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  • Married To My Ex-Fiancé’s Silent Uncle by Ming Yue

    Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle by Ming Yue
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    Twenty minutes before the “Wedding of the Century” at The Plaza, I stood outside the Presidential Suite in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown. I was the girl from a West Virginia trailer park about to marry Hugh Maxwell, the golden heir to a billion-dollar defense empire.

    I pushed the door open only to find Hugh pinned against the bed with my own stepsister, Floy. She was wearing my bridal diamond necklace, and the sounds of their laughter scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper.

    I didn’t scream; I listened as Hugh grunted that once the wedding was over and the trust fund unlocked, he’d dump “that hillbilly trash” on a bus back to the mountains. They weren’t just cheating; they were planning to steal my family’s land deeds and leave me with nothing. When I set off the sprinklers and exposed their naked bodies to the paparazzi, the Maxwell family didn’t apologize. They called me a “greedy peasant” and threatened to ruin my life unless I signed a new deal to save their crashing stock.

    I realized then that I was never a bride to them. I was a transaction, a rounding error in a ledger to be used and discarded. They thought my poverty made me weak and my silence made me a victim.

    “If we don’t have a marriage certificate by midnight, the bank freezes thirty percent of our liquidity,” their lawyer warned.

    So, I gave them exactly what they wanted. I used a loophole in their hundred-year-old family covenant and married the only other direct heir available. I didn’t marry Hugh. I walked into the ICU and married his uncle, Fleet Maxwell-the legendary war hero who had been in a vegetative state for months.

    Now, I am the matriarch of the Maxwell dynasty. I’ve suspended Hugh’s executive powers, exiled my mother-in-law to the Swiss Alps, and taken control of the family vault. They think I’m just a gold-digger waiting for a “corpse” to die so I can collect a fifty-million-dollar widow’s payout.

    But last night, as I lay beside my comatose husband, the man they called a vegetable gripped my hand back.

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    Married To My Ex-Fiancé’s Silent Uncle Chapter 1

