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Tag: Romance

  • My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God novel by Escritor apalacio

    My

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    I spent the entire afternoon baking a chocolate lava cake to surprise my boyfriend of two years for his birthday.

    But when I quietly unlocked his apartment door, I found him tangled in the sheets with my inseparable best friend.

    They didn’t even scramble apart. Mason just glared at me with pure annoyance, treating me like an unwelcome intruder who had ruined their intimate moment.

    Kennedy shamelessly hid behind his back, wearing his shirt and whimpering that it “just happened.”

    I smashed the birthday cake directly into his cheating face, threw my apartment key at his feet, and ran out into the freezing night.

    Right then, my mom called, cheerfully urging me to hurry up with our wedding plans. Her words were like salt poured into my shattered heart. I had wasted two years of my life on two dogs.

    Crying behind the wheel, I nearly ran over a tall, arrogant stranger walking on the highway in the pouring rain. He was freezing and penniless, so I impulsively brought him back to my apartment for the night.

    The next morning, a frantic pounding echoed through my front door.

    “Harper! Open up! Mom’s here to see you!”

    My mom had made a surprise visit, and she thought I was still happily engaged to Mason.

    Desperate, I grabbed the handsome stranger’s arm.

    “Please, pretend you’re my boyfriend!”

    The penniless man looked at my panicked face and smirked.

    “Fine. But you owe me.”

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    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 1

    HARPER’S POV:
    My hand trembled violently as I pushed the half-open bedroom door wide.
    The scene that met my eyes didn’t just break my heart; it shattered my entire reality into jagged, bleeding pieces.
    They were bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Mason was hovering over her, his broad, muscular back flexing as he moved. His hands—the hands I knew so well, the hands that had held mine just days ago—were gripping Kennedy’s hips with a desperate, hungry possession. Kennedy’s head was thrown back against the pillows, her fingers tangled in his dark hair, her lips swollen and parted as she pulled him down for a deep, lingering kiss. The raw, undeniable heat between them was suffocating.
    My boyfriend. And my best friend. The two people I trusted most in this world, destroying me together.
    A strangled, pathetic gasp escaped my throat.
    Kennedy shrieked, a sharp, panicked sound, violently shoving Mason off her and fumbling to drag the duvet over her bare chest.
    Mason’s head snapped toward me. The heavy-lidded passion on his face instantly curdled into shock. “Harper? What are you doing here?”
    A roaring sound filled my ears, drowning out the world. I stared at the man I had loved for two years, the man I thought I would marry. Then I looked at Kennedy—the girl who was like a sister to me, knew all my secrets.
    A wave of pure, acidic nausea churned in my gut. I couldn’t breathe.
    The walls felt like they were closing in on me. I turned on my heel without a word and stumbled blindly down the hallway.
    I made it to the kitchen, my movements stiff and robotic. My tear-filled eyes landed on the pristine white bakery box sitting on the kitchen island.
    Six hours.
    Just an hour ago, I had been so incredibly happy. I had spent six grueling hours in my kitchen, tossing out a burnt first batch and meticulously tempering dark chocolate for the second, all to create the perfect chocolate lava cake for Mason’s twenty-sixth birthday.
    He had canceled our last three dates, blaming exhausting hockey practices and endless team meetings. Captain’s duties, he had texted, brushing off my disappointment. But I had foolishly told myself today would be different. I just knew he’d carved out this one night for us.
    I had slid my spare key into his apartment door, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm of anticipation. I had slipped inside, quiet as a mouse, whispering a soft “Surprise” to the empty, dim living room.
    But instead of Mason’s boyish smile, I was greeted by an unfamiliar perfume—a rich, intoxicating blend of vanilla and sandalwood. Kennedy’s signature fragrance.
    Then I saw her familiar denim jacket tossed carelessly over the sofa.
    I had tried to rationalize it, telling myself she just dropped off a gift early.
    But then came the soft, breathless moans. The low, gravelly murmurs. The discarded clothes on the floor.
    I had walked into this apartment overflowing with love, only to be suffocated by the stench of their betrayal.
    “Harper, wait!”
    Mason’s voice, laced with panic, snapped me back to the agonizing present.
    He came running out into the kitchen, a towel wrapped hastily around his waist, his chest still heaving. “Harper, listen to me. It’s not what you think.”
    “Not what I think?” A bitter, jagged laugh tore from my throat, scraping my vocal cords. “What is it, then? Were you two practicing your hockey checking techniques in bed?”
    Kennedy appeared in the hallway behind him, clutching one of Mason’s oversized button-down shirts around her trembling frame. Tears streamed down her face, a pathetic picture of fake innocence. “Harper, please… it was an accident! We didn’t mean for this to happen. It just… it was a mistake!”
    “An accident?” I repeated, the sheer audacity of the word leaving a metallic taste of blood in my mouth. My sorrow instantly hardened into blinding, white-hot rage. “You accidentally stripped naked and fell into my boyfriend’s bed?”
    I looked down at the cake box again. Six hours of love, patience, and blind trust. Wasted on a lie.
    Without a second of hesitation, I opened the box, lifted the heavy, perfectly baked pastry, and smashed it directly into Mason’s face.
    Rich, dark chocolate and warm lava filling exploded across his stunned features, splattering onto his bare chest and the hardwood floor. Kennedy let out a horrified gasp, jumping back.
    “Happy birthday, Mason,” I said, my voice as cold and dead as the future I had just lost.
    “We’re done.”
    I didn’t look back. I wrenched the front door open and ran into the night.

    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 2

    HARPER’S POV:
    The biting night air slapped my face, and only then did I realize hot tears were streaming down my cheeks.
    A yellow cab sped past. I waved my hand frantically, but it didn’t even slow down.
    “Harper!”
    Mason’s voice cut through the traffic noise. I turned to see him jogging toward me, wearing nothing but hastily zipped jeans, his bare chest exposed to the freezing wind.
    He reached me, his hand clamping down on my wrist with a tight, bruising grip. “Just let me explain!”
    “Don’t touch me!” I ripped my arm out of his grasp, my nails scraping hard against his skin. “You disgust me.”
    Kennedy hurried up behind him. She was wrapped tightly in that new denim jacket. She looked small, shivering, and utterly pathetic. “Harper, please don’t be like this. Mason, he…”
    “Shut your mouth,” I snarled, every ounce of my polite upbringing vanishing into the cold night. “You don’t get to say my name. Not anymore.”
    A few passersby slowed down, their eyes lingering on the spectacle we were making. I didn’t care. Let them look.
    Mason took a step closer, a flicker of genuine impatience crossing his handsome face. “Is it really necessary to make such a scene out here? We’re adults, Harper.”
    His words sliced into me, a fresh, agonizing wound. “Adults?” I let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “So adults get to screw their girlfriend’s best friend and feel completely justified about it?”
    Kennedy’s face crumpled, and she started to cry. “It was my fault,” she wailed, clutching the collar of the jacket. “I seduced him. Please, don’t blame him, Harper. Blame me.”
    I stared at her, the girl who had held my hair back when I was sick, the girl who knew my deepest fears. The betrayal crashed over me, heavy and suffocating. Her pathetic, self-sacrificing act was laughable. She wasn’t protecting him; she was marking her territory, showing me they were already a team.
    “Save the performance, Kennedy,” I spat, the irony tasting like ash in my mouth. “You two deserve each other.”
    I spun on my heel and walked briskly toward the subway station, desperate to escape the toxic air around them.
    Halfway down the block, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. The screen glowed in the dim streetlights with a single word: Mom.
    My throat instantly tightened. I sank onto a nearby bus stop bench, taking a deep, shuddering breath before answering. I had to keep my voice steady.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    “Honey, are you with Mason?” her cheerful, oblivious voice chirped through the speaker.
    I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
    “I was just calling to ask how the wedding plans are coming along!” she continued. “Your Aunt Susan’s daughter is getting engaged next month, you know. You and Mason need to get a move on!”
    Each word was like coarse salt poured directly into my open, bleeding heart. Just this morning, I had been looking at flights, planning to finally bring Mason home for Thanksgiving to officially meet my parents. I had spent weeks imagining the proud look on my mom’s face when I introduced the man I was going to marry.
    Now, that beautiful future was nothing but a grotesque joke.
    I glanced down the street. Mason and Kennedy were still standing there, watching me from a distance like I was some tragic street-side entertainment.
    A sudden, fierce spark of anger ignited in my chest, burning away the tears. I wouldn’t let them see me break. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching me run away like a defeated victim.
    “Mom, I have to go,” I interrupted, my voice suddenly hard. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    I hung up before she could reply.
    Instead of heading down into the subway, I turned around and marched right back to where they stood.
    Mason looked relieved for a split second, probably thinking I had come back to talk. But I didn’t look at his face. I dug my hand into my purse, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the spare key to his apartment—the one he had given me six months ago, calling it a “milestone.”
    I pulled it out and threw it hard at his feet. It bounced off his shoe and clattered onto the concrete.
    “That’s the last piece of you I’m carrying,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Stay out of my life.”
    Mason stared down at the key, his jaw clenching, his face hardening into an unreadable mask.
    Kennedy opened her mouth, fresh tears welling in her eyes, but I silenced her with a single, icy glare that made her snap her mouth shut.
    I didn’t wait for a response. I turned my back on them for the final time, walked down the stairs into the subway station, and didn’t look back.
    Inside the rattling train car, I leaned my head against the cool, vibrating glass, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. I felt utterly, devastatingly alone.
    With trembling hands, I took out my phone.
    One by one, I deleted every photo of me and Mason. The vacations, the birthdays, the lazy Sunday mornings.
    Then, I went to my albums and deleted every photo of me and Kennedy. Two years of friendship, erased in a matter of minutes.
    When the screen finally showed No Photos, a hollow emptiness settled deep in my chest.
    Two years of my life. Wasted on two dogs.

    My “Broke” Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God Chapter 3

    BECKETT’S POV:
    Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study, the violent storm outside matching the suffocating tension inside.
    I stared at my father, Beckett Montgomery III. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk like a king on his throne, dictating the lives of his subjects.
    “I’ll say it one last time,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, though my jaw was tight enough to crack my teeth. “I am not marrying Victoria Carlisle.”
    He slammed a thick, leather-bound file onto the desk. “This isn’t a request, Beckett. It’s an order! The Carlisle merger secures our controlling stake in the new arena. This is about the family’s future!”
    A surge of pure, unadulterated frustration boiled in my veins. I was so sick of being treated like a pawn in his corporate chess games. “The family’s future, or your business empire?” I shot back. “My marriage is not a bargaining chip for your board meetings.”
    “Everything you have, I gave you!” he roared, his face flushing purple as he pointed a trembling finger at me. “Your status, your contract, that damned ‘C’ on your jersey! Without my influence, you are nothing! You cross me on this, and I’ll make sure you never step foot on the ice again. You can kiss your hockey career goodbye!”
    That hit a nerve. The anger I’d been holding back finally snapped.
    “I earned that ‘C’ with my own blood, sweat, and broken bones!” I yelled, stepping closer to the desk. “You didn’t skate those grueling drills. You didn’t take those hits against the boards. Hockey is mine. You don’t own it, and you sure as hell don’t own me.”
    I met his furious gaze without flinching. “So go ahead. Take it all away.”
    For a second, genuine shock flickered in his cold eyes, quickly replaced by a deeper, vindictive rage. “You think I won’t?”
    He snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed a number. “It’s me. Freeze every credit card, bank account, and trust fund under the name Beckett Montgomery IV. Yes, all of them. Effective immediately.”
    He hung up and stared at me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “As of now, you are disowned. Let’s see how long you survive in the real world without the Montgomery name.”
    I expected to feel panic. Instead, a heavy weight lifted off my chest. I felt no fear. Only a fierce, burning relief. “Suits me just fine.”
    I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, the heavy oak doors shutting behind me with a final thud.
    In the grand foyer, our longtime butler, Thomas, tried to stop me. He held out a set of keys, his eyes full of worry. “Mr. Beckett, please. It’s pouring outside. At least take the car…”
    I reached out instinctively, but then I stopped. A bitter, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Oh, right. He bought the car, too.” I shook my head and tossed the keys back to Thomas. “Whatever. He can have it all back.”
    I shrugged off the suffocating, custom-tailored suit jacket I was wearing, letting it drop carelessly to the pristine marble floor. Dressed in just a thin white dress shirt and trousers, I pushed open the front doors and walked out into the raging storm.
    The freezing rain soaked me instantly, plastering my shirt to my skin, but as I walked down the long, winding driveway of the estate, leaving the golden cage behind, I felt freer than I had in years.
    I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just needed to put as much distance between me and that house as possible.
    I kept walking along the shoulder of the dark highway, the rain blurring my vision. Cars sped past, their tires splashing icy, muddy water onto my already freezing body.
    My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Gino, my teammate. I ignored it. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to walk.
    But after two miles, the adrenaline began to wear off. I was soaked to the bone, shivering violently, and my stomach growled with a hollow ache. A sharp sliver of regret pricked at my frozen skin. 
    Damn it. Maybe I should have kept the jacket. Or at least called an Uber before he cut off my phone plan. Pride was a warm concept, but it did absolutely nothing against a torrential downpour.
    Just as I was cursing my own impulsiveness, blinding headlights washed over me from behind.
    A piercing screech of tires on wet asphalt ripped through the night. The car fishtailed, sliding wildly before slamming to a halt mere inches from my legs. I could feel the aggressive heat radiating from its engine.
    Before I could even process how close I had just come to getting run over, the driver’s door flew open, and a woman stormed out into the pouring rain.
    “Are you insane?” she screamed, her voice cutting through the thunder. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
    I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the harsh glare of the headlights. Through the heavy downpour, I saw a small, furious figure marching toward me.

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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

  • The Ex Wife’s Revenge novel by NovaBlaq

    The Ex Wife's Revenge novel by NovaBlaq

    👉 READ NOW

    My ex-husband’s mother never hid her contempt for me.
    She thought money could erase my existence and paid me five million to walk away from her son.
    “You’re beneath my son. Take the money and leave him.”
    She had no idea I was already sick of her cruelty. And even sicker of her spineless son.
    I accepted the money. Utterly devastated, of course.
    ~~~
    A month later, she was furious because I was dating her brother.
    “Ten million. Leave my brother alone.”
    I refused, intentionally trying to provoke her.
    She offered me twenty million this time and I accepted her offer.
    But she had no idea what I had in store for her. She had no idea what she started.

