fraction of their market value. Alec Collins took the credit, but the idea was yours.”
    It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.
    “Why are you so interested in a wolfless Omega from a rival pack, Mr. Jarvis?” I asked, my voice steady. I had to know. I had to understand the angle.
    A low chuckle, devoid of humor, rumbled in his chest. “I am not interested in your bloodline, Ms. Silva. Or the lack of it. I am interested in results.”
    He slid a thick file across the polished surface of the desk. It stopped perfectly in front of me.
    “Blackwood Group has seen a seventeen percent growth in their portfolio over the last three years,” he said. “All of it tied to initiatives that bear the hallmarks of your strategic style: aggressive, unconventional, and meticulously planned. But your name is on none of them.”
    He leaned forward, his presence intensifying. “I don’t care if you’re wolfless. I don’t care if you’re a rogue. I care that you have a mind capable of dismantling my competition from the inside out. And I want that mind working for me.”
    He laid his cards on the table. “Vertex is preparing a hostile takeover of key territories in the Midwest. Blackwood is the primary obstacle. I need a Chief Strategist who knows their playbook, their weaknesses, their every move. I need you.”
    This was more than a job offer. It was a declaration of war. And he was handing me the sword.
    A part of me, the vengeful, wounded part, wanted to scream yes. But the strategist in me, the part he was hiring, took over.
    “I am still, technically, in a separation period with the Blackwood Pack,” I said carefully. “There are legal and pack-law sensitivities. A non-compete clause. The mate bond severance isn’t finalized until the rejection is formally accepted.”
    He leaned back, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Vertex Group’s legal department is… formidable. They will handle any and all external obstacles. Consider your non-compete clause a historical artifact. As for the rejection… let Mr. Collins worry about that.”
    His confidence was absolute. He was offering me not just a job, but a shield. A fortress.
    I looked into his eyes and saw something I had never, not once, seen in Alec’s.
    Respect.
    He saw me not as a broken Omega, not as a mate or a possession, but as an asset. An equal.
    “My terms,” I said, my voice gaining strength, “I need one month for the transition, to completely sever my ties. And when I assume the role, I require absolute autonomy on strategic deployment. No interference.”
    He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t consult a lawyer or a subordinate. He simply reached for a pen on his desk-a heavy, black Montblanc. He pulled a pre-printed contract from a drawer, uncapped the pen, and signed his name at the bottom with a flourish of sharp, decisive strokes.
    He pushed the contract and the pen across the desk to me.
    “Welcome to Vertex, Ms. Silva.”
    I picked up the contract. The terms were even more generous than he had stated in the email. The salary was astronomical. The autonomy I’d requested was spelled out in iron-clad legal terms.
    My last shred of doubt evaporated.
    I took the pen he offered. My own signature, next to his powerful scrawl, looked almost delicate. But as I signed my name, I felt a lifetime of being underestimated fall away. I was no longer Kay Silva, Alec Collins’s wolfless mate.
    I was Kay Silva, Chief Strategic Advisor for the Vertex Group.
    He stood up, and I followed suit. He extended his hand across the desk. It was a large hand, the fingers long and elegant, the knuckles prominent. A hand that held immense power.
    I placed my hand in his.
    The moment our skin touched, a jolt, sharp and electric, shot up my arm. It was so intense it made me gasp, a wave of heat washing through my entire body. Sparks seemed to dance on my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs, and for a dizzying second, the world seemed to narrow to the point of contact between our hands.
    I saw his eyes darken, his pupils dilating. He felt it too. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second, a possessive, instinctual reaction.
    Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. He masked his reaction, his expression becoming impassive again. He released my hand, his touch lingering like a brand.
    “My assistant will show you out,” he said, his voice a little rougher than before.
    I nodded, unable to speak. I picked up my copy of the contract, my fingers still tingling, and walked out of the office on unsteady legs.
    The elevator doors closed, and as I descended from the heavens of his office, I clutched the contract to my chest. I didn’t know what that electric shock was.

    A fluke? Static electricity?

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