    The corset of the Vera Wang gown was a vice, crushing Darcie Mayo’s ribs until shallow breaths were the only option.
    She stood outside the mahogany double doors of the Presidential Suite at The Plaza, her hand hovering over the gilded handle. Her palms were slick. Not with excitement, but with a cold, greasy sweat that made the metal feel foreign.
    “Give me two minutes,” she told the makeup artist hovering behind her. Her voice sounded thin, like stretched wire. “I need to see him alone before the cameras start.”
    The artist nodded and retreated down the plush hallway.
    Silence settled. Darcie closed her eyes and counted backward from ten. It was a habit from home, from the days when the debt collectors banged on the trailer door. Ten. Nine. Eight.
    The door wasn’t locked.
    It was cracked open just enough to let a slice of golden light spill onto the carpet. And with the light came a sound.
    A low, guttural moan. Followed by a giggle that scraped against Darcie’s eardrums like sandpaper.
    Floy. Her stepsister.
    Darcie’s hand froze. Her brain, usually so good at calculating odds and solving complex equations, stalled. The variable didn’t fit. Her stepsister shouldn’t be in her fiancé Hugh Maxwell’s suite twenty minutes before the ceremony.
    Darcie pushed the door. Just an inch.
    The foyer was lined with mirrors. The reflection hit her with the force of a physical blow.
    Hugh was bent over the edge of the king-sized bed, his back to her. His hands were gripping hips. Floy was underneath him, her head thrown back, the diamond necklace-Darcie’s bridal necklace, the one meant to signify her acceptance into the Maxwell dynasty-glittering obscenely against her neck.
    Darcie didn’t scream.
    She expected to. She expected the hysteria, the tears, the collapse. But instead, a terrifying, arctic calm flooded her veins. It started in her toes and worked its way up, freezing the nausea in her stomach.
    She stepped inside. The thick Persian rug swallowed the sound of her heels.
    “God, Hugh,” Floy gasped. “Faster. Before the hillbilly gets here.”
    “Don’t worry about her,” Hugh grunted. The sound was animalistic. “Once the wedding is over and the trust fund unlocks, I’m dumping that trash on a bus back to West Virginia. Or wherever the hell she came from.”
    “But the land,” Floy teased. “You need the Mayo land deed.”
    “I’ll have it by noon,” Hugh promised.
    Darcie looked to the coffee table.
    There it was. The Prenuptial Agreement. A stack of crisp, white paper that she had signed an hour ago. It was the only thing binding the merger. The only thing that made her valuable to them.
    Beside it lay a silver Zippo lighter.
    She picked it up. The metal was cool against her skin.
    Click.
    The sound of the lid flipping open was as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room.
    On the bed, the motion stopped. Hugh froze. He turned his head slowly, his eyes widening until the whites showed all around.
    “Darcie?” His voice cracked.
    She didn’t look at his face. She looked at him like she looked at a rounding error in a ledger. Something to be corrected.
    “Darcie, wait! Let me explain!”
    He scrambled off the bed, naked and pathetic. He tried to pull the sheet with him, but Floy was clutching it to her chest, screaming.
    Darcie struck the flint.
    The flame was orange and blue, dancing in the draft from the air conditioner. It was beautiful.
    “No!” Hugh shrieked, realizing what Darcie was looking at. “Don’t! That’s a ten-billion-dollar merger!”
    She touched the flame to the corner of the document.
    The paper was high quality. It caught instantly. The fire curled the edges, turning the legal jargon into black ash.
    “Darcie!” Hugh lunged.
    She took a step back, holding the burning pages high. The heat licked at her fingers, stinging, but she didn’t drop it.
    She looked up.
    Directly above her was the smoke detector.
    Darcie stood on her tiptoes, the burning contract acting as a torch. She held it right under the sensor.
    Three. Two. One.
    The alarm didn’t just ring; it screamed. A piercing, electronic wail that vibrated in her teeth. The red strobe lights began to flash, turning the room into a chaotic disco of panic.
    Then came the pop.
    The sprinkler system exploded overhead.
    It wasn’t clean water. It was the stagnant, black sludge that had been sitting in the pipes for years. It erupted in a high-pressure torrent, coating everything in a foul-smelling, oily rain.
    Hugh slipped on the marble floor as he tried to reach her, landing hard on his hip. Floy was shrieking, her hair plastered to her skull with black goo, looking like a drowned rat.
    Darcie dropped the charred remains of the contract into a puddle of sludge.
    The water soaked her veil. It ruined the fifty-thousand-dollar dress. But she didn’t care. She felt clean.
    She turned to the door.
    Outside, the hallway was filling with people. Guests in tuxedos, hotel staff, and-crucially-the paparazzi who had been camping out for the ‘Wedding of the Century.’
    Darcie pulled the door wide open.
    “Help!” she cried out, her voice trembling with a performance worthy of an Oscar. “Please!”
    The cameras flashed. Pop. Pop. Pop.
    They didn’t just see a distressed bride. They saw past her. They saw the naked heir to the Maxwell fortune, covered in black slime, scrambling on the floor with his fiancée’s sister.
    The shutter clicks were a machine gun of humiliation.
    While the mob surged forward, hungry for the scandal, Darcie stepped back.
    She kicked off her satin heels.
    She didn’t run toward the elevators. She turned toward the heavy fire exit door.
    As the chaos consumed the suite behind her, Darcie slipped into the concrete stairwell, the cold air hitting her wet skin. She was shivering, but her heart was beating a steady, rhythmic drum.
    She started to run down the stairs, leaving the ashes of a million dollars behind her.