    👉 READ NOW

    The Ex Wife’s Revenge novel Chapter 1

    Nadia’s POV:
    Today was my husband, Dorian’s twenty-third birthday.
    It should have been a happy day. But it wasn’t. Happy days didn’t really exist inside the Hargrove mansion… at least not for me, anyway.
    I woke up early. The morning sun came through the curtains and landed on my face, and for one single second, before I was fully awake, I thought: today might be different. Then I heard the voices outside my bedroom door and I remembered where I was and who I was married to and nothing was different at all.
    It was barely past seven when the stylists arrived.
    Vivienne had sent them. She always sent them before any Hargrove event, because she didn’t trust me to dress myself. I’m not sure she trusted me to do anything, if I’m honest. Except breathe, maybe. And even then she was probably watching to make sure I did it correctly.
    I was sitting at my vanity in my robe when the bedroom door opened without a knock. Three women walked in, carrying bags and cases. Vivienne walked in behind them. She was already dressed. She stopped in the center of the room and looked at me. She didn’t say good morning.
    She just looked at my hair.
    “Careful with her hair,” she said, to the stylist. “It’s a bit thin, isn’t it?” She tilted her head slightly, as if she were studying a problem that needed solving. “Add extensions. Lots of them. I won’t have her walking around today looking like a peasant. My son is turning twenty-three. This party matters. I won’t have guests thinking I let him marry a woman who can’t even grow a decent head of hair.”
    The stylist nodded. She didn’t argue. She just agreed, which was what everyone did around Vivienne.
    “Yes, Mrs. Hargrove. I see exactly what you mean. We’ll fix it.”
    I looked at my own reflection in the mirror and said nothing.
    What was there to say? I had learned, a long time ago, that saying anything only made it worse. Silence was my armor.
    I sat in that chair for four hours.
    My neck ached from holding still. My head felt heavy from all the pins and clips they were pressing into my scalp. Every time I opened my mouth to say anything… even something harmless, like asking for a glass of water… Vivienne found a way to cut me off.
    “Don’t move your mouth, Nadia,” she said at one point. “The lipstick needs to be set perfectly. If you keep moving, we’ll have to start over. And we don’t have time to start over.”
    Then she looked at my waist in the mirror. She pressed her lips together.
    “That dress,” she said. “Well. It’s the best we could do, given your figure. It’s a shame you haven’t managed to lose that extra weight I mentioned to you in August. The silk is pulling at the waist. It makes you look…” She paused, as if searching for a word that was just polite enough to say out loud. “…fat and desperate. But then, I suppose that’s always been your problem. You’ve always tried a little too hard to belong in spaces that weren’t built for you.”
    I stared at my reflection. There was absolutely nothing wrong with my figure.
    The woman looking back at me looked expensive. Her hair was thick and glossy, her makeup was flawless, her dress was simple but elegant. She looked like she belonged at an event like this.
    But her eyes were empty. She looked like a doll that had been dressed by someone else.
    I didn’t recognize her at all. I didn’t recognize myself anymore.
    ~~~
    The party began at noon.
    The Hargrove garden had been decorated beautifully. The tables were covered in white linen and flowers that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Servers in white jackets moved between the guests, offering champagne and tiny food arranged on silver trays.
    It was beautiful. Everything about the Hargrove world was beautiful. That was the worst part of it.
    I moved through the crowd slowly, holding a small box wrapped in gold paper. Inside was a watch, a vintage one I had spent three weeks searching for. I heard Dorian mentioning it once, almost a year ago. I remembered because I always paid attention to him more than he ever paid attention to me. I had thought it would mean something to him. I had thought that maybe, on his birthday, he might actually pay attention to me a little bit.
    I found him near the fountain.
    He looked good. He always looked good. His tuxedo was perfectly fitted. I walked up to him and touched his arm.
    “Dorian,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I intended. “Happy birthday, honey. I got you something. I spent a long time finding it. I thought maybe we could find a quiet corner for a minute so you could open it?”
    He didn’t look at the box. He didn’t look at me. His eyes were scanning the crowd over my shoulder, searching for someone or something more important.
    “Not now, Nadia.” He said. “Don’t try making today all about you please.”
    “But it’s your birthday. I just…”
    “I said not now.” His voice was firm. “My mother is standing in the sun. She might get a headache. I need to bring her a drink before she asks me twice. Just put the gift on the table with the other ones.”
    I looked at him, and tried to keep my voice even.
    “Dorian, there are over fifteen people here in white jackets whose entire job tonight is to carry drinks. Can’t you stay here for one minute? It’s your birthday. I just want to give you your gift.”
    His face tightened.
    “Don’t be selfish,” he said. He lowered his voice, not because he was worried about hurting my feelings, but because he didn’t want to create a scene. “She’s my mother, Nadia. Now stop making this about yourself and move out of the way. You’re blocking the path.”
    He walked right past me.
    He didn’t even brush my shoulder. He just stepped around me like I was a potted plant.
    I stood there with the gold box in my hands, and I breathed. In, out. In, out. I had gotten very good at breathing through moments like this. It was either that or cry, and I refused to give this garden the satisfaction of seeing my tears.
    I turned around to go find somewhere to sit, and that’s when I saw her.
    Lena was standing about ten feet away, right where Dorian was heading. She was tall, with cheekbones. She had been introduced to Dorian by Vivienne a few months ago… a model from a good family, Vivienne had said, as if she were presenting a business proposal. I smiled at that introduction. Because I knew exactly what she was trying to do.
    Lena was laughing at something now, her head thrown back, her hand reaching out to touch Dorian’s arm. He was laughing back. He looked alive in a way I hadn’t seen in three years of being married to him.
    Something moved through my chest. And I walked over to them.
    I wasn’t going to stand in the shadows and watch my husband laugh with another woman at his birthday party. I wrapped my arm through Dorian’s and stepped in close. I made sure my wedding ring was visible.
    “There you are, honey,” I said. My voice was softer than I expected. “I was starting to wonder where you disappeared to.” I turned to look at Lena, still smiling. “Oh, hello, Lena right? I didn’t see you standing there. You look very… shiny today.”
    Lena looked at me like I was a bug on her shoe. Then she smiled and tilted her head.
    “Nadia. How sweet. I was just telling Dorian how great he looks.” She glanced at me from head to toe. “Some people just keep improving, don’t they? And others just… stay the same.”
    Before I could respond, a woman I didn’t know appeared at my elbow. She was older, elegantly dressed, and she was looking at my dress with a genuine smile.
    “Oh, my dear,” she said to me. “What a stunning color. That shade of blue is absolutely beautiful on you. Is it a designer piece?”
    I opened my mouth. But suddenly, Vivienne materialized from the left.
    I didn’t see her coming. She looked at my dress and then looked at the guest with a fake smile.
    “This old thing?” Vivienne said, touching the fabric of my sleeve with one finger, as though checking it for stains. “It’s a sweet little dress, isn’t it? We had it pulled together quickly. Nadia doesn’t really have a strong eye for fashion. She tends to gravitate toward things that look expensive but aren’t, if you know what I mean.” She laughed softly. “It’s difficult to teach taste to someone who didn’t grow up surrounded by it. Some women are just born with the instinct, and others have to try much harder and still don’t quite get there. Don’t you think, Lena?”
    Lena covered her mouth with her manicured hand. She made a sound that was supposed to be a polite laugh.
    “Absolutely,” Lena said. “Fashion is practically a language. You’re either fluent or you’re not.”
    The woman who had complimented me looked slightly uncomfortable. She glanced between me and Vivienne and said nothing else.
    I felt heat rise in my face, then I looked at Dorian.
    I waited for him to say something. To tell his mother to stop. To defend me, even once. To say: that’s my wife you’re talking about.
    Instead , he looked at the ground. Like he had nothing to say.
    I took a sip of my wine. “Actually, Vivienne,” I said. My voice was calm. I kept my smile exactly where it was. “Dorian chose this dress for me. He picked it himself. He told me it was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in years.” I looked at her steadily. “So if you think the dress has no taste, perhaps the conversation you need to have is with your son. He might be the one with the fashion problem.”
    The silence that followed was deafening.
    The guest looked down at her champagne. Lena’s mouth fell open. Vivienne’s expression didn’t change exactly, but something in her eyes shifted. She went very still.
    Then I felt a hand on my arm.
    Dorian.
    He grabbed me just above the elbow, his fingers pressing hard into my arm. He didn’t pull me away properly because that would have been too visible. He just gripped me and leaned in, his face still arranged into a pleasant expression for anyone watching from a distance.
    “What is wrong with you?” he said against my ear. His voice was low and firm. “Do not talk to my mother like that. Do you understand me? This is her event. These are her guests. You do not embarrass her in front of them. Not tonight. Not ever.”
    I kept my eyes forward. I kept my smile in place.
    “She basically called me a peasant this morning, Dorian,” I said, very quietly. “In front of the stylists. She said the dress makes me look fat and desperate. I have been sitting and smiling through this all day.”
    “She’s trying to help you.”
    “That’s not helping.” My voice was still quiet but my jaw was tight. “She is cruel. And you stand next to her every time and say nothing. You have never once…”
    “Because she’s right!” he snapped. The words were out before he could take them back. He pressed his lips together. “She knows how this world works. You don’t. And instead of being grateful that she tries to show you, you stand here and make scenes and make me look like I can’t control my own household. Now you will smile, you will say nothing else, and at the end of the night you will apologize to her. Are we clear?”
    He let go of my arm.
    I looked down. There were red marks where his fingers had been.
    I didn’t say anything because I didn’t trust my voice.
    From across the garden, I heard my father in law, Richard’s voice cut through the music and the crowd noise.
    He was standing near the oak trees, at the head of a large table surrounded by men in dark suits. Richard himself was tall and broad, he was the kind of man who had never once in his life needed to raise his voice to be heard.
    He raised his glass.
    “A toast,” he said. “To my son, Dorian. Twenty-three years ago he arrived in this world, and I’m pleased to know that he’s become such a fine young man.” He smiled. “He has a great deal still to learn, about business and about life. But he is a Hargrove. And that means he will always have the best of everything.”
    The garden erupted.
    “To Dorian!”
    Everyone cheered. Everyone raised their glasses. I raised mine too, because I was very good at doing what was expected of me.
    Richard didn’t join the cheering, he didn’t immediately sit back down also. He stood for a moment, the glass still in his hand, and his eyes moved across the garden like he was searching for something.
    They moved past Past the fountain and the people who had come to celebrate his son.
    They landed on me.
    It lasted less than two seconds. He didn’t look at me with hate, or with contempt like the others did. His eyes were warm. It was the only warmth I had felt all day. Then, just as quickly as it happened, he moved his gaze away and went back to his business partners, raising his glass again to the men at his table.
    I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
    ~~~
    I walked to the gift table.
    I set the gold box down at the end of the row. It landed among the huge, perfectly wrapped gifts from jewelers and designers and the kinds of people who bought presents as statements. My box looked small and lonely. Just like me.
    Nobody would know that it was from me. Nobody would care.
    “I’m sick of this,” I said quietly, to nobody. My voice was barely a whisper. “I am so sick of all of you.”
    I turned around and looked at the party. I looked at Vivienne, who was standing with Lena’s mother now, deep in a conversation, probably planning a wedding that didn’t include me. I looked at Lena, who was at Dorian’s side again, her hand on his arm, her laugh rising above the music.
    Then I looked at Dorian.
    He was laughing. He was having, by all appearances, a wonderful birthday.
    I had given him three years. Three years of my life. I had given up the one thing I loved doing because his mother said it was beneath the family name. I had given up the friends who made me feel like myself because they didn’t fit the Hargrove social calendar. I had given up the person I was before I walked into this garden for the first time, on Dorian’s arm, believing that love was enough to make a life.
    It wasn’t enough. It had never been enough. It wasn’t even love anymore, if I was honest. I had no idea what we were doing anymore.
    I took a fresh glass of wine from a passing server.
    I didn’t care if Vivienne saw me drinking. I didn’t care if Dorian decided to grip my arm again. I stood in the middle of the beautiful, glittering Hargrove garden and I drank my wine and I watched the trees.
    They were beautiful. Everything here was beautiful. But it was so easy to mistake beautiful for good. It was so easy to look at marble and crystal and think: this must be a place where people are happy.
    I looked at Richard one more time. He was deep in conversation with one of his business partners, gesturing with his champagne glass. He didn’t look my way again.
    But he was the only one who had looked at me like I was a person.
    “Happy birthday, Dorian,” I said, under my breath.
    The party was supposed to run until 4pm. It was barely three o’clock.
    I had one more hour of standing up straight and holding my glass correctly and laughing at the right moments.
    I could do it for one hour.
    I had done it for three years. What’s one hour compared to that?

    The Ex Wife’s Revenge novel Chapter 2

    Nadia’s POV:
    The party ended around 4pm. The last of the expensive cars drifted down the long driveway and disappeared through the gates. The garden was suddenly quiet… just the sound of the catering staff collecting glasses and folding linens. I watched it all from the edge of the terrace, my heels in my hand because my feet ached too much to keep them on.
    My head was heavy. The extensions Vivienne had forced on me that morning were still pinned into my scalp, and the weight of them had been pressing down on me all day. I wanted nothing more than to reach my bedroom, pull every single pin out, and cry into a pillow until there was nothing left.
    I was already on my way there. I had made it to the end of the hallway, when I noticed the library door was open.
    I should have kept walking. But something made me stop and look.
    Vivienne was sitting behind the desk.
    She wasn’t doing anything. She was just sitting there, very still, with her hands folded in front of her. She looked directly at the door. And sat up when she saw me, like she had been waiting for me.
    “Nadia,” she said. “Come in. Close the door behind you. We are long overdue for a real conversation.”
    I walked in. The heavy wood door clicked shut behind me. The library smelled like old books and cigar smoke left behind by the men who had occupied it earlier. I stood in front of the desk, my heels still in my hand, my feet sore on the cold floor.
    Vivienne stood up. She walked around the desk slowly and stopped a few feet in front of me.
    “I have had enough,” she began. Her voice was still controlled. “I have been tolerant with you, Nadia. More tolerant than most women in my position would have been. But tonight at the party, you crossed a line that I cannot overlook. You spoke back to me in front of our guests. You implied that my son has no taste.” She tilted her head slightly. “Do you have any idea how much work goes into maintaining the reputation of this family? And in thirty seconds, you open your mouth and ruin it with your low-class attitude.”
    Something shifted in my chest. I felt my heart beating fast. Usually, I would just look at the floor and say sorry, but today something was different. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe I was just broken.
    “With all due respect, Vivienne,” I said, and I was surprised by how steady my voice sounded, “I am not the one who started that conversation tonight. You are the one who walked up to a guest complimenting my dress and told her I have no taste. You called me cheap. This morning, in front of three strangers you hired, you told me my hair was thin and called me desperate. You have been doing things like this since the day I moved into this house, and I have never once said anything back to you.” I paused. I made myself hold her gaze. “Today I said one thing. One sentence. And now I am standing in this library being told I have crossed a line. I have lived in this house for three years. And in those years, you have told me I am fat, or I am ugly, or I am poor, and I have no family. You treat me like I am a dog you found on the street. No, you treat your dogs better than me. but you make me feel like I shouldn’t even breathe the same air as you. I am the one who has been putting up with the disrespect, not the other way around. I am your son’s wife, but you treat me like a maid who isn’t even good at cleaning.”
    Vivienne looked at me for a long moment. There was no emotion on her face. “You have lived in this house for three years,” she said. “In those three years, I have housed you, clothed you, given you access to a life that a girl from your background could never have reached on her own. And you stand here and tell me that I have been disrespecting you?” She let out a short, clipped sound… not quite a laugh. “You are not his wife in any way that matters to this family, Nadia. You were a phase. A little experiment my son tried because he wanted to rebel against me. But even children eventually outgrow their toys.”
    I opened my mouth to respond but no words came out.
    The library door opened and Dorian walked in. His tie was undone and his jacket was gone. He stopped when he saw us, his eyes moving from me to his mother and back again.
    “What is going on?” he said. “I could hear voices from the hallway.”
    “Dorian…” I started.
    “What did you do now, Nadia?” He cut me off, and the ease with which he did it… the automatic assumption that I was the problem, before he had heard a word of it… was like a slap. “After what I told you at the fountain? I thought I told you clearly to watch your mouth around my mother. And now you are still in here trying to pick a fight with her? You are just… you are being impossible tonight.”
    “She is not fighting,” Vivienne said, calmly, from behind me. “She is speaking. Apparently she has quite a lot she has been holding inside.”
    “She has been saying horrible things to me all day, Dorian,” I said, turning to face him fully. “She has been mean to me for the last three years. I know you know that. I know you have heard it. And I am asking you, right now, in front of her, Don’t you care? Don’t you love me enough to tell her to stop? Even tonight?”
    Dorian looked at me. Then he looked at his mother, and looked at the floor.
    The clock on the wall ticked very loudly in the silence.
    “She is only telling the truth, Nadia,” he said. “You don’t fit in here. You never have. And instead of trying to adapt, you just push back and make everything harder.”
    “You are unbelievable!” I yelled.
    “Keep your voice down.”
    “You are standing right here listening to your mother call me a toy and all you can tell me is to keep my voice down?”
    “Because you love making a scene and this is not the time…”
    “Dorian.” Vivienne’s voice cut across both of us like a blade. She had moved back behind the desk, then she opened the top drawer and removed something I couldn’t yet see. She uncapped a pen and wrote. Then she slid a piece of paper across the surface of the desk and left it there, facing me.
    I looked down.
    A check. The numbers were printed in clean, precise figures. I counted the zeros once. Then again, because the first count didn’t seem possible.
    Five million dollars.
    “Take it,” Vivienne said. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, and her expression was the expression of a woman who had just laid down the winning card and was waiting for the other player to accept it. “Take the check, Nadia. You’re beneath my son. Take it and get out of my son’s life right now. Before Richard comes home, I want you packed and gone before the sun comes up. Five million dollars is more money than your whole family will ever see in ten lifetimes. It is a very generous offer for a girl who brought nothing to this marriage but a few suitcases of cheap clothes. And it is the only one I am making.”
    I could not breathe. I stood there looking at the check and I could not breathe.
    I looked at Dorian.
    “Dorian,” I said. My voice came out barely above a whisper. “Look at what she is doing. She is trying to buy me out of your life. Tell her no. Tell her that our marriage means something. Tell her…”
    “Nad.” He said my name like he was tired of saying it. “Maybe… maybe it’s for the best.”
    I heard the words. But it still took several seconds for their meaning to arrive.
    “What?” I said.
    “I said maybe it’s for the best.” He shifted his weight. He still wasn’t looking at me properly. “Look at us, Nadia. Look at what we are. We argue constantly. My mother is always stressed because of the tension in this house. It’s not working. It hasn’t been working for a long time, and I think somewhere you know that too.”
    “I know that we have problems,” I said. “Every marriage has problems. That is not a reason to…”
    “It’s more than a problem,” he said.
    The certainty in his voice was a different kind of blow. 
    “Then tell me what it is,” I said. “The real reason. Not the version your mother rehearsed with you. Tell me yourself.”
    He was quiet.
    “Tell me, Dorian.”
    He looked up. His jaw tightened.
    “I don’t love you anymore,” he said. “I haven’t for a while. And I have met someone else. Someone who actually belongs in this world. Someone who makes me feel like myself instead of making me feel like I’m always doing something wrong.”
    There it was. All of it. Laid out clean and simple in the library of his father’s house.
    “It’s Lena,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
    Dorian said nothing. He just looked at the wall.