    Married To My Ex-Fiancé’s Silent Uncle Chapter 2

    The conference room at Maxwell Industries smelled of stale coffee and fear.
    Gwendolyn Maxwell, Hugh’s mother, slammed her iPad onto the mahogany table. The screen cracked, a spiderweb fracture splitting the image of Hugh’s naked, sludge-covered backside.
    “Do you have any idea,” she hissed, her voice trembling with a rage that made the veins in her neck bulge, “what this has done to us?”
    On the wall, the giant monitor displayed the real-time stock ticker. MDI—Maxwell Defense Industries—was in freefall. A red line plunging straight down.
    MaxwellMeltdown was the number one trend on Twitter.
    “It’s a catastrophe,” Preston, Hugh’s father, moaned. He was wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “Just let him marry Floy! She’s a Mayo. The contract says a Mayo.”
    Mr. Sterling, the family’s chief legal counsel, pushed his glasses up his nose. He looked like an undertaker who was tired of the bodies.
    “The contract specifies a legitimate Mayo heir,” Sterling said, his voice dry. “Floy is a product of… an affair. The Trust Committee won’t accept her bloodline. The deed to the Appalachian land is in Darcie’s name.”
    “Then find her!” Gwendolyn shrieked. She turned to the head of security. “Where is that hillbilly bitch?”
    The security chief, a man who looked like he chewed rocks for breakfast, looked down at his boots. “She’s gone, Mrs. Maxwell. She dumped her phone in a trash can on 5th Avenue. No credit card activity. She vanished.”
    Gwendolyn’s phone buzzed. She looked at the caller ID-Senator Valentine-and paled.
    “The Senator,” she whispered. “If we lose his backing because of this scandal…”
    The door burst open.
    Hugh stumbled in. He was wearing a bathrobe, and his skin was scrubbed raw, but he still smelled faintly of stagnant water.
    Gwendolyn didn’t hesitate. She walked over and slapped him.
    The sound echoed like a gunshot.
    “You idiot!”
    “It was Darcie!” Hugh whined, clutching his cheek. “She’s crazy! She burned the prenup! She set me up!”
    “If we don’t have a marriage certificate by midnight,” Sterling interrupted, checking his watch, “the bank freezes thirty percent of our liquidity. That’s payroll. That’s the defense contracts. That’s everything.”
    “Find her,” Gwendolyn ordered, her eyes cold and reptilian. “Turn New York upside down. Hire every PI in the city. Drag her back here by her hair if you have to.”
    While they were scouring the city, Darcie was less than a mile away.
    She was sitting in the back of a catering truck, wrapped in a stolen oversized gray jumpsuit that smelled of onions.
    She hadn’t run away. Running away requires money, and she had none. Running away meant going back to the trailer park, where her stepmother would sell her to the next highest bidder to cover her gambling debts.
    No. She needed a solution.
    The truck rumbled through the service gates of the Maxwell Estate. The guards waved it through. They were looking for a crying bride in a white dress, not a delivery boy in a cap.
    Darcie slipped out near the kitchens and moved through the shadows of the garden. She knew this house. She had spent the last six months here, being groomed, being measured, being ignored.
    She knew where the blind spots were.
    Darcie shimmied through a loose window into the library. The room was massive, two stories of books that nobody in this family ever read.
    She went straight to the antique desk in the corner.
    Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. “Calm down,” she told herself. “Do the math. What are the variables?”
    She ran her fingers along the underside of the heavy mahogany desktop, searching not for a keyhole, but for a seam. She had seen old Alfred, the butler, access it once, his movements too precise for a simple lock. Her fingertips found it-a nearly invisible biometric panel.
    Her breath hitched. They wouldn’t make it easy. She pressed her thumb to the scanner. Access Denied. Of course. It was keyed to a Maxwell.
    But next to it was a keypad, a failsafe. A twelve-digit code. Her mind raced. Not random numbers. A pattern. It had to be a pattern. She thought of the company’s founding date, the stock ticker symbol converted to ASCII, the launch dates of their most famous missile systems. She closed her eyes, visualizing the numbers as constellations. It was a prime number sequence, interwoven with the Fibonacci spiral. A beautiful, elegant equation hidden in plain sight.
    Her fingers flew across the keypad. The final digit was pressed.
    A soft, electronic click echoed in the silence.
    A drawer slid open.
    Inside lay a piece of parchment that smelled of dust and history. The 1920 Maxwell-Mayo Alliance Covenant.
    Her fingers trembled as she unrolled it. She scanned the calligraphy, looking for the clause she had memorized during her “grooming” lessons. Marriage to any direct male heir of the Maxwell bloodline…
    Any. Not just Hugh.
    A cold smile touched her lips. She looked up, through the rain-streaked window, toward the East Wing.
    The East Wing was a mausoleum. Dark. Silent. It was where they kept him.
    Fleet Maxwell.
    Hugh’s uncle. The legend. The war hero. The man who had built this company into an empire before a helicopter crash turned him into a vegetable. Or so they said.
    The library door handle turned.
    Darcie dove behind the heavy velvet curtains, holding her breath until her lungs burned.
    The butler Alfred shuffled in. He picked up a remote and turned on the TV.
    “Breaking News,” the anchor announced. Gwendolyn’s face filled the screen. She looked devastated. Fake tears shimmered in her eyes.
    “We are so worried about Darcie,” she sobbed. “She has been under so much stress. We just want her home safe.”
    Liar. Darcie thought.
    She dug her fingernails into her palms until the skin broke. The sharp pain grounded her.
    Alfred sighed, turned off the lights, and shuffled out.
    Darcie stepped out of the darkness.
    She wasn’t the victim anymore. She wasn’t the poor girl from the mountains who should be grateful for scraps.
    She looked at the contract in her hand.
    She was going to burn their house down. And she was going to use their own laws to do it.