    The Ex Wife’s Revenge novel Chapter 3

    Nadia’s POV:
    His silence was the only answer I needed.
    “You are leaving me,” I said, slowly, “for a woman your mother selected for you. You are ending our marriage because Vivienne decided she wants someone different in this house, and you don’t have the backbone to tell her no.” I looked at him. “Three years, Dorian. Three years I was your wife. And this is what I get in return.”
    “It’s not like that…”
    “Then tell me what it’s like,” I said. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”
    Vivienne picked up the check and held it toward me again. 
    “Does it matter what it’s like?” she said. “He doesn’t want you. That is the only thing that matters. And if you stay and choose to fight this, I want you to understand very clearly what that will look like. If you fight us, I will make sure the story that comes out is not kind to you. I can tell the press you were unfaithful. I can tell them you were stealing. I can tell them anything I like, and I can make people believe it, and when it is all over you will walk away with nothing except a reputation that will follow you for the rest of your life.” She held the check a little higher. “Or you can take this money. Take it and go quietly, and I will say nothing about you to anyone.”
    I looked at Dorian one last time.
    “You are going to let her threaten me,” I said. “After everything. You are just going to stand there.”
    He put his hands in his pockets.
    “Take the money, Nadia,” he said. “Please. It’s a lot of money. You can start over somewhere. Find a nice place, find someone new. Just…” He exhaled. He sounded genuinely exhausted. “Just go. I don’t want tonight to get any uglier than it already is. It’s been a long day.”
    I looked at the check in Vivienne’s outstretched hand, and I took the check from her hand.
    Vivienne’s expression didn’t change. But I saw it… just for a fraction of a second, there was a flicker of surprise. She must have expected resistance. She must have been ready for tears, and begging.
    But I gave her none of that.
    “Good,” she said, recovering. She opened the drawer again and produced a document already prepared. A divorce agreement. “Sign this before anything else. I want everything settled before Richard comes home. He doesn’t need to be involved in this.”
    I looked at the papers, then at Dorian, who was staring at the window.
    I picked up the pen. Before I put it to the paper I looked up at Vivienne one last time.
    “The money first,” I said. “Not a check. A transfer. I want it confirmed in my account before I sign anything.”
    Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. Just slightly.
    “You are in no position…”
    “I am in exactly the position I need to be in,” I said. “You want me to go quietly. I want a confirmed transfer. Those are my terms. I’m sure a woman with your resources can arrange it in a few minutes.”
    The silence stretched between us.
    Then Vivienne reached for her phone.
    It took eleven minutes. When the notification arrived on my phone, I put the pen to the signature line without another word. I signed cleanly. Then I placed the pen back on the desk.
    Vivienne picked up the document and checked the signature thoroughly. Then she set it down, and a very satisfied smile moved across her face.
    I did not give her a reaction. I turned and walked out of the library.
    ~~~
    The staircase felt longer than usual.
    I went up the big stairs to our… no, his… bedroom. I found my suitcase under the bed. I started throwing my jeans and my t-shirts into it. I changed into a hoodie and sweatpants and left the silk dresses on the hangers. I left the expensive shoes in the closet. 
    I took off my wedding ring.
    I held it for a moment. It was beautiful. He had good taste in rings, at least. I set it on the nightstand next to the lamp and I did not look at it again.
    I zipped the suitcase and picked it up.
    I took one last look at the room. The expensive curtains and the artwork I had never been allowed to change and the bed where I had laid awake more nights than I could count, listening to a marriage slowly come apart.
    “Goodbye,” I said. I wasn’t sure who I was talking to.
    I walked downstairs.
    They were waiting in the hallway. Of course they were. Vivienne stood with her hands clasped, watching the bottom of the stairs. Dorian stood a step behind her, his jacket still off, his expression somewhere between guilt and relief. 
    I crossed the hallway toward the front door.
    At the door I stopped.
    I looked at Dorian.
    “I hope she makes you happy,” I said. My voice was even. “But if she isn’t… and she won’t, because no one is happy in a cage your mother built for them… I want you to remember standing here and letting her do this to us because I really did love you, Dorian. But you don’t deserve my love.”
    Dorian opened his mouth.
    Vivienne put her hand on his arm. She shook her head once and he closed his mouth.
    That was, in the end, the most honest image I would carry of my marriage. Dorian, with something to say, chooses his mother’s happiness instead.
    I opened the front door.
    The air was cool and clean, I breathed it in for a moment at the top of the steps. Then I walked down.
    There was a car waiting at the bottom of the drive. I loaded my suitcase and got in. The driver asked where I was going, and I told him the hotel near the park, and he nodded and pulled out through the gates without another word.
    I watched the mansion through the rear window as we drove away. 
    I put my hand in my hoodie pocket and felt the check.
    Vivienne thought she was paying me to disappear. She was proud of herself. I could see it in the set of her shoulders and the small satisfaction behind her eyes when I walked out. 
    She was wrong about what the money was.
    It was three years of silence and humiliation. 
    This was less than what they owed me. She could have written me a check ten times this size and still owed me something.
    But it was only the beginning.
    I had expected to be devastated. I had braced myself for it. But what was actually sitting in my chest as we drove through the dark was not grief. It was anger… the kind that didn’t make you cry or scream. The quiet kind. 
    “Enjoy it, Vivienne,” I thought, watching the city through the window. “Enjoy thinking you have won. Because this is not the end. This is not even close to the end.”

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Gaslit By Him, Reborn From Ashes by Xiao Wang

    Gaslit By Him, Reborn From Ashes by Xiao Wang

    👉 READ NOW

    I have a deadly peanut allergy, but my fiancé Jason’s childhood best friend Kelly thinks I’m just making a big deal out of nothing.
    Under the guise of “treatment,” she deliberately poured peanut oil into my soup, sending me straight to the ICU in anaphylactic shock.
    And Jason didn’t defend me at all — instead, he emotionally manipulated me, saying she “meant well.”
    While I was fighting for my life, they secretly moved away and stole my multi-million-dollar matcha café brand, putting Kelly in charge.
    When I went to confront them, Jason’s family surrounded me and threatened me — I couldn’t leave unless I ate a bowl of noodles with peanut oil.
    I was forced to eat that bowl of noodles, which resulted in a stomach perforation, and I nearly died again.
    I couldn’t understand how the man who once supported my dreams could watch me struggle in agony and still call me “hard to please.”
    In his eyes, my love and my life were worthless — nothing compared to his sick loyalty to her.
    After the surgery, I didn’t shed another tear.
    I called my lawyer. Let the full-scale legal battle begin!

    👉 READ NOW

    Gaslit By Him, Reborn From Ashes Chapter 1

    Arielle Fischer’s POV
    My throat felt like it was closing up, my lungs burning, the world around me blurring into flickering gray shadows.
    The doctor’s words echoed in my ears: peanut oil. This wasn’t an accident — it was deliberate. I knew who did it. And what hurt even more, I knew Jason would defend her.
    Jason is my fiancé, yet our lives were built on fundamentally different foundations, especially when it came to food. I have a severe peanut allergy.
    I carry an EpiPen with me everywhere, my diet is carefully curated, every ingredient meticulously checked. Jason, on the other hand, grew up in a family where food was meant to be explored.
    He always treated my caution like some kind of quirk, which caused constant friction between us.
    His mother, Mrs. Davenport, always tried to be thoughtful when I visited their home. She once prepared a separate dish just for me at a family gathering. She never seemed to fully grasp how serious my allergy was. She’d say things like, “Just a little bit, it won’t hurt, right?” but back then, I still gave her the benefit of the doubt.
    Kelly Cruz, Jason’s best friend since childhood, often came over to our place. At one family dinner, as I carefully picked at the steamed chicken on my plate, Kelly leaned forward, her gaze sharp and judgmental.
    “Still on that strict diet plan, Arielle?” Her voice was sickly sweet. “Don’t you think life is just… too limited that way?”
    I forced a smile. “It’s not a diet plan, Kelly. It’s a medical necessity.”
    She snorted. “Oh right, the peanut allergy. Jason told me you used to eat peanuts as a kid. Are you sure you’re not just overreacting?”
    My stomach twisted, but I chose not to respond. Jason, sitting beside me, cleared his throat — and said nothing. He always hated conflict, especially with Kelly.
    Kelly clearly wasn’t done with me. She took a loud bite of her stir-fried peanuts. “Honestly, I don’t know how you two make it work. Food is such a huge part of life, especially around here. What if you have kids someday? They can never try a good bowl of peanut butter?”
    There was something pointed about her words, as if my dietary restrictions were an obstacle between Jason and me.
    That night, Jason’s father hosted a barbecue in the backyard. The air was thick with the smell of grilled meat and rich spices. Trying to be “accommodating,” Jason handed me a drink.
    “Try this, honey,” he said, a little too eagerly. “It’s my dad’s signature bourbon. Everyone loves it.”
    I hesitated. “Is it… safe? You know how sensitive I am to allergens.”
    He waved impatiently. “It’s just bourbon, Arielle. There’s no peanuts in alcohol. Stop being so paranoid. It’s a special batch, really smooth.” Kelly and his parents were all watching. I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I took a small sip.
    It was spicy at first, then a strange sweetness spread across my tongue. Before I could process it, my throat started itching. My vision began to swim.
    Terror washed over me. I clutched my throat, eyes wide with fear, trying to gasp — but I couldn’t draw a single breath.
    The world tilted. I stumbled, knocking over a tray of drinks. Jason rushed over, confusion on his face.
    “Arielle? What’s wrong?” he asked urgently, a sudden edge of panic in his voice.
    I couldn’t speak. I just grabbed at my throat, fighting to breathe. My EpiPen, my bag — where was it?
    Everything blurred. Only the suffocating fear consumed me. Jason finally realized how serious it was and frantically rummaged through my bag.
    He found the pen and administered the shot. Adrenaline surged into my bloodstream, a sharp sting that gradually restored my breathing. I gasped for air, each breath a small victory. The ambulance arrived, its siren shattering what should have been a pleasant evening.
    At the hospital, after the emergency passed, Jason sat beside my bed, looking genuinely shaken. He held my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle.
    “Arielle, I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I really had no idea. I thought it was just bourbon. My dad sometimes adds his own spices… maybe he used a batch with some peanut residue.”
    “I promise it’ll never happen again. From now on, I’ll personally prepare all your food.” He squeezed my hand, his eyes filled with a fleeting look of remorse.