    Married To My Ex-Fiancé’s Silent Uncle Chapter 3

    The main doors of the Maxwell manor flew open, banging against the stone walls with a violence that made the crystal chandelier tremble.
    Rain and wind swept into the grand foyer.
    Darcie stood on the threshold. Her hair was plastered to her skull, the gray jumpsuit was soaked, and she was shivering. But she didn’t look down.
    She looked straight at them.
    The family was gathered in the living room like a coven of vultures. Gwendolyn, Hugh, Preston, and Mr. Sterling. They’d all gotten Darcie’s message and must have sped home without a second thought.
    “You!” Hugh roared. He lunged across the room. “You bitch! You have the nerve to come back?”
    “Stop!” she shouted.
    Darcie held up the parchment.
    “One step closer, Hugh, and she rips this original document in half. The ink is a hundred years old. It will crumble.”
    Hugh froze.
    Mr. Sterling stood up, his eyes narrowing. “Hugh, stand down.”
    Gwendolyn stepped forward, her heels clicking on the marble. “What do you want, Darcie? Money? An apology? We can write a check.”
    Darcie walked to the fireplace. The fire was roaring, offering the only warmth in this cold, hateful house. She stood with her back to it, using it as a shield.
    “I want to fulfill the contract,” she said. Her voice was steady, surprising even her.
    Hugh let out a bark of laughter. “I knew it. You can’t walk away from the money. You’re just a greedy little hillbilly.”
    “Not with you,” she said softly.
    The silence that followed was heavy.
    Darcie looked at Sterling. “The covenant says ‘direct male heir.’ It doesn’t specify which generation.”
    Sterling’s face went slack. He looked from Darcie to the document, his legal mind racing.
    “Fleet Maxwell is a direct heir,” Darcie said. “In fact, as the former CEO and Hugh’s uncle, his claim supersedes Hugh’s.”
    “You’re insane,” Gwendolyn spat. “Fleet is a vegetable! He’s brain dead! He can’t consent to marriage!”
    “Actually,” Sterling interrupted. His voice was quiet, calculating. He pulled out his tablet. “Under the state’s conservatorship laws… if the marriage is deemed in the ‘best interest of the estate’ and the patient… a legal proxy can sign.”
    “Best interest?” Gwendolyn screeched. “How is marrying this… this gold-digger in his best interest?”
    “The stock,” Darcie said.
    Everyone looked at her.
    “The stock is tanking because of a sex scandal,” Darcie explained, channeling every ounce of math-brain she had. “Imagine the headline tomorrow: ‘Devoted Bride Stands by Family Hero.’ ‘Darcie Mayo Marries Comatose War Hero to Honor Alliance.’ It’s romantic. It’s tragic. It cleans up Hugh’s mess instantly.”
    Sterling looked at the stock ticker on his phone. It was down 40%.
    “She’s right,” Sterling said. “The narrative works. It saves the merger. It saves the liquidity.”
    “I won’t allow it!” Gwendolyn yelled. “Fleet is my responsibility!”
    “And I want to be near him,” Darcie said, forcing a tremor into her voice, playing the part of a lost, desperate girl. “He was always kind to me. It feels… right. To honor the agreement this way.”
    “Absolutely not,” Gwendolyn said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
    Darcie let the parchment drift closer to the fire, the heat curling its ancient edge.
    “Gwendolyn, stop,” Sterling commanded, seeing the bigger picture. “We need to control this. If she marries Fleet, we contain the damage. For this to be legally binding and satisfy the trust, she would require proxy rights. Medical power of attorney would be a necessary component to legitimize her role as caregiver and seal the PR narrative. We give her a cage, but it’s a gilded one we control.”
    He looked at Darcie. “We’ll grant you residency in the East Wing and the necessary legal authority. In return, you save this family from ruin.”
    Darcie looked down, hiding her triumphant smirk. She let a tear roll down her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I just want to take care of him.”
    “Fine,” Gwendolyn hissed through gritted teeth. “Marry the corpse. See if I care. Sterling, when he dies, the contract is fulfilled, we keep the land, and she gets nothing. Make sure that’s ironclad.”
    Hugh looked at Darcie, disgust curling his lip. “So what do I call you now? Auntie?”
    Darcie gave him a razor-sharp smile. “Not yet, nephew. But soon.”
    Sterling was already typing on his tablet. “The chaplain is on his way. We’ll do it in the East Wing ICU. Thirty minutes.”
    Darcie turned to look out the window, hiding the trembling in her hands.
    “I’m sorry, Uncle Fleet,” she whispered to the reflection in the glass. “But I need you.”