    Gaslit By Him, Reborn From Ashes Chapter 2

    Arielle Fischer’s POV
    Hospital food was bland and tasteless, like a bowl of unappetizing mush. After weeks of it, weakness and exhaustion had pushed me to the brink.
    That day, Jason walked in carrying a picnic basket. The aroma hit me, and my empty stomach growled.
    “Look what I brought!” he announced cheerfully, setting the basket on my nightstand. “Your favorite! Kelly helped me make it.”
    Despite my hunger, my stomach immediately rebelled. Kelly. Always Kelly. The moment her name left his lips, the enticing aroma turned nauseating. I felt sick — not from hunger, but from disgust.
    “Kelly? The Kelly who doesn’t take my peanut allergy seriously?”
    Jason’s smile froze. “Oh, Arielle, don’t be like that. She feels terrible. She just wanted to do something nice for you.”
    The scent drifted over — roasted chicken, aromatic herbs. It did smell good, but beneath it all, I could smell betrayal.
    “No, thanks,” I said, pushing my hospital tray aside. “I’m not hungry.”
    Jason looked genuinely hurt. “But it’s your favorite roast chicken! The one you taught me to make, remember? That special marinade.”
    I gave a bitter laugh. “Of course I remember. I taught you every step. From picking the freshest herbs to balancing the spices so the skin comes out crispy and fragrant. I spent hours teaching you how to debone it properly, how to truss it.”
    “Are you trying to tell me Kelly somehow mastered my unique techniques out of nowhere?”
    Jason shifted uncomfortably. He avoided my gaze. “Well, she tried, really tried. She watched me do it, chopped some things. But… I did most of it in the end. She almost cut herself during the deboning.” He gave a dry laugh. “But it’s the thought that counts, right? She really wanted to make you happy.”
    “So you’re saying Kelly, who can barely be bothered to open a jam jar, genuinely wanted to learn how to replicate my signature dish?” I pressed.
    He sighed, his patience wearing thin. “Arielle, what does it matter? It’s just a chicken. Why do you have to be so difficult?” His tone was dismissive, completely indifferent to what I was going through.
    Anger and exhaustion left me too weak to argue. Tentatively, I picked up my fork. The chicken was still warm, wrapped in foil, and it smelled wonderful.
    As I ate, Jason rambled on about Kelly’s kitchen disasters. “You should’ve seen her, Arielle! She almost set the kitchen on fire trying to sauté the herbs. And she kept complaining the chicken was ‘too raw’ when I’d barely seared it. It was hilarious.” He laughed — that easy, carefree laugh I hadn’t heard in weeks. The way he described Kelly’s clumsiness with such fondness made my chest ache.
    He seemed genuinely amused by her mistakes, but he’d never laughed like that when I messed up. I felt more and more like an outsider.
    Every bite of perfectly cooked chicken — the dish I’d taught him myself — became a symbol of his betrayal. Food that was meant to comfort me was now impossible to swallow.
    Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number — a video. I opened it and trembled with rage.
    The video was shot in Jason’s kitchen. Kelly, her hair casually tied up, was holding a camera, filming Jason wrestling with the chicken. Her voice came through, dripping with sarcasm.
    “Aww, look at Jason, playing chef for his ‘sickly’ fiancée. How domestic! You know, she’s always saying no to this and no to that with food — so high-maintenance, it’s unbearable. Can’t she just eat normal food like the rest of us?” She laughed shrilly, and on camera, she poured some peanut oil onto the plate, then winked at the lens.
    My spoon clattered against the plate. My hands were shaking, and I nearly dropped my phone.
    “Jason!” My voice was hoarse and trembling, full of anger and disbelief. “What is this?” I held the phone up to him. The video was still playing, Kelly’s smug, vicious face filling the screen.
    He watched the video, and the color drained from his face. “That… that can’t be… Kelly wouldn’t…” he stammered. Then his expression shifted, a flash of anger crossing his features. “Who sent you this? This is an invasion of privacy! It’s slander!” He tried to grab my phone — clearly more concerned about Kelly’s image than my safety.
    “Slander?” I repeated, my voice rising. “Isn’t what she did obvious enough?” I pushed the plate away. The thought of taking another bite made me sick.
    Jason slammed his fist on the nightstand. “God, Arielle! You always blow everything out of proportion, it’s exhausting! Can’t you just let it go? Kelly made a mistake! She apologized! Why do you always have to make everything so complicated? You’re impossible to please!”
    Those words hurt more than any physical blow. I was the victim, yet somehow I was the one who was always in the wrong.

    Gaslit By Him, Reborn From Ashes Chapter 3

    Arielle Fischer’s POV
    A heavy feeling settled over me. Jason’s words echoed in my mind: “so picky it’s unbearable.” It wasn’t just criticism — it was a weapon. It negated my fear, my pain, even my right to exist safely.
    I remembered when Jason was different. Back then, he was my staunchest supporter. When my “Refined Matcha Wellness Café” was just getting started in the city, when investors questioned the concept, Jason stood by my side, his hand steady on my shoulder, advocating for my business.
    He helped me draft proposals, stayed up late tasting new matcha blends, and celebrated every small win like it was his own victory. My parents were initially skeptical about my choice to start a business, but it was because of his unwavering support for me and my dreams that they gradually accepted him.
    But that Jason was gone. In his place was a man blinded by a twisted childhood bond. He couldn’t see Kelly’s malice. His judgment had vanished, leaving only a near-pathological need to protect his “old friend.”
    I stared at him, saying nothing. My silence wasn’t weakness — it was a deliberate choice. There was no point arguing with someone who refused to listen.
    His mind was made up. In his eyes, Kelly was the innocent friend, and I was the problem.
    That night, lying in my hospital bed, I posted a brief message on my private social media: “The taste of betrayal is more bitter than losing your sense of taste.”
    Minutes later, Kelly’s name appeared on my screen. She messaged me directly:
    “What’s that supposed to mean, Arielle?” Her tone was feigned innocence. “Are you still blaming me? I apologized. I made a mistake. You’re being so dramatic. You should apologize to Jason — you’re the one stressing him out.”
    Furious, I replied: “Kelly, you’ve tried to set me up more than once!”
    She shot back immediately: “C’mon, you’re fine. Stop being so sensitive. Listen, I’m having a barbecue at Jason’s parents’ place tomorrow night. Everyone’s coming. Why don’t you come? We can hash it out face to face. You can tell everyone what a ‘monster’ I am, and I can tell them how hard I tried to help you. Let’s see who they believe.” She added: “Unless you’re too scared to face me, right?”
    She knew I was weak, yet she provoked me anyway. I didn’t have the strength to deal with Jason and his parents’ stares.
    But then a sense of shame — of being labeled “cowardly” — washed over me. The thought of Kelly “winning,” of her painting me as the villain, was unbearable. I wouldn’t let her get away with it anymore. I had to face her.
    “I’ll be there,” I typed, my resolve hardening.
    Minutes later, Jason called. His tone was impatient: “Arielle, Kelly said you’re coming to the barbecue. Why? You just got out of the ICU. Why are you causing trouble?” He sighed, exasperation in his voice. “It’s just a small gathering. Why do you have to make everything so complicated? Your… picky eating is already going to be an issue. Don’t make it worse.”
    His words hit me like a sledgehammer. He didn’t care about my health — he cared about his friends’ “vibe.” He’d reduced my life-threatening allergy to “picky eating,” nothing more than an inconvenience that would “ruin everyone’s mood.” His friends’ opinions mattered more than my safety, my health, even my existence.
    I was done.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Our CEO Daddy! Triplets in a Mission by ferocearcadia

    Our CEO Daddy! Triplets in a Mission by ferocearcadia

    👉 READ NOW

    A reckless playboy CEO is forced to marry Harte, a quiet orphan, to save him from a dangerous mafia after his scandalous affair. Their cold marriage slowly turns complicated as buried emotions surface-but it all ends in heartbreak and divorce, with Harte walking away without revealing she is pregnant.

    What he doesn’t know is that she isn’t just carrying his child… she’s carrying triplets.

    👉 READ NOW

    Our CEO Daddy! Triplets in a Mission Chapter 1 The Playboy CEO

    Griffin’s cellphone rang repeatedly on the bedside table. Half-asleep, he reached for the device without even opening his eyes. Who the hell had the nerve to interrupt his sleep this early?
    “Hello-”
    Before Griffin could finish speaking, a voice loud enough to rival a megaphone blasted through the line.
    “Griffin, where are you? Did you forget that today is Mom and Dad’s 30th wedding anniversary? I went to your condo and your office, and you’re nowhere to be found!”
    Griffin grimaced and immediately pulled the phone away from his ear. “Jesus Christ, Harte. Lower your voice. Are you trying to blow out my eardrums?”
    “Get home right now! If you don’t come home this instant-”
    He didn’t bother waiting for her threat to finish. He already knew she’d just keep nagging until he got a headache.
    “I’m on my way,” he said quickly before ending the call.
    He rubbed his temples before glancing at the woman still fast asleep beside him. He’d spent the entire night f*ck*ng her-giving her a break only long enough before taking her again.
    Griffin got out of bed and picked up his clothes scattered across the floor. He got dressed without caring whether the woman woke up or not. He didn’t leave a message or even a goodbye. He simply walked out of the room and left her behind.
    The moment he stepped into the hotel lobby, the receptionist greeted him right away. The hotel belonged to his godfather Dawn, his father’s best friend, so the staff already knew Griffin by face.
    “Good morning, Sir Griffin,” the valet attendant greeted with a smile as he tossed Griffin the keys to his sports car. Griffin caught them easily before pulling out his wallet. He took out five thousand dollar and handed it over as a tip. The man gave a playful salute in return.
    Griffin climbed into the car and quickly drove off.
    While cruising down the highway, he noticed a white van that seemed to have been tailing him for a while now. To make sure, he stepped harder on the gas and swiftly overtook a red car ahead of him. Almost immediately, he saw the van speed up as well just to keep up with him.
    “What the f*ck is that? Are they after me?” he muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
    But before he could make a move to shake them off, the white van suddenly turned in the opposite direction. Griffin frowned, wondering if it had all been a coincidence-or if the people inside had only been sizing him up.
    He finally arrived at the mansion after thirty minutes of driving. In the garage, he spotted his grandparents’ familiar cars-a sign that the whole family had already arrived.
    The Bowens had always made it a tradition to gather for Sunday lunch, and today was even more special because it was his parents’ 30th wedding anniversary.
    Griffin parked in the garage and quickly headed inside the mansion.
    “Good morning, Sir Griffin!” Cecelia, their longtime housekeeper, greeted him cheerfully.
    “Good morning, Ate Cecelia. You’re looking extra blooming today, huh?” he teased with a wink.
    Cecelia jokingly swatted at him with the broom she was holding, but Griffin dodged it easily while laughing.
    “You really are such a smooth talker!” Cecelia said with a laugh, pointing toward the kitchen. “Your mother’s been waiting for you. Go on now before she gets even madder at you.”
    Still chuckling, Griffin walked toward the kitchen and found his mother, Scarlett, pulling a tray out of the oven while wearing an apron. Even at fifty-four, she was still stunning and sophisticated. One of the qualities he looked for in a woman was someone like his mother.
    “Mmm… smells amazing,” he complimented, breathing in the aroma of whatever she had baked.
    Scarlett placed a hand on her hip and gave her son a serious look. “And where have you been? Lavender and Harte went to your condo, but you weren’t there.”
    Griffin laughed softly and stepped closer to hug his mother. “Mom, I went out to relax and unwind. Meridian is at the top worldwide, and I think I deserve to relax and unwind. I can’t spend all my time working.”
    Scarlett pointed the tongs she was holding at Griffin and narrowed her eyes at him. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing out there, son. One of these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if women start lining up outside this house claiming you got them pregnant. Or worse, someone might sue you and say you took advantage of her. Honey, why don’t you just get a girlfriend, settle into a serious relationship, and get married already?”
    “Mom, Mom… it’s family day, not lecture day,” he replied playfully as he grabbed the tray from her hands and set it down on the table. “I’ll go call everyone and tell them lunch is ready,” he added, quickly steering the conversation elsewhere. He was referring to his father, Darius, and his grandparents, who were currently relaxing by the pool area.
    He hurried out through the kitchen’s sliding door, leaving his mother shaking her head at his antics.
    He really did want a serious relationship. Who wouldn’t want to find the right person for them? But every time he tried dating, it always ended the same way. Most women were only after his money, and nearly every woman he went out with just wasn’t his type. There had been one relationship he genuinely took seriously, but she had chosen her career abroad over him and eventually broke things off.
    Griffin let out a quiet sigh. He was about to head toward his father and grandparents when he noticed Harte sitting by the edge of the pool.
    A smile spread across his face as he quietly approached her. Harte was the daughter of Greg, his father’s loyal assistant. Her mother had died giving birth to her, so she had grown up in their household ever since she was little. Griffin had practically watched her grow up. She had just graduated from college last month and was planning to work at Meridian as well.
    “I seriously don’t get his taste in women. If they’re not wearing pounds of makeup, then they’re completely insane,” Harte muttered to herself while absentmindedly plucking flower petals and dipping her feet into the pool.
    Griffin raised an eyebrow. Looks like Harte was annoyed with some guy.
    Maybe she had a crush on him?
    “So annoying! Out of all the men in the world, why did I have to fall for him?”
    Yep, he was right. She definitely liked a guy who probably liked someone else.
    Griffin grinned, another mischievous idea already forming in his head. He moved closer to Harte and, when the timing was perfect, suddenly tapped her shoulder.
    Harte whipped around in surprise, her eyes widening the moment she saw him. But before she could even say anything, Griffin shoved her straight into the pool.
    “Griffin!” Harte shouted furiously before completely disappearing underwater.
    “Why are you jumping in there? Haven’t you showered yet?” Griffin burst out laughing, clutching his stomach.
    The noise caught the attention of his father, Darius, as well as his grandparents. Harte’s father, Greg, even paused from grilling a large fish, though he merely shook his head and didn’t bother stepping in. Everyone in the family was already used to the two acting like cats and dogs whenever they were together. Griffin’s day never felt complete unless he found a way to tease her.
    “Get over here and I’ll shave that head of yours bald!” Harte snapped through gritted teeth as she quickly climbed out of the pool.
    But as Harte stepped onto the pool ladder, Griffin’s laughter slowly faded. His eyes drifted over her figure. The thin white dress she was wearing had turned nearly transparent from the water, clearly outlining the red underwear beneath it. Griffin swallowed hard as he caught sight of the curves of her body.
    He had always seen her as a kid-a little sister.
    He never realized she had grown into such a beautiful young woman.
    Because he was so distracted, Griffin didn’t notice Harte had already reached him. She quickly grabbed him by the hair and dragged him toward the edge of the pool.
    “Ow! Harte, what the hell! Ow! Ow!” he complained repeatedly while trying to pry her hand away. “Harte, stop it!”
    The moment she let him go, Harte flashed him a smug grin before kicking him hard, sending Griffin crashing straight into the water.