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  • 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.

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    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.

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  • His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable by Decaf Demon

    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable by Decaf Demon
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    For four years, I played the part of the perfect, pathetic wife to my billionaire husband, Damian Nunez. Bleeding from a gunshot wound I took to secure a multi-billion-dollar deal for his company, I dragged myself to our penthouse, ready to finally end the charade.

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    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable Chapter 1 Divorce, leaving with nothing

    June’s brutal sun blazed down, warping the New York City skyline in a haze of sweltering heat.
    Gabriella stepped out of the corporate skyscraper, her clothes streaked with drying blood. She stared down at the signed partnership contract in her hand, a bitter smile tugging at her delicate, porcelain features.
    She’d taken a bullet to lock this deal down.
    And it would be the last thing she ever did for Damian Nunez.
    Damian had chased her relentlessly for three years. They’d been married for one, until he’d looked her dead in the eye and said he was bored of her. At first, she’d screamed, fought, sobbed-only to be met with his cold, cutting mockery. “Gabriella, you look hideous right now. You make me sick. Let’s get a divorce.”
    She’d found out later it was never just boredom. He’d met his so-called soulmate.
    He hadn’t set foot in their Tribeca penthouse in two months, not since the day he’d first mentioned divorce.
    There was no point in dragging this out any longer.
    Gabriella changed out of her bloodied clothes, hailed a yellow cab, and rode straight to Damian’s downtown Manhattan headquarters. She took the private elevator directly to the top-floor executive suite, and before she could reach the office door, a soft, breathy female voice froze her to the spot, drifting through the crack in the heavy oak door.
    “Damian, stop it… you’re gonna make my lips swell.”
    A sharp, searing pain seized Gabriella’s chest.
    To force herself to let go completely, she pushed the half-open door and stepped inside.
    The lavish, sprawling office came into view. Hayleigh Blair was perched in Damian’s lap, face flushed, lips swollen and marked, clear evidence of what they’d been doing only moments before.
    The biological daughter of the Blair family that had taken Gabriella in-the same woman who’d always claimed this marriage was meant to be hers.
    When she saw Gabriella walk in, panic flashed across her young face, and she scrambled off Damian’s lap. “Sis, I-“
    Gabriella didn’t spare her a single glance. She walked straight to the solid mahogany desk, set down the signed partnership contract, and laid a divorce agreement on top of it.
    Only then did she look up at the man across from her: Damian Nunez, the wealthiest man in New York City. He wore a tailored black dress shirt and slacks, exuding lazy old-money elegance, his features sharp and devastatingly handsome. Beneath his dark, swept-back hair, his face twisted into cold disgust as he stared at her-a look that sent a stabbing pain straight through her chest.
    “The corporate partnership is locked down. Fully executed contract,” she said, her voice eerily calm, as if this marriage meant nothing to her at all. “Beneath it is the divorce agreement. I’ve already signed it. It’s 2 PM. We’re going to the courthouse to finalize this today.”
    Only the deathly pallor of her face, and the way her thin, fragile frame swayed unsteadily on her feet, gave away the agony she was in.
    A flicker of surprise crossed Damian’s face, quickly replaced by his usual icy contempt. “Color me impressed, Gabriella. Half the firms on Wall Street couldn’t close this deal, and you locked it down. I’m curious-how exactly did you get this over the line?”
    His low, drawling voice dripped with disdain, as if he was already certain she’d used underhanded means to secure the contract.
    Gabriella’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her gaze dropping for a split second to hide the raw pain in her eyes. She let out a cold, hollow laugh. “You only care about the end result, don’t you, Mr. Nunez? Why do you care about the process? Are you gonna sign the divorce papers, or not?”
    Hayleigh looked up at Damian anxiously, voice tight and pleading. “Damian, you promised you’d marry me. This marriage was never meant to be hers in the first place-it was mine. I’m back now, and you have to keep your promise.”
    Damian lifted a hand, brushing his fingers gently over her soft cheek, before glancing at Gabriella, expression dark and unreadable. “Marry you? Of course I will. I’m gonna finalize the divorce with this woman right now.”
    The tenderness in his eyes as he looked at Hayleigh cut through Gabriella’s chest like a knife. In that moment, she realized with a sickening jolt that Damian had never looked at her with that much softness. Not once in all their years together.
    “Damian, I knew you’d always choose me,” Hayleigh cooed, snuggling happily into his chest, shooting Gabriella a triumphant, challenging smirk over his shoulder.
    Gabriella dropped her gaze to the floor, refusing to look at the sight shattering her heart. She could barely tell if the searing pain was from the bullet wound in her side, or the one that had just split open her chest.
    Damian picked up the divorce agreement, flipping through the pages until he landed on the clause Gabriella had amended. His pupils constricted violently, voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly rumble. “You’re waiving every single right to the Nunez family fortune? You’re walking away with nothing? A clean break?”
    Gabriella forced the words out through gritted teeth, voice hoarse and broken. “If we’re getting a divorce, we’re cutting ties completely. I want nothing from you.”
    Once she’d made up her mind, she never turned back.
    Four years. Her four years with him were over. It was time to leave, for good.
    Damian’s handsome face shifted, a storm of conflicting emotions raging in his deep eyes, disdain plain to see. “That’s so you, Gabriella. You always have to be this ruthless with everything. Let’s go. The courthouse.”

    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable Chapter 2 She was shot in a calculated attack

    A bitter smile tugged at Gabriella’s lips. So this was what she’d always been to him.
    An hour later, Gabriella and Damian Nunez stepped out of the New York City Civil Courthouse, each holding a finalized divorce decree in their hand.
    Hayleigh Blair waited eagerly by the curb, eyes lighting up the second she saw the divorce papers in Damian’s hand. She’d finally earned the right to be Damian Nunez’s wife, fair and square.
    She put on a fake look of concern as she glanced at Gabriella. Something had shifted in the woman-her striking features were even more captivating now, but there was a cold, unapproachable edge to her that made it hard to meet her eye.
    Hayleigh had always been jealous of that face. Now, she’d never have to look at it again.
    “The family doesn’t want you anymore, and you walked away with nothing,” Hayleigh simpered, voice sickly sweet. “Do you even have anywhere to go?”
    In her eyes, Gabriella was nothing but a backwoods hick from the Ohio Rust Belt. It had been a blessing for her to even be tied to the Blair household, and now that blessing was gone.
    Gabriella let out a cold, humorless laugh. Even now, Hayleigh was still pretending to care about her.
    Memories flashed through her mind, sharp and unforgiving: when the Blairs found out she’d been switched at birth, they’d shipped her off to live with distant relatives in the Rust Belt the second she was born, never checking in, never caring. They’d only brought her back to New York when she turned 18-the same year she’d met Damian Nunez.
    Hayleigh, the Blairs’ real daughter, had been found two years prior, immediately sent to an elite private boarding school in Switzerland, all to make her worthy of old-money heir Damian Nunez.
    It wasn’t until Hayleigh returned to New York for good that Gabriella learned the truth: the family had found their real daughter, and they wanted nothing to do with her anymore.
    They’d never raised her. Cutting ties meant nothing to her. She’d only come back to New York to find out what had happened to her birth parents.
    She’d also finally learned why she’d been sent away in the first place: she was never a Blair, not by blood.
    And just a few days prior, she’d overheard Damian’s friends talking, and learned the truth: Damian had met the sweet, innocent Hayleigh on a business trip to Europe, and fallen head over heels at first sight. When Hayleigh came back to New York, they’d fallen into a whirlwind romance.
    Hayleigh had even sent Gabriella explicit photos of her and Damian in bed, over and over, just to taunt her, to humiliate her.
    A homewrecker, bold and unapologetic to the extreme.
    Gabriella shot her a single, indifferent glance. “Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Blair. Where I go is none of your business.”
    She didn’t spare Damian a single look. Spine perfectly straight, she hailed a yellow cab on the side of the road and climbed inside, the door slamming shut behind her.
    She’d walked away so decisively because she knew the other terrible thing Damian had done.
    Damian’s hand tightened around the divorce decree until his knuckles turned white, veins bulging in his forearm. She’d left without even glancing at him. Not once.
    But why had her gait been so off? So strange?
    He stared at the cab as it disappeared into New York traffic, gaze fixed on the empty road long after it was gone, unable to look away.
    “Damian, this is perfect!” Hayleigh gushed, clinging to his arm. “That backwoods hick is finally gone, and we can be together, properly, for everyone to see.”
    She was so overjoyed, she could barely wait to call her parents and tell them the good news.
    A cold glint flashed through Damian’s eyes, but his voice was soft and tender when he spoke. “Hayleigh, let me drive you home.”
    “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Hayleigh beamed. “Daddy will be so happy when he hears you’re divorced. Let’s go home and tell him the good news right now!”
    Damian’s eyes swirled with barely restrained emotion, unreadable to anyone but himself. He looked down at the sweet, innocent young woman in front of him, and smiled a soft, gentle smile. “Of course, Hayleigh. Let’s go tell your father right now.”
    “Yes!” Hayleigh was ecstatic. She’d finally gotten rid of Gabriella for good. Gone completely. It was all thanks to her mother’s flawless plan, the one that had gotten Damian and Gabriella divorced once and for all.
    Damian pulled the car to a stop in front of the Blair family’s grand Upper East Side townhouse. His phone buzzed in his pocket, caller ID flashing the CEO of H.Y. Holdings. He told Hayleigh to get out of the car and wait for him inside.
    Hayleigh nodded obediently, climbing out and waiting on the front steps.
    “Hello?” Damian answered, voice low and gravelly, features sharp and cold.
    A mocking, yet deeply impressed voice came through the line. “Well, well. Your sales director’s got some real nerve. Showed up at my warehouse with a knife to my throat, made me sign that damn contract. I put a bullet in her side, and she dug that slug out with her bare hands right in front of me. I’ve never admired a woman in my life, but your Gabriella? She’s the one. She still breathing?”
    Damian’s pupils constricted violently, his blood turning to ice in his veins. “What did you just say?”