    Our CEO Daddy! Triplets in a Mission Chapter 2 Welcome Back

    Griffin grimaced as he roughly dried his wet hair with a towel. The only thing he wore was a white towel wrapped low around his waist, exposing his toned physique.
    “D*mn. She’s stronger than most men. Feels like she ripped half the hair off my head,” he muttered to himself, annoyed yet amused at the same time.
    But suddenly, he froze.
    The scene from earlier flashed through his mind again-the way Harte’s body had looked as she climbed out of the pool, the outline of the red fabric beneath her soaked white dress. The image refused to leave his head.
    Griffin shook his head and lightly slapped his own cheek. He went back to drying his hair before throwing on a simple black T-shirt and a pair of pants.
    When he went downstairs to the kitchen, he found his family already gathered around the table. The atmosphere was lively, filled with laughter and the mouthwatering smell of delicious food.
    He pulled out a chair beside his twin sister, Lavender, and sat down. One thing their mother, Scarlett, absolutely hated during family lunches was talking about work. So throughout the meal, their conversations stayed light and random.
    After eating, they all moved to the living room for dessert while watching Lavender’s newest television drama series.
    Unlike the rest of the family, his sister hadn’t followed in their parents’ footsteps. She had no interest in business whatsoever. So when she announced she wanted to enter show business and pursue acting, all they could do was support her.
    “Goodness, that slap looked painful, sweetheart. Your face didn’t swell up, did it?” his grandmother Elene asked dramatically and with concern after seeing Lavender’s character get slapped by the villain on screen.
    Lavender laughed and shook her head. “Grandma, we always ask permission from each other before filming scenes like that. Although it really hurt-you can tell, right? It makes the scene more effective for the audience.”
    While everyone watched the show, Griffin noticed Harte busy on her phone instead of paying attention to the television. A few moments later, she quietly stood up and slipped out of the living room with her head lowered.
    One of Griffin’s eyebrows lifted.
    He quickly got to his feet and followed her. Thanks to his long strides, he caught up to her near the garage.
    “You’re going somewhere?” he asked, making the young woman stop in her tracks.
    Harte quickly turned to look at him. “I’m just meeting someone at the convenience store. I’ll be back right away.”
    “Hmm… a friend?” Griffin didn’t know why he had suddenly become so interested in where she was going.
    “A former classmate,” she answered shortly before turning her back on him.
    Griffin watched Harte’s retreating figure as she walked out through the gate. He even saw her say something to the security guard before finally disappearing from sight.
    He headed back inside but didn’t return to the living room. Instead, he went straight to his room to grab his car keys. When he came back out to the garage, he signaled for the guard to open the gate before quickly climbing into his car.
    He drove fast and soon spotted Harte walking along the side of the road. A mischievous grin spread across his face before he repeatedly honked the horn at her.
    Griffin burst out laughing when Harte jumped in shock and nearly dropped her phone.
    At the same time Griffin rolled down the car window, Harte whipped around to glare at him, practically fuming with irritation. In pure annoyance, she picked up a rock almost the size of her head and raised it as if she were about to smash it against the hood of his sports car.
    “You’re seriously insane!” she shouted.
    Griffin blinked and immediately panicked. He quickly pulled the car over beside her.
    “Harte, don’t you dare!” he warned, leaning toward the open window. “Put that down. Get in the car.”
    Harte scoffed before violently tossing the rock onto the roadside. “And why would I get in there?”
    “I’m driving you wherever you’re going. Get inside already.” He opened the passenger door and pushed it wider with his foot. “The sun is freaking brutal, Harte. Just get in.”
    Harte glared at him for a few more seconds before finally walking around to the other side of the car and climbing in. She slammed the door shut on purpose, clearly making sure he felt how annoyed she was.
    “Hurry up. The person I’m meeting has been waiting for a while,” she snapped at him as if he were her personal chauffeur.
    If any other woman had spoken to him like that, he probably would’ve yelled at her-or kicked her straight out of the car.
    But this was Harte.
    The same way he treated his mother and his twin sister Lavender with respect, he treated Harte the same way. He might bully and tease her nonstop, but he would never allow anyone else to do the same to her.
    “Yes, Ma’am,” he replied sarcastically with a grin. He sped up and soon arrived at the convenience store she had mentioned.
    Harte unbuckled her seatbelt and quickly stepped out. Griffin immediately followed after her, making her eyebrows knit together.
    “I thought you were just giving me a ride?” She even crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you following me?”
    “I’m buying something,” Griffin excused casually before stepping ahead to hold the door open for her.
    Just as the door swung open, a woman wearing sunglasses and a coat dress despite the blazing heat stepped out from inside the store. Griffin and Harte were about to walk past her when the woman removed her shades and suddenly blocked their path.
    “Oh my God, Griffin? Is that really you?” the woman exclaimed, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw him.
    Harte’s gaze shifted back and forth between the woman and Griffin, while Griffin himself frowned slightly, forcing a smile as he tried to remember where exactly he knew her from.
    “Ah, yes… and you are…?”
    The woman extended her hand toward him. “I’m Chelsea! We were blockmates in college! Don’t you remember me?”
    Griffin quickly took her hand and laughed. “Of course I remember you,” he lied smoothly, even though he genuinely had no clue who she was. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”
    “I’m doing great. I just got back to the New York,” the woman gushed excitedly, almost blushing.
    “Looks like she just got back too. You can tell from the outfit,” Harte muttered under her breath.
    Griffin overheard it and secretly smiled.
    “Oh, by the way, I’m throwing a welcome-back party. It’s also my birthday.” Chelsea hurriedly rummaged through her handbag before handing Griffin a calling card. “I’d love for you to come, if that’s okay. And here’s my calling card. Call me later, okay?”
    Harte suddenly fake-coughed, making Chelsea finally notice her. The woman’s brows slowly furrowed. “And this is…? Is she your girlfriend?”
    Griffin took the calling card. “She’s my little sister,” he answered quickly.
    Chelsea’s smile widened immediately after hearing that. “Oh, hi!” she greeted Harte before turning all her attention back to Griffin again. “I’m in a hurry. I wanted to talk longer, but I’m really hoping you’ll call me.”
    “Of course I will,” Griffin replied with a smile, openly flirting back.
    The woman waved goodbye before finally leaving.
    “No matter where you go, women just keep appearing around you,” Harte clicked her tongue before walking farther inside the convenience store.
    “But you didn’t see me approaching any woman,” Griffin defended himself immediately. “They’re the ones approaching me. I’m just being nice.”
    And honestly, it was true.
    He was never the one chasing women-they always came to him first. And with the kind of charm he had, who was he to refuse?
    “Harte!”
    Both of them turned toward the voice coming from the other side of the store. A man stood there, nearly as tall as Griffin. He looked like the nerdy type because of his glasses, but his muscular arms made it obvious he spent plenty of time at the gym.
    “You never said you were meeting a guy,” Griffin said, his tone suddenly serious. The playful grin on his face vanished instantly, replaced by narrowed eyes.
    “That’s because you never asked,” Harte replied before leaving him behind and walking straight toward the man.

    Our CEO Daddy! Triplets in a Mission Chapter 3 Mysterious White Van

    Griffin watched Harte as she walked toward the man, whose smile stretched from ear to ear. A humorless laugh escaped him when the guy suddenly pulled Harte into a hug-and what irritated him even more was that Harte didn’t push him away. She simply let it happen.
    He had never seen her this close to any guy before.
    This was the first time.
    An unfamiliar heat stirred in Griffin’s chest as he watched the two of them together.
    When the man noticed him staring, he whispered something into Harte’s ear that Griffin couldn’t hear. Harte glanced back at him, her brows instantly knitting together before she gestured with her chin for him to leave already and stop butting in.
    Annoyed, Griffin turned on his heel and left the two of them inside the store. He climbed into his car and sped all the way back to the mansion.
    The moment he arrived, he found his father, Darius, standing outside. The serious look on the older man’s face immediately made Griffin step out of the car and approach him.
    “Dad,” he called.
    Without saying a word, Darius handed his phone over and showed Griffin a text message.
    “They need you at the office. The new materials from Spain finally arrived. Check them yourself.”
    Griffin nodded in response. Even though he was still irritated by what he had seen at the convenience store, business came first.
    Darius gave his son a pat on the shoulder, and Griffin immediately headed inside to change into more formal clothes before driving straight to Meridian Investment Partners.
    His secretary, Madonna, greeted him the moment he stepped into the building lobby. The urgency on her face reflected how important the newly arrived shipment was.
    “Where are the items?” Griffin asked authoritatively without slowing his pace toward the elevator.
    “They’re already in your office, sir,” the woman replied, struggling to keep up with his long strides.
    Griffin loosened his necktie slightly before stepping into the elevator.
    The shipment consisted of high-grade obsidian and rare marble tiles that would be used for their newest luxury corporate skyscraper project in Bonifacio Global City. The materials would define the image of their premium office spaces, which was why Griffin insisted on personally inspecting the quality himself.
    The moment he entered his office, he immediately began examining the materials.
    This was already the supplier’s second shipment. He had rejected the first one outright because of its poor quality. Although this batch was noticeably better than the last, it still failed to meet his exacting standards.
    “Tell them to send all of this back. This is not what I asked for,” Griffin said sharply through clenched teeth as he pointed at the samples. “Tell them to find something that matches the sample I gave exactly. And if they can’t do that, then let them know we’ll start looking for a new supplier.”
    Madonna immediately pulled out her phone and called the Supplier Manager. Griffin could clearly hear the tension in their conversation while he waited for an answer.
    “They said they’ll try to find materials identical to the sample you provided, sir,” Madonna reported after ending the call. “But they’re asking for another month to produce it.”
    “Another d*mn month?! This project has already been delayed for two f*ck*ng months because of their incompetence!” Griffin snapped as he slammed himself back into his chair.
    Madonna quickly called the supplier again to relay Griffin’s ultimatum-half a month, or the contract was over.
    When she ended the call, a seductive smile slowly appeared on the secretary’s lips. She walked closer and perched herself on top of Griffin’s luxurious desk, deliberately showing off her long legs.
    “You look stressed, sir. Did something happen before you got here?” she asked sweetly.
    As she spoke, her hand slowly slid over her chest, gently caressing herself in front of him.
    Madonna had been working for him for two years. And during those two years, whenever Griffin lost his temper, she was always the one who calmed him down. He had never forced her into anything-she had been the one to make the first move and show interest in him.
    “Nothing happened,” Griffin answered stiffly.
    His eyes stayed fixed on Madonna’s hand as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a black lace bra barely capable of containing her curves.
    Griffin’s restraint snapped instantly.
    He rose abruptly from his swivel chair and captured Madonna in a rough, hungry kiss. His hand gripped her chest firmly as he felt the rapid pounding of her heart beneath his palm.
    “Ah… S-Sir… easy…” Madonna whimpered breathlessly between kisses.
    But Griffin wasn’t in the mood to be gentle.
    He turned Madonna toward the desk and positioned her with her back facing him. With a rough tug, he pulled down her skirt and underwear.
    “Lean on the table. Don’t move,” he ordered in a low, commanding voice.
    When it was over, Griffin leaned back against his desk, finally feeling lighter, as though all the irritation from earlier-both from work and from Harte-had disappeared.
    He didn’t stay long at the office after that. Once his lust had subsided, he left everything for Madonna to handle and headed out. He wasn’t in the mood to return to the mansion, so he decided to drive straight back to his condo instead.
    As he drove along the dimly lit road, he noticed the familiar white van once again in his rearview mirror.
    It was the same vehicle he had seen earlier before heading to the mansion.
    “Persistent bastards,” he muttered as he stepped harder on the gas.
    But in an instant, the van sped up as well and slammed into the back of his sports car without warning. Griffin’s vehicle lurched violently out of balance, and before he could recover, the van rammed into his side again.
    Then came the rapid gunfire.
    The windows shattered as bullets tore through the body of his car. While trying to dodge the attack, Griffin lost control of the steering wheel completely. His car veered off the road and flipped several times before finally coming to a stop, completely wrecked.
    Griffin hung upside down inside the crushed vehicle.
    The world spun around him, and the only thing he could hear was the roaring of his own blood in his ears. He tried to move, but a blinding surge of pain shot through his leg.
    A sharp piece of metal from the mangled chassis had pierced through him. He could feel the warmth of blood steadily pouring from the wound.
    He fought to stay conscious, but darkness slowly began swallowing him whole.
    Before his eyes finally closed, he saw the silhouettes of several men stepping out of the white van and walking toward the wreckage.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace by Miaomiao

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle's Embrace by Miaomiao

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    Hollis stumbled into her family mansion, soaked in rain and wearing a strange man’s oversized shirt after a traumatizing night.
    But instead of offering comfort, her stepmother and stepsister ambushed her.
    They framed her for offending a powerful billionaire, demanding she pay a massive settlement.
    When her fiancé Aris arrived, Hollis thought she finally had an ally.
    Instead, he looked at her with pure disgust.
    “We’re over. I’m marrying Kyla now,” he sneered, wrapping his arm around her stepsister.
    To force her submission, her stepmother canceled her college admission and threatened to leak degrading photos of her to the press.
    That night, they even spiked her dinner and handed her over to thugs to be delivered to the old billionaire’s bed.
    Betrayed, humiliated, and stripped of everything, a white-hot rage burned through Hollis’s despair.
    Why did the people she lived with want to destroy her so ruthlessly?
    Using her last ounce of strength, she escaped the thugs and stumbled into a random hotel room.
    The next day, Hollis crashed Aris and Kyla’s lavish engagement party, holding the arm of a mysterious, imposing man.
    “Everyone, I’d like you to meet my new fiancé,” she announced with a victorious smile.
    Aris stared at the man, his face draining of all color as a terrified whisper escaped his throat.
    “Uncle Alaric?”

    👉 READ NOW

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace Chapter 1

    The key trembled in Hollis’s hand.
    It took three tries before it finally slid into the lock. The heavy oak door of the Buchanan mansion swung inward, spilling golden light onto the porch.
    She stumbled across the threshold, her body a wreck of trembling limbs. A man’s white dress shirt, far too large for her, was the only thing she wore. Its hem barely grazed her upper thighs, and the collar carried the unfamiliar, sharp scent of tobacco.
    The living room was brightly lit.
    Her stepmother, Beverley, and stepsister, Kyla, were seated on the velvet sofa. They looked as if they had been waiting for her.
    Kyla’s lips twitched, a flicker of triumph she couldn’t quite hide as she took in Hollis’s disheveled state.
    Beverley set her porcelain teacup down on its saucer. The sharp clink echoed in the silent room. Her eyes, cold and sharp as splintered glass, raked over Hollis’s body.
    “Look who’s finally home.”
    Her voice was smooth, but laced with ice. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back tonight.”
    Kyla rose from the sofa, her face a mask of false concern. She moved toward Hollis, reaching out as if to help.
    “Hollis, what happened to you? That shirt… Aris will be so upset.”
    The mention of her fiancé’s name was a deliberate twist of the knife.
    Hollis flinched away from Kyla’s touch, a wave of nausea rolling through her. The dull ache in her body and the fractured, nightmarish images in her head made her stomach churn. She braced herself against the wall of the foyer, fighting to stay upright.
    Her gaze locked onto Beverley.
    A bitter laugh escaped her raw throat. “My drink,” she rasped, her voice hoarse with hatred. “You tampered with my drink, didn’t you?”
    A flash of panic crossed Beverley’s perfectly made-up face before it was replaced by practiced indignation. She elegantly crossed her legs.
    “Hollis, what nonsense are you talking about? I think you partied a little too hard and your brain has gone to mush.”
    Kyla chimed in, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “Sister, how can you say that about Mom? She was just worried you’d drink too much and embarrass yourself at the party.”
    Hollis ignored Kyla. Her eyes remained fixed on Beverley, a predator stalking its prey. She pushed herself off the wall and took a shaky step forward.
    “Worried about me? Was sending me to an old man’s bed also for my own good?”
    The accusation hung in the air, thick and poisonous. Beverley’s composure finally cracked. Her eyes darted away for a second, a telltale sign of her guilt.
    She raised her voice to cover her unease. “If you say one more slanderous word, I swear I will tell your father!”
    Just then, a phone vibrated violently on the coffee table. The screen lit up, displaying the caller ID: Clay Thorne.
    Beverley’s face went white.
    Her hand shot out, a reflexive move to silence the call, but it was too late. She snatched the phone, trying to move away to answer it privately.
    Hollis lunged.
    With a burst of adrenaline, she closed the distance and slammed her finger down on the speakerphone button just as Beverley answered.
    A greasy, furious man’s voice erupted from the phone’s speaker.
    “Beverley! What the hell are you playing at? I waited all night! Where’s the girl you promised me? Are you screwing with me? Do you still want that investment or not!”
    A dead silence fell over the living room.
    Kyla’s face was a mask of chalky horror. She stared at her mother, her mouth agape.
    Beverley froze, looking like a strangled duck, the blood draining from her face.
    Hollis’s heart plummeted. A tidal wave of grief and rage washed over her. The proof was there, undeniable. But as the man’s grating voice echoed in her memory, a more terrifying thought surfaced.
    The hazy figure from her nightmares—tall, powerful, with an oppressive presence—did not match the voice on the phone. Not at all.
    Beverley’s plan had failed.
    She had been sent to the wrong room.
    Delivered to the wrong man.
    Looking at her stepmother’s panicked face, Hollis felt no thrill of victory. Only a profound, chilling emptiness and a terrifying confusion.
    Beverley finally snapped back to reality. She shrieked, lunging for the phone. Hollis stepped back, letting it fall onto the plush rug.
    Frantically, Beverley jabbed at the screen to end the call. She then glared at Hollis, her eyes filled with pure venom, like a cornered animal.
    “You ruined it! You ruined everything!” Beverley’s voice was distorted with fury.
    Hollis pressed her fingers to her temple, a fresh wave of dizziness washing over her. The drugs hadn’t fully worn off.
    She didn’t want to speak to them, didn’t want to even look at them. She turned to go to her room.
    Beverley’s hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. Her nails dug into Hollis’s skin.
    “Where do you think you’re going? You think this is over?” Beverley hissed through clenched teeth.
    Hollis tried to pull away, but her body was too weak. She couldn’t break the grip.
    Kyla stood by, her expression a complex mix of shock and something else, something unreadable. She made no move to help.
    A grotesque smile spread across Beverley’s face. “Hollis, since you refuse to be obedient, you can’t blame me for what comes next.”

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace Chapter 2

    Beverley’s fingers were like a vise around Hollis’s wrist. She leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper meant only for Hollis’s ears.
    “Clay Thorne’s suite is 803. You’re going to go up there right now and ‘apologize’ properly. Otherwise, you can prepare to find five hundred thousand dollars to compensate me for my loss.”
    Hollis stared at her, stunned. The audacity was breathtaking. Five hundred thousand dollars? She was a student. She didn’t have that kind of money.
    With a sudden surge of strength—more a frantic reflex than real power—she ripped her arm free and stumbled back, putting distance between them.
    “You’re insane! I’m not going!”
    Beverley smoothed down her expensive silk robe, a cold smile playing on her lips. “No money? What about the trust fund your dear mother left you? You’re almost old enough to access it. Or, you could always call the police. Let’s see who they believe—a disgraced Buchanan girl with a ruined reputation, or me, a respected philanthropist.”
    Hollis’s body trembled with rage. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the 9-1-1 icon. It was her only weapon.
    Seeing the motion, Kyla shrieked. “Sister, don’t do something stupid! Think of the family’s reputation!”
    Just then, the butler’s voice echoed from the foyer. “Ma’am, Miss, Mr. Baird is here.”
    The name Aris Baird struck the room like a bolt of lightning. The three women froze. Hollis’s finger remained suspended over her phone screen.
    Aris. Her fiancé. What was he doing here at this hour?
    A cold dread washed over her as she saw the matching, triumphant expressions on Beverley’s and Kyla’s faces. She understood instantly. This was part of their plan.
    Aris Baird strode in, tall and impeccably dressed in an Armani suit. His handsome face was a blank mask, his deep blue eyes sweeping across the room before they landed on Hollis.
    When his gaze fell on the wrinkled man’s shirt she wore, her messy hair, and her pale, bruised face, his expression curdled into one of pure, undisguised disgust.
    Hollis’s heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. The comfort and protection she had desperately hoped for were not there. Only judgment. Contempt.
    He walked past her as if she were invisible, settling his attention instead on the two women who stood waiting—Beverley with her practiced smile, Kyla already drifting toward him with a familiar ease that made Hollis’s stomach turn.
    Beverley’s voice cut through the air, smooth and deliberate. “Aris, dear, I’m so sorry you had to see this… unpleasantness. Some things are better left unseen.”
    Hollis watched them—the way Kyla’s hand found its way to Aris’s arm, the way Beverley positioned herself as the matriarch of a scene she had written herself. The three of them stood together, a closed circle that had no room for her.
    Aris’s gaze finally landed on her—cold, dismissive, as if she were a piece of trash he had just noticed on the floor.
    Aris’s looking down at her from his great height.
    He reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a checkbook and a Montblanc pen. With a few swift strokes, he wrote, tore out the check, and tossed it down in front of her.
    It fluttered to a stop near her feet.
    “Take it. It’s a breakup fee,” Aris said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “We’re over.”
    Hollis slowly lifted her head. Her bloodshot eyes stared at the man she had loved for three years.
    She didn’t look at the check. She just asked, “Why?”
    Aris let out a cold laugh, as if she’d just told the world’s most pathetic joke. “Why? Hollis, you have the nerve to ask me why? The future wife of a Baird cannot be a shameless woman who fools around with strange men.”
    “I wasn’t!” Hollis scrambled to her feet, her voice rising with desperation. “I was set up!”
    Kyla immediately shrank behind Aris, feigning fear. “Aris, she’s scaring me…”
    Aris shielded Kyla, his expression hardening with even more revulsion. “Shut up. Stop acting. It only makes me sicker. You’re not a virgin anymore, are you? That’s a fact!”
    The cruel words struck Hollis’s deepest wound, the raw, secret shame she was still grappling with.
    “So”—Aris paused, delivering the final blow—”I’ve decided to cancel our engagement. My fiancée… will be Kyla.”
    The world stopped. Hollis stared at Aris, then at the triumphant, hypocritical face of her sister peeking out from behind his arm.

    Trapped In The Billionaire Uncle’s Embrace Chapter 3

    The world stopped. Hollis stared at Aris, then at Kyla’s triumphant, hypocritical face peeking out from behind his arm.
    Aris’s words hung in the air like a death sentence. The silence in the room was absolute.
    But then, something flickered in Hollis’s chest. Not grief. Not more shock. A tiny, sharp spark of disbelief that refused to be extinguished.
    She looked at Aris again—really looked. Not at the handsome face she had loved, but at the man standing before her, the man who had just pronounced her “used goods” and replaced her with her sister in the space of a single breath.
    And she heard it.
    Not what he had said—but how he had said it.
    “You’re not a virgin anymore, are you?”
    Not “Did you sleep with someone else?” Not “What happened to you?” Not even “Who was that man?”
    He had stated it as fact. As if he already knew the outcome. As if he had expected it.
    Hollis’s blood turned cold.
    Her voice came out slow, barely more than a whisper. “How did you know?”
    Aris frowned. “Know what?”
    “That I wasn’t a virgin anymore.” She held his gaze. “I never told you that. I never said a word about what happened last night. You walked in, saw the shirt, and you didn’t ask—you just knew. How?”
    A flash of something crossed his face—too quick to read, but it was there. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
    “It’s obvious,” he said, but his voice had lost some of its edge. “You’re wearing a strange man’s clothes. Your hair is a mess. You look like—”
    “Like someone who was drugged and dragged to a hotel room,” Hollis cut him off. Her voice was rising now, a tremor running through it, but not from weakness. “Like someone who doesn’t remember half of what happened because her drink was tampered with. Like a victim, Aris. Not a cheater.”
    She stepped closer to him. He did not step back, but his eyes darted away for a fraction of a second.
    “You didn’t ask me what happened. You didn’t give me a chance to explain. You just pronounced me guilty. Because—”
    She stopped. The words formed in her mind like ice crystallizing.
    Because you already knew what was supposed to happen.
    The phone call. The wrong room. Clay Thorne’s furious voice demanding the girl he was promised.
    And Aris, her fiancé, standing here in the early morning, acting as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.
    “You knew,” Hollis said. Her voice was flat now. Empty. “You knew about the drink. You knew about the plan. You knew they were going to send me to someone else’s bed—and you let it happen.”
    Kyla’s face went pale behind Aris’s shoulder. “That’s ridiculous—”
    “Shut up,” Hollis snapped, her eyes never leaving Aris. “I’m talking to him.”
    Aris’s composure cracked. Just a hairline fracture, barely visible—but she saw it. The way his lips pressed together. The way his hand, the one not holding Kyla’s, curled into a fist at his side.
    “You’re hysterical,” he said, but it came out too fast. “You have no proof of anything.”
    “I have you,” Hollis said, and her voice was ice. “I have the way you just answered me. You didn’t say ‘I didn’t know.’ You said ‘You have no proof.’ That’s not a denial, Aris. That’s an admission.”
    He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
    And in that silence, everything clicked into place.
    Her stepmother’s scheme. Her sister’s eager complicity. And her fiancé—the man who had kissed her goodnight a hundred times, who had promised to love her forever—standing here, waiting for her to fall so he could catch Kyla instead.
    He had not been betrayed by her.
    He had been waiting to betray her.
    Hollis let out a breath. It came out shaky, but she did not break.
    She reached into her pocket and pulled out the check he had thrown at her. She had picked it up without thinking, an instinct to not leave anything of his lying on her family’s floor.
    She unfolded it slowly, looked at the number, and then let it fall from her fingers.
    It drifted down and landed at his feet.
    “That,” Hollis said, her voice as cold as a tombstone, “was for my dead love.”
    “Keep your filthy money,” she spat. “Buy your new fiancée some candy.”
    She threw the confetti of paper into their faces, then turned and ran out of the house without a backward glance.
    Hollis ran blindly through the New York streets. The cold wind whipped at her face, but it couldn’t cool the fire of rage and despair in her heart. She was homeless.
    The next day, exhausted and numb, she made her way back to her dorm at New York University, seeking a moment of peace.
    She was stopped by her academic advisor before she even reached the building entrance. The advisor’s face was etched with pity and discomfort.
    She was told that her stepmother, Beverley, had come to the university that morning. Acting as Hollis’s “guardian,” she had filed the paperwork for a mandatory withdrawal.
    The news hit Hollis like a physical blow. NYU was her escape. The one thing she had earned all by herself.
    She ran to the registrar’s office, but the answer was the same. The withdrawal was processed. It could not be reversed without her guardian’s consent.
    Hollis called Beverley. Her stepmother’s voice was smug and victorious on the other end of the line.
    “I gave you a chance, Hollis. Now, you only have one path left.”
    The threat was clear.
    “Eight o’clock tonight. The St. Regis, suite 803. Mr. Clay Thorne is waiting for you. If you’re not there, photos of you with your ‘wild man’ will be on the front page of every gossip magazine tomorrow morning.”
    Beverley hung up.
    Hollis listened to the dead tone, feeling as if the entire world had gone dark.

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  • The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit by Maui

    The Silent Heiress's Million Dollar Gambit by Maui
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    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

  • One Night With My Billionaire Boss by Nathaniel Stone

    One Night With My Billionaire Boss by Nathaniel Stone
    👉 READ NOW

    I woke up on silk sheets that smelled of expensive cedar and cold sandalwood, a world away from my cramped apartment in Brooklyn.

    Beside me lay Ezra Gardner-my boss, the billionaire CEO of Gardner Holdings, and the man who could end my career with a snap of his fingers.

    He didn’t offer an apology for the night before; instead, he looked at me with terrifying clarity and proposed a cold, calculated business arrangement.

    “Marriage. It stabilizes the board and solves the PR crisis before it begins.”

    He dressed me in archival Chanel and sent me home in his Maybach, but my life was already falling apart. My boyfriend, Irving, claimed he had passed out early, yet his location data placed him at my best friend’s apartment until three in the morning. When I tried to run, I realized Ezra was already ten steps ahead, tracking my movements and uncovering the secret I’d spent twenty years hiding: my connection to the powerful Senator Grimes.

    I was trapped between a CEO who treated me like a line item on a quarterly report and a boyfriend who had been using me while sleeping with my closest friend. I felt like a pawn in a game I didn’t understand, wondering why a man like Ezra would walk up forty flights of stairs on a broken leg just to make sure I was safe.

    “Showtime, Mrs. Gardner.”

    Standing on the red carpet in a gown that cost more than my life, I watched my cheating ex-boyfriend’s face turn pale as Ezra claimed me in front of the world. I wasn’t just an assistant anymore; I was a weapon, and it was time to burn their world down.

    👉 READ NOW

    One Night With My Billionaire Boss Chapter 1

    Pain was the first thing Hali Andrews registered. It was a sharp, rhythmic thudding behind her temples, the kind of hangover headache that promised a day of misery. She kept her eyes closed, unwilling to let the morning light assault her retinas just yet. She shifted, expecting the lumpy comfort of her old mattress in Brooklyn, but the sheets beneath her fingers felt wrong. They were too smooth. Too cool. Silk.

    She frowned, her fingers curling into the fabric. The scent in the air was different, too. Her apartment usually smelled of stale coffee and the vanilla candle she burned to mask the scent of the city. This air smelled expensive. It was a crisp blend of cedar, cold sandalwood, and something uniquely masculine.

    Hali reached out blindly toward where her nightstand should be, fumbling for her phone to check the time. Her hand did not find wood or plastic. Instead, her palm landed on the rumpled mattress. The high-thread-count sheets were indented, holding the lingering, intense body heat of someone who had just vacated the spot.

    Hali froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

    She snapped her eyes open.

    The room was vast, bathed in the soft gray light of a Manhattan morning. But Hali did not look at the floor-to-ceiling windows or the modern art on the walls. Her gaze was locked on the frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom, where the heavy drumming of a running shower echoed through the quiet suite.

    The memories of the previous night crashed into her mind like a tidal wave. The charity gala. The endless trays of champagne she had consumed to numb the boredom. The elevator ride where the air had suddenly become too thin. The heat of his hand on her waist. The way the door to the penthouse suite had clicked shut, sealing her fate.

    Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. She stopped breathing. This was a catastrophe. This was the end of her career. If Irving found out…

    Irving. She squeezed her eyes shut. She had called him three times last night. He had not answered. That was why she drank the champagne. That was why she was here.

    She snatched her hand back as if burned, clutching it to her chest. She had to leave. Now. Before he finished his shower.

    Hali moved with painstaking slowness, inching toward the edge of the bed. Her limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. She managed to sit up, swinging her legs over the side, her feet sinking into a plush carpet that probably cost more than her student loans.

    She looked around frantically for her clothes. Her dress, a vintage piece she had altered herself to look like a designer gown, was lying in a heap near the door. It was ruined. The zipper was torn, the fabric ripped at the seam. A visceral memory of Ezra’s hands tearing it off her flashed through her mind, making her face burn.

    She could not wear that. She was naked, stranded in the lion’s den, with no armor.

    Suddenly, the water in the bathroom cut off. The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

    Hali grabbed the silk sheet and pulled it up to her chin, scrambling backward until her back hit the headboard. She felt like a cornered animal.

    The bathroom door clicked open.

    Ezra walked out. He was fully awake, alert. There was no morning grogginess in his eyes, only a terrifying, predatory clarity. He wore a black towel low on his hips, water droplets clinging to his broad shoulders and tracking down the defined ridges of his abdomen. He moved with a stiff, controlled grace. The towel hung low enough to obscure his upper legs completely, revealing nothing but muscle. His presence filled the room, sucking the oxygen out of the air.

    He looked at her. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes sweeping over her, clutching the sheet. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look regretful. He looked like he was in a boardroom meeting.

    “Good morning, Hali.”

    Hali opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat, her voice trembling when she finally spoke. “Mr. Gardner. I… this was… I need to leave.”

    Ezra didn’t respond immediately. He walked past the bed, his movement fluid yet careful, toward the massive walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and returned holding a garment bag and a box.

    He placed them on the foot of the bed.

    “Wear these,” he said.

    Hali stared at the logo on the box. Chanel. She looked back at him, confusion warring with her panic.

    Ezra leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Given the events of last night, and my position, we need to discuss the path forward.”

    Hali blinked. “What?”

    “Marriage,” Ezra said. The word hung in the air, heavy and absurd.

    Hali let out a choked laugh. It was a hysterical sound. “Excuse me?”

    Ezra’s face remained impassive. “A scandal involving the CEO and a junior assistant would be detrimental to the stock price, especially with a vital, confidential brand acquisition currently in the sensitive negotiation phase. A sudden marriage, however, can be spun as a whirlwind romance. It stabilizes the board. It solves the PR crisis before it begins.”

    Hali stared at him. He was discussing their night together-a night where he had touched her in ways that made her burn just thinking about it-as if it were a line item on a quarterly report.

    “That is insane,” Hali whispered. “I am not marrying you for a stock price.”

    Ezra tilted his head slightly. “It is a contract. A business arrangement. You will be compensated.”

    “I have a boyfriend,” Hali blurted out.

    The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Ezra’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them.

    “The creative director,” Ezra said, his tone dismissive, as if referring to a minor clerical error. “He is an obstacle, but hardly an insurmountable one.”