    His Abandoned Wife, Now Untouchable Chapter 3 Left, picked up by a luxury car

    Damian hung up the phone, knuckles white around the device, and immediately dialed his executive assistant’s number.
    “Where is Gabriella Blair?”
    “Mr. Nunez, Miss Blair stopped by the estate briefly earlier. She grabbed a single suitcase and left.”
    Damian had known she would leave, but he’d never imagined she’d vanish this fast. Shot, and with nowhere to go?
    “Did she say where she was going?”
    “No, sir. But Director Blair was picked up by a multi-million dollar luxury vehicle. A man was behind the wheel-handsome, clearly extremely wealthy.”
    A sheet of ice instantly descended over Damian’s dark eyes. He slowly set the phone down on his desk, face schooled into a mask of casual indifference, even as rage and venom coiled tight in his chest.
    Divorced for less than a day, and she’s already being chauffeured around by some rich bastard. She never loved me at all, did she? That’s why she betrayed me without a second thought.
    Gabriella, you’re really something.
    Gabriella had been picked up by her older brother, Andrew Carlisle, and driven straight to Carlisle Manor-the Carlisle Foundation’s palatial, heavily guarded private estate in the heart of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Andrew had been called away on urgent foundation business, leaving her alone in the manor. He had no idea she’d been shot.
    She lay back on the soft, custom-made king-sized bed, staring at the familiar, opulent surroundings of the suite she hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. She couldn’t hold on any longer. Her face was deathly pale, cold sweat beading and dripping down her forehead. The searing pain from the bullet wound in her side, tangled with the crushing heartache in her chest, was unbearable.
    She lay there weak and exhausted, eyes closed, long lashes trembling softly. She couldn’t understand it. How could two people who’d once loved each other so deeply, fall apart so completely, so suddenly?
    Every memory of the past four years with Damian flashed through her mind-the soft, tender look in his eyes that was once only for her, a look that now belonged to someone else forever. The thought sent a searing, tearing pain through her chest.
    It turned out even the most heartfelt vows had an expiration date.
    There was another reason she’d been so determined to finalize the divorce: she was pregnant.
    But Damian had eyes and ears everywhere, his reach endless across Wall Street and Manhattan. She could never, under any circumstances, let him find out about the baby.
    After she’d been shot, she’d dug the bullet out of her own side with her bare hands. She’d refused anesthesia, terrified it would harm the baby growing inside her.
    Her mind drifted to the promise she’d made her grandfather, the head of the Carlisle Foundation, all those years ago. She’d finally made her decision: she would return home, take her rightful place as the sole heir to the Carlisle legacy.
    She had finally let go of this broken relationship for good. It was time to return to where she truly belonged, to step back into her true identity: Gabriella Carlisle.
    One Month Later.
    Early autumn, bright and sun-drenched.
    Gabriella’s wound had fully healed. She stepped out of Carlisle Manor, slipping a pair of oversized designer sunglasses over her eyes. She stared up at the brilliant sunlight, a deep, unbridled smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
    For a month, she’d lain low here, cutting off all contact with the outside world.
    She wore a sharp, tailored crimson blazer, her red lipstick bold and vivid, her smile unruly and free. She climbed into the waiting luxury sedan at the curb, and gave the driver a single instruction: the Nunez Group headquarters. She was going to collect the last of her things from her office.
    At the base of the Nunez Group skyscraper.
    Gabriella pulled open the car door, and came face to face with Damian Nunez, who was just stepping out of the building. Beside him stood Hayleigh Blair, her smile soft and demure, her arm looped through his.
    The tender, loving look in Damian’s eyes as he glanced down at Hayleigh stabbed straight through Gabriella’s chest. Her hand at her side clenched into a tight fist, unbidden.
    Hayleigh’s eyes flicked to Gabriella, a flash of surprise crossing her face-what was she doing back here? But her expression smoothed over instantly, and she shot Gabriella a challenging, triumphant smile. “Blair, long time no see!” she greeted, voice sickly sweet.
    Gabriella ignored her completely.
    Damian looked at Gabriella with a lazy, mocking smirk, his gaze sweeping past her to the multi-million dollar luxury sedan idling behind her. Their eyes locked, and his sharp, penetrating gaze drifted, almost imperceptibly, to her side where the bullet wound had been.
    He let out a cold, sharp laugh, disgust swirling in the depths of his eyes. “You’ve got quite the life, Blair. Took a bullet to the side, and you’re still up and walking around like nothing happened. You’re lucky to be alive.”
    A sharp, searing pain lanced through Gabriella’s chest. The heart he’d broken hadn’t gone numb; it hurt worse than ever, now that he’d said it out loud. “My apologies for not dying and disappointing you,” she said, voice flat and cold. “I’m just here to collect my things from my office, then I’ll be gone.”
    Damian stared at her cold, emotionless gaze, his eyes growing darker, more frigid, more bloodthirsty by the second. “No wonder you walked away with nothing in the divorce, Gabriella. You already had your next sugar daddy lined up, didn’t you? You’re absolutely shameless.”
    The words stabbed into her chest like a knife. Gabriella looked up at his cruel, smirking face, and let out a cold, bitter laugh. “You cheated on your wife while you were still married, Mr. Nunez. What right do you have to call me shameless?”
    She stepped past the two of them, spine perfectly straight, and walked toward the glass doors of the Nunez Group skyscraper.
    Damian’s furious voice boomed out from behind her, sharp and unyielding: “Gabriella! Stop right there!”

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