    “Yes,” Hali said, lifting her chin, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. “Irving.”

    “He didn’t answer your calls last night,” Ezra stated. It wasn’t a question.

    Hali flinched. “That doesn’t mean…”

    “Get dressed, Hali.” Ezra pushed off the dresser and turned his back to her, walking toward the coffee machine in the corner of the suite. “The car is waiting downstairs.”

    Hali watched his back, the muscles shifting under his skin. He was dismissing her. He had dropped a bomb and then dismissed her.

    She grabbed the box and the garment bag and sprinted into the bathroom, locking the door with trembling fingers.

    She leaned against the cool marble of the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a disaster. Her lips were swollen. There were red marks on her neck and collarbone, undeniable evidence of Ezra’s mouth.

    She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing hard, trying to wash away the memory of his hands. It didn’t work.

    She opened the garment bag. It was a tweed suit, a classic Chanel silhouette but with a modern, edgy cut. It was from the upcoming collection. It hadn’t even hit the stores yet.

    She put it on. It fit perfectly.

    A chill went down her spine. The waist, the bust, the length of the skirt. It fit remarkably well-standard sample size, perhaps, or maybe he just had an eerily accurate eye for proportions.

    She pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to know. She opened the box. Underwear. La Perla. Black lace. Also her size.

    She dressed quickly, her hands shaking so badly she could barely fasten the buttons. She felt like a doll he had dressed up. She shoved her ruined dress into the trash can, unable to look at it.

    When she emerged from the bathroom, Ezra was sitting on a velvet sofa, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He gestured to a second cup on the table.

    “Drink. You’ll need it.”

    “No,” Hali said. She grabbed her purse from the floor. “I’m leaving. We are going to pretend this never happened. I am going to work, and I am going to be a junior assistant, and you are going to be the CEO, and we will never speak of this again.”

    She walked toward the door, her heels sinking into the carpet.

    “Hali,” Ezra’s voice stopped her. It was quiet, but it commanded obedience. “Running doesn’t solve problems.”

    She paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. She didn’t turn around. “It solves this one.”

    She yanked the door open and stepped into the corridor. It was empty. She practically ran to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster.

    When the doors slid open, she stepped inside and leaned against the mirrored wall, closing her eyes. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.

    The elevator descended, the numbers counting down. 40… 30… 20…

    When the doors opened at the lobby, she kept her head down, using her hair as a shield. She walked fast, ignoring the doorman, pushing through the revolving doors into the crisp morning air.

    She took a deep breath, thinking she had made it. She was free.

    A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb, blocking her path. The rear window rolled down smoothly.

    Finley Butler, the company’s head of legal and Ezra’s right hand, sat in the driver’s seat. He looked at her with a polite, professional smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

    “Ms. Andrews,” Finley said. “Mr. Gardner instructed me to take you home.”

    Hali froze. She looked left, then right. There were no taxis. The subway was three blocks away. She was wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit that wasn’t hers.

    She was trapped.

    One Night With My Billionaire Boss Chapter 2

    Hali stared at Finley, her grip on her purse tightening until her knuckles turned white. The morning sun glared off the polished black paint of the Maybach, stinging her tired eyes.

    “I can take the subway,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

    Finley didn’t stop smiling. “The doorman is watching, Ms. Andrews. And I believe the paparazzi are often camped out at the corner café this time of morning hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Gardner. It would be best to get in.”

    Hali glanced back at the building entrance. The doorman was indeed watching, his eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of the junior assistant in Chanel standing next to the CEO’s car.

    She grit her teeth and opened the back door, sliding onto the leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of the same sandalwood scent that clung to her skin. It was suffocating.

    Finley pulled away from the curb effortlessly, merging into the chaotic Manhattan traffic. The partition between the front and back was down. Hali stared out the window, watching the blur of yellow taxis and pedestrians.

    “Where to?” Finley asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

    “Brooklyn,” she said, giving him her address. It felt wrong to say the street name in this car. It was like mixing oil and water.

    Finley nodded. “Brooklyn. A long drive.”

    The silence that followed was heavy. Hali picked at a loose thread on the seat-wait, there were no loose threads in a Maybach. She clasped her hands in her lap to stop fidgeting.

    “Mr. Gardner rarely loses control,” Finley said suddenly. His tone was casual, conversational, as if he were commenting on the weather. “You must be… unexpected.”

    Heat flared in Hali’s cheeks, burning hot and fast. She felt the blood rush to her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was the champagne. It was a mistake.”

    Finley hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Mistakes usually don’t involve archival Chanel.”

    Hali looked down at the suit. The fabric was soft against her skin, a constant reminder of the man who had given it to her. She remembered the way Ezra had looked at her last night in the elevator. There had been a hunger in his eyes that terrified her. And she had pulled his tie. She remembered that now. She had pulled him down to her.

    She closed her eyes, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

    Her phone buzzed in her hand. She jumped, her heart skipping a beat. It was a text from Irving.

    “Hey babe. Sorry I missed your calls. Passed out early last night. Crazy week. Morning coffee?”

    Hali stared at the screen. Passed out early.

    She looked at the timestamp of her last call to him: 11:45 PM. Irving was a night owl. He never slept before 2 AM.

    A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. He was lying. But why?

    Then, a darker, colder thought washed over the suspicion. The date. She did the mental math quickly, counting the days on her internal calendar.

    She felt the blood drain from her face.

    “Stop the car,” she said. Her voice was sharp, urgent.

    Finley frowned, glancing in the mirror. “Ms. Andrews? We are in the middle of-“

    “Please, stop. There’s a CVS right there. I need… I need something.”

    Finley’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her pale face. He understood. He didn’t say a word, just signaled and pulled the massive car over to the curb in front of the pharmacy.

    Hali didn’t wait for him to open the door. She scrambled out, nearly tripping in the borrowed heels.

    The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy were harsh. She walked straight to the family planning aisle, her heart pounding in her ears. She felt like everyone was looking at her. The woman in the hair care aisle. The teenager buying soda. They all knew.

    She grabbed the small box of Plan B. One pill. Fifty dollars. A small price to pay to erase a life-altering mistake, even if the tiny print on the back warned of its diminishing efficacy window.

    She took it to the counter. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, scanned the box. She looked at Hali’s expensive suit, then at her messy hair, then at the box. She didn’t say anything, but her expression screamed judgment.

    Hali paid cash. She didn’t want a paper trail. She shoved the box into her bag and walked out, keeping her head down.

    When she got back into the car, Finley didn’t ask what she had bought. He simply merged back into traffic. But the air in the car had changed. It felt heavier.

    “He suspects,” Hali thought. And if he suspects, he will tell Ezra.

    She sat in silence for the rest of the ride, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. When the car finally pulled up to her worn-down apartment building in Brooklyn, the contrast was stark. The peeling paint of the entryway looked pathetic next to the gleaming black metal of the car.

    “Thank you,” Hali muttered, pushing the door open.

    “Ms. Andrews,” Finley said.

    She paused, looking back.

    “Ezra is a man who takes care of his assets,” Finley said. His voice was devoid of mockery now. It was a warning. Or maybe a promise.

    Hali slammed the door shut and ran up the steps to her building.

    She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly she dropped them twice. Finally, she got the door open and stumbled into her apartment. She locked the deadbolt, threw the chain, and leaned back against the wood, sliding down until she hit the floor.

    It was quiet. Safe.

    She pulled the box out of her bag. Her hands trembled as she tore the foil packaging. The small white pill looked innocuous.

    She went to the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and swallowed the pill. It scraped against her dry throat.

    Almost immediately, a wave of nausea rolled over her. It was psychosomatic, she knew, but she still gagged, clutching the edge of the sink.

    She needed to get this scent off her. She needed to get Ezra off her skin.

    She went to the bathroom and stripped off the Chanel suit. She looked at herself in the mirror. The bruises on her neck were darkening. A love bite right over her pulse point.

    She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw and red, trying to erase the ghost of his touch.

    When she finally stepped out, wrapped in her old, fraying bathrobe, she felt hollowed out. She bundled the Chanel suit and the lingerie into a plastic bag and shoved it into the back of her closet, behind her winter coats. She never wanted to see it again.

    Her phone buzzed again. It was Lia, her best friend and a junior designer at the firm.

    “Did you see Irving last night? I swear I saw him at The Box around 1 AM.”

    Hali stared at the message. The Box. A nightclub.

    Irving had texted her saying he was asleep.

    The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. He lied.

    Why would he lie about being at a club? Unless he wasn’t alone.

    In the front seat of the Maybach, blocks away, Finley typed a message on his encrypted phone.

    “She visited the pharmacy. She looks ill. Urgent.”

    Across the city, in the penthouse suite, Ezra Gardner looked at the message. The phone in his hand creaked under the pressure of his grip.

    He stared at the words, his jaw tightening until a muscle feathered in his cheek. He closed his eyes, exhaling a slow, controlled breath. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he snapped the fountain pen he was holding in half. Ink bled onto his fingers, black as oil.

    One Night With My Billionaire Boss Chapter 3

    Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Hali stood in front of her mirror, adjusting the collar of her thickest, highest cashmere sweater. It was charcoal gray and stiflingly warm for September, but it was the only thing that effectively hid the bruising on her neck.

    She applied an extra layer of concealer under her eyes, trying to mask the shadows left by a sleepless weekend. The nausea from the Plan B had settled into a dull, constant ache in her lower abdomen.

    She checked her phone. No new messages from Irving since his Sunday night “hope you had a good weekend” text. She hadn’t replied.

    On the subway ride to Midtown, Hali obsessively refreshed Irving’s Instagram. Nothing. His tagged photos were clean. But the doubt planted by Lia’s text had taken root and was growing fast.

    She swiped her badge at the turnstiles of Gardner Holdings, the beep sounding like an accusation. The lobby was a hive of activity, heels clicking on marble, the hum of ambition and caffeine filling the air.

    Hali kept her head down, clutching her coffee cup like a lifeline. She made it to the design department without running into anyone important.

    Her cubicle was exactly as she had left it: cluttered with fabric swatches, sketches, and half-finished mood boards. It felt like a different lifetime.

    Yara, the department gossip and Hali’s work friend, rolled her chair over the moment Hali sat down.

    “Oh my god, you look like death,” Yara whispered, her eyes wide. “But listen. The rumor mill is on fire.”

    Hali’s heart skipped a beat. She forced a smile, booting up her computer. “What else is new?”

    “No, this is big. Someone from the cleaning crew said they found a woman’s dress in Ezra’s penthouse suite on Saturday morning. Ripped.”

    Hali’s hand jerked, splashing hot coffee onto her wrist. She hissed, grabbing a tissue.

    Yara leaned in closer. “They say he took someone home from the gala. Everyone is trying to guess who. Some say it was that model, Kaia. Others think it might be a socialite.”

    Hali wiped her wrist, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Or maybe a junior assistant who wants to die,” she thought.

    “Probably a model,” Hali said, her voice sounding thin to her own ears.

    Just then, Nolan Hayes, the Design Director, swept through the aisles. He paused at Hali’s desk, picking up a sketch she had left out-a rough charcoal drawing of a structured bodice.

    “Interesting lines, Andrews,” Nolan murmured, adjusting his glasses. “Very aggressive. It has a certain… disruptive quality. Reminds me of the avant-garde movement in Berlin.”

    Hali froze. The blood drained from her face. “Oh, I… I was just doodling. It’s nothing.”

    Nolan hummed, dropping the sketch back onto the desk. “Don’t be so modest. I need you in the concept meeting this afternoon. Taking notes. 2 PM.”

    He walked away before she could protest.

    Hali exhaled, sinking into her chair. Being noticed was dangerous. She had to be more careful.

    A ping from her computer drew her attention. A small notification box popped up in the bottom right corner of her screen. It was from the company’s internal messaging system, Slack.

    New Friend Request.

    Hali frowned. Who added people as friends on Slack? It was usually automatic.

    She clicked the notification.

    User: E.G.

    Role: CEO

    Hali stared at the screen. The avatar was a black square.

    Ezra.

    Her breath hitched. He was adding her. On the company server. Where IT could see. Where anyone looking over her shoulder could see.

    Her mouse hovered over the Accept button. Her finger trembled. This was a power move. He was invading her workspace, reminding her that he was everywhere, asserting his dominance even through a digital screen.

    She gritted her teeth. No. She wasn’t going to play this game. She wasn’t his fiancée. She was his employee.

    She moved the cursor to the Decline button and clicked.

    Request Declined.

    She sat back, her heart racing. She had just rejected the CEO. She was insane. She was going to be fired.

    Five minutes passed. Hali tried to focus on a spreadsheet, but the numbers were swimming.

    The phone on her desk rang. The shrill sound made her jump.

    “Design Department, Hali Andrews,” she answered, her voice tight.

    “Ms. Andrews,” Finley Butler’s smooth voice came through the line. “Mr. Gardner would like to see you in his office. Now.”

    Hali closed her eyes. Of course.

    “I’m in the middle of preparing for-“

    “Now, Ms. Andrews.”

    The line went dead.

    Hali hung up the phone slowly. Yara was looking at her with pity. “You’re getting called to the principal’s office? What did you do?”

    “Nothing,” Hali said, standing up. Her legs felt like jelly.

    She walked to the elevator banks, clutching her notebook to her chest. She pressed the button for the penthouse floor.

    The ride up was agonizingly fast. The doors opened onto the 45th floor, a space of quiet luxury and terrifying silence.

    Finley was seated at his desk outside the double mahogany doors. He looked up, his expression neutral.

    “Go right in.”

    Hali walked to the door and knocked.

    “Enter.”

    She pushed the door open. Ezra was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to her. He was wearing a suit that cost more than her father-if she knew who he was-probably made in a year.

    He turned slowly. He held his phone in his hand. The screen was lit up.

    Hali stopped in the middle of the room, keeping a safe distance.

    “You wanted to see me, Mr. Gardner?”

    Ezra didn’t answer immediately. He walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. He stopped two feet away, invading her personal space.

    He held up the phone. On the screen was the notification: Hali Andrews declined your request.

    He looked at her, his dark eyes boring into hers.

    “Is this how you treat your fiancé?” he asked, his voice low and laced with a dangerous calm.

    “I’m not your fiancé,” Hali whispered, backing up until her heels hit the wood of the door behind her.

    Ezra followed, placing one hand on the doorframe above her head, boxing her in. The scent of sandalwood enveloped her again, triggering a sensory flashback to the silk sheets and his warm skin.

    “We are negotiating,” Ezra said, leaning down until his mouth was inches from her ear. “And declining a friend request is a poor opening move, Hali.”

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Invisible To Her Bully by Dea B

    Invisible To Her Bully by Dea B

    👉 READ NOW

    Unlike her twin brother, Jackson, Jessa struggled with her weight and very few friends. Jackson was an athlete and the epitome of popularity, while Jessa felt invisible.

    Noah was the quintessential “It” guy at school-charismatic, well-liked, and undeniably handsome. To make matters worse, he was Jackson’s best friend and Jessa’s biggest bully.

    During their senior year, Jessa decides it was time for her to gain some self-confidence, find her true beauty and not be the invisible twin.As Jessa transformed, she begins to catch the eye of everyone around her, especially Noah.Noah, initially blinded by his perception of Jessa as merely Jackson’s sister, started to see her in a new light.

    How did she become the captivating woman invading his thoughts? When did she become the object of his fantasies?Join Jessa on her journey from being the class joke to a confident, desirable young woman, surprising even Noah as she reveals the incredible person she has always been inside.

    👉 READ NOW

    Invisible To Her Bully Chapter 1

    Jessa

    Seven Years Earlier

    Growing up as a twin sounds fun, right? Built-in best friend, someone who always has your back, someone who gets you without explanation. That’s what I had-at least for the first ten years of my life.

    My twin brother, Jackson, was the center of my world. We were fraternal twins, but opposites in every way. Jackson was tall, lean, athletic, and could make friends with just about anyone. I was short, a little chunky, shy to the point of painful, and usually tripping over my own feet.

    But it never mattered to me. I didn’t need a million friends. I had Jackson. He was my best friend, my other half, my person.

    It was always just the two of us. Our mom worked constantly to keep food on the table, so most of the time it was just me and him. Maybe that’s why we clung to each other so hard.

    “Jax, I wanna go home,” I whined, dragging my feet as he tossed a football from hand to hand.

    “Jess, chill. I told the new kid I’d meet him here to throw the ball around,” he said, his brown eyes locked on the field like he was already in the NFL.

    “This is boring.” I plopped down on the grass.

    He sighed, dug in his pocket, and tossed me a granola bar. “Here. Peanut butter. Your favorite.”

    Instant mood boost. “Yes! Thanks, Jax.”

    While I was tearing open the wrapper, he straightened up, glancing at the entrance to the field. “That’s him.”

    A boy about our age walked toward us, a football tucked under his arm. He had dark, messy brown hair and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. The kind of eyes you notice right away. And his lashes? Long enough to make me jealous.

    “Hey,” he said to Jackson.

    “Hey, Noah. This is my twin, Jessa.”

    I scrambled up, brushing grass off my jeans. My mouth moved faster than my brain. “Wow… you’ve got really long eyelashes. For a boy.”

    Noah’s cheeks turned pink. “Uh, thanks?”

    Jackson groaned. “Sorry, she doesn’t have a filter sometimes.”

    “I just meant they’re… pretty,” I tried, wishing I could disappear.

    “Jess, why don’t you go sit while we toss the ball around,” Jackson muttered.

    “She doesn’t play?” Noah asked.

    I shook my head before Jackson could answer. “Not really my thing.”

    “Nope. If she tried to throw, she’d probably knock herself over,” Jackson joked.

    I pretended not to care, sitting back down on the sidelines, but my eyes kept drifting toward Noah as he and Jackson tossed the ball. He wasn’t just cute-he was quiet, too. Almost shy. Something about him made me want him to like me.

    After they finished, Jackson clapped him on the back. “You’ve got a good arm.”

    “Two older brothers taught me some stuff,” Noah shrugged.

    “Oh! So they’re your best friends too, like me and Jackson?” I asked eagerly.

    “No. They’re just… brothers. I don’t really have a best friend.”

    My heart squeezed. “Then you should get one. Me and Jackson do everything together. He’s the best best friend you could ever have.”

    Noah looked at Jackson. Jackson just shrugged. Noah nodded slightly, like he got the message.

    At the time, I didn’t realize how wrong I was.

    One Month Later

    “I don’t wanna go to the movies, Jax!” I whined, arms crossed.

    “Too bad. Noah and I wanna see the new Marvel movie. You can’t stay home alone.”

    “We always do what you and Noah want. What about me?”

    He sighed. “Jess, I love you. But sometimes I wanna do stuff without you. You need to find your own friends.”

    That stung more than I wanted to admit.

    The doorbell rang, and Noah walked in with his usual smirk.

    “Sup.”

    “Jess, get your shoes on,” Jackson ordered.

    “She’s coming too?” Noah asked.

    “Yeah. Mom’s at work. I’m babysitting.”

    “Babysitting?” I snapped. “We’re the same age! You’re not babysitting me.”

    “I’m twelve minutes older,” Jackson shot back.

    Noah snickered. “She’s definitely acting like the baby.”

    I stormed off to grab my shoes, but I froze halfway up the stairs when I heard Noah’s voice:

    “Man, your sister’s such a brat. Wish she didn’t have to tag along.”

    Jackson’s answer was the knife that cut deepest. “Tell me about it.”

    At the theater, I tried to forget. “Jax, can we get popcorn? With extra butter?”

    Noah raised his brows. “Do you really need the extra butter?”

    I clenched my fists. “Yes. I like it that way.”

    Jackson slipped me a couple of bills. “Get your own small one.”

    I headed for the snack line, and that’s when I heard them again.

    “She always has to be eating,” Noah muttered.

    “Yeah,” Jackson said with a low laugh. “Sometimes it’s embarrassing to be seen with her.”

    The words hit harder than any punch. My own twin-my best friend-was embarrassed of me.

    “Hey, it’s your turn,” a girl behind me said gently.

    I shook my head. “Changed my mind.”

    She frowned. “You okay?”

    “No,” I whispered. “I think I lost my best friend.”

    She studied me, then said, “I’m Mariah. We’re in the same class, right? You’re Jessa. Jackson’s twin.”

    “Yeah.”

    “What movie are you supposed to be seeing?”

    “Some superhero thing.”

    Mariah smirked. “Ditch it. Come with me instead. There’s a new comedy. Way cuter lead actor.”

    Before I could decide, Jackson and Noah appeared.

    “Jess, what’s taking so long?” Jackson demanded. “Oh, hey, Mariah.”

    Mariah smiled sweetly. “Hi. Jessa and I are seeing the comedy instead.”

    Jackson shrugged. “Fine. Meet us in the lobby after.”

    As he and Noah disappeared, Mariah tugged me toward her theater.

    “Come on. You need a laugh.”

    I glanced back one last time at my brother’s retreating figure.

    He stole my best friend, I thought. And he’s never giving him back.

    Three Years Later

    Thirteen hit me hard. My body changed in ways I didn’t ask for. I wasn’t the chubby little girl anymore-I had curves. Breasts too big for my age. Hips that didn’t match the other girls at school.

    Mom always said, Girls built like us need to cover up. Layers make you look thinner.

    So I wore baggy shirts. Oversized hoodies. Clothes that swallowed me whole. It didn’t matter. The teasing still came.

    “Jess, you’re wearing that?” Jackson asked one morning, eyeing my loose shirt.

    “It’s comfortable.”

    “It’s a tent.” He rolled his eyes and left.

    Mom kissed my cheek. “Ignore him. He doesn’t understand what it’s like for girls like us.”

    At school, the comments started before I even reached the doors.

    “The circus is in town!”

    “Yeah, they brought the whale exhibit!”

    My stomach dropped when I saw where it came from-Jackson and Noah, flanked by their football buddies, all laughing.

    “Nice shirt, Jess,” Noah snorted. “They only had tent size left?”

    “Shut up, Noah.”

    Jackson smirked. “Told you it was too big.”

    “Perfect for hiding that fat ass,” Noah added, sending the group into hysterics.

    I turned away, pretending I couldn’t hear. But their laughter followed me.

    By the time I reached my locker, my hands were shaking. I tugged the handle, but it was jammed. Mariah appeared at my side.

    “Need help?”

    We pulled together until it finally burst open-and trash bags tumbled out, spilling all over the hallway.

    A note taped to one read: Got you a new wardrobe.

    The roar of laughter around us was deafening.

    “Did you do this?” Mariah snapped at Jackson and Noah, who had pushed through the crowd to watch.

    Noah grinned. “She wants to dress like a hobo? Why not just give her options?”

    Jackson chuckled. “Relax. It’s just a joke.”

    Mariah glared at him. “She’s your sister.”

    But Jackson only walked away with Noah.

    I stared at the trash bag in my hands. For just one second, I wished I could trade places. To be the one laughing, not the one humiliated.

    Present Day

    Beep. Beep. Beep.

    I groaned, slamming my alarm clock. Senior year. My last year in this hellhole.

    I’m Jessa. Nobody special. Just the overweight twin sister of Jackson, starting quarterback and golden boy of our high school. The sister his best friend, Noah Carter, has made it his life’s mission to torment.

    Once, when I was ten, I thought Noah was cute. That crush didn’t survive the year. Now at eighteen, he’s tall, broad-shouldered, perfect hair, perfect smile. Every girl wants him.

    And I can’t stand him.

    But he’s always around-because he’s Jackson’s best friend. The boy who stole my brother from me.

    I roll out of bed and tug on my armor: jeans, tank top, oversized button-up. The layers hide the body I’ve been told to be ashamed of.

    Time to sneak out before Jackson sees me. Before Noah’s voice finds me.

    Another day. Another battle.

    Invisible To Her Bully Chapter 2

    Jessa

    I tiptoe down the hallway, holding my breath. If Jackson’s awake, he’ll have some comment locked and loaded about my clothes, my hair, or just… me. I’d rather start the day without it.

    Too late. His bedroom door creaks open, and there he is-my twin, my other half, my betrayer-all six feet of cocky quarterback standing in my way.

    “Morning, Jess,” he says, eyes flicking over my shirt. “Nice… tent.”

    I don’t even answer. I just shoulder past him, my cheeks heating.

    “Aw, come on, don’t be so sensitive,” he calls after me.

    Sensitive. That’s what he calls me when his words cut deep, like it’s my fault for feeling anything.

    By the time I make it to the kitchen, Mom’s already gone. She leaves early most mornings, and I can’t decide if I’m grateful or jealous. Grateful that she doesn’t see me like this, jealous that she never has time for us.

    Jackson grabs a protein shake from the fridge and downs it like he’s in some athlete commercial. I butter a piece of toast, trying to look invisible.

    And then, of course, the devil himself arrives.

    Noah Carter.

    He strolls right into our kitchen like he owns it, helmet tucked under his arm, hair still damp from his shower, all six-foot-two of golden-boy arrogance. He’s wearing his jersey, number 14, stretched across broad shoulders like it was custom made for him.

    And because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment, my stupid brain notices the curve of his jaw, the way his damp hair curls at the edges, the clean soap-and-sweat smell that clings to him. I hate myself for noticing.

    “Morning, sunshine,” he smirks at me.

    I roll my eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

    “What? Thought you’d like a nickname.” His grin widens, like he knows exactly how to get under my skin.

    Jackson laughs and bumps fists with him. “Ignore her, bro. Ready for practice?”

    “Always,” Noah says. He glances at my toast, eyebrows lifting. “Extra butter again?”

    I slam the knife down. “Seriously? Do you ever get tired of commenting on what I eat?”

    Jackson snorts. “Don’t mind him, Jess.”

    But I mind. God, I mind so much.

    The two of them head out to the truck, leaving me with a cold piece of toast and the familiar ache in my chest. It’s the same ache I’ve had since I was ten years old.

    The ache of realizing my twin-my best friend-chose someone else.

    At school, it doesn’t get better. It never does.

    The minute I step into the hallway, eyes flick my way. Whispers. Snickers. The same crap I’ve been hearing since middle school.

    “Damn, she’s bigger than the linebackers.”

    “Bet she eats more than the team.”

    I keep walking, head down, pretending the words don’t stab me. But they do. Every single one leaves another scar I can’t cover with oversized clothes.

    Jackson doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s too busy soaking in the glory of being the starting quarterback. Too busy laughing with Noah and the rest of the team.

    Noah. Always Noah.

    The worst part is that when he laughs, it’s this deep, warm sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When he smiles, girls melt into puddles. And when his hazel eyes catch the light, they almost glow.

    I hate that I’ve noticed all of that.

    I hate that part of me gets why the entire female population of Crestwood High would kill for a chance with him.

    I hate that part of me, some twisted little part buried deep down, remembers what it felt like to have a crush on him before he turned into my tormentor.

    Mariah finds me by my locker. Thank God for her. She’s the one good thing that came out of all this-the girl who saw me breaking at the movies three years ago and decided not to let me stand alone.

    “You look like you’re ready to murder someone,” she says, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

    “Noah,” I mutter. “As usual.”

    She makes a face. “Ugh. You’d think after all these years he’d get bored.”

    “He doesn’t. It’s like tormenting me is his favorite sport, right after football.”

    Mariah sighs. “Well, senior year, right? Almost done.”

    Almost. But almost feels like forever.

    Lunch is the worst. Always has been.

    I sit with Mariah at the edge of the cafeteria, away from the football table. But no matter how far away I am, Noah still finds me with his eyes. I feel them, sharp as daggers, hot as a spotlight.

    Today’s no different. I’m halfway through my sandwich when I hear him across the room.

    “Hey, Jackson! Better hide your food or Jess will eat it all before you blink.”

    Laughter erupts from the table. Jackson doesn’t defend me. He never does.

    I keep my head down, cheeks burning, praying no one else joins in. But of course they do.

    “She could be the team mascot,” someone says. “Put her in pads, she’ll bulldoze the defense!”

    The guys howl with laughter.

    Mariah leans across the table, her eyes flashing. “Ignore them. They’re idiots.”

    But ignoring doesn’t make it stop.

    I grip my sandwich so tightly my knuckles turn white. In my head, I imagine standing up, marching over there, and telling Noah exactly what he is-a bully. A coward. A pathetic jerk who gets off on tearing me down.

    But I don’t move.

    Because I know what would happen if I did. He’d smirk. He’d say something sharper. And Jackson would laugh right alongside him.

    Just like always.

    That night, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling.

    This is my last year. One more year of Noah Carter. One more year of Jackson pretending I don’t exist except when it’s convenient. One more year of being “the fat twin,” the joke, the nobody.

    After graduation, I’ll be free. College will be my reset button. Nobody will know me as Jackson’s sister or Noah’s favorite target. Nobody will remember the locker full of trash bags or the jokes about butter.

    It’ll just be me.

    But even as I tell myself that, my brain betrays me. Because it’s not Noah’s insults that replay behind my eyes. It’s his face. His stupidly perfect, sharp-jawed, broad-shouldered, movie-star face.

    And I hate myself for it.

    The next morning, the cycle repeats. Jackson teasing, Mom absent, me shrinking into myself.

    But when Noah shows up, there’s a shift. Not big, not obvious-just a flicker.

    He catches me staring.

    I don’t mean to. Honest. I’m just zoning out, and my gaze lands on him, on the way his T-shirt stretches across his chest, on the strong line of his throat as he tilts his head back to laugh at something Jackson says.

    And then his hazel eyes lock on mine.

    For a second, I can’t breathe.

    There’s no smirk, no insult, no sharp edge. Just Noah looking at me like… like he sees me.

    Then he blinks, and it’s gone. Replaced by the same cocky grin I know too well.

    “Like what you see, Sunshine?”

    My face burns. “In your dreams.”

    But that flicker stays with me all day.

    And it terrifies me more than all his insults combined.

    Because what if-just what if-the boy who’s made my life hell for years is the one I can’t stop noticing?

    What if the one I hate most is the one I’m secretly drawn to?

    And what if he knows it?

    Invisible To Her Bully Chapter 3

    Noah

    Most people think I’ve got it easy.

    They see the jersey, the captain’s armband, the girls who slide notes into my locker, the teachers who cut me slack because I’m “leading the team this season.” They see the highlight reels, the touchdowns, the swagger.

    And yeah, I play into it. Why wouldn’t I? That image has kept me on top since freshman year.

    But what they don’t see-the part I’d never admit out loud-is that the best part of my day isn’t the touchdowns. It’s not the cheers, or even the wins.

    It’s Jessa Lombardi’s face when I get under her skin.

    I shouldn’t find it that entertaining. She’s Jackson’s twin, for one. Which means technically, she’s off-limits. But God, she makes it too easy. The way her cheeks flush, the way she slams things down or throws out these sharp little comebacks-Jessa’s like one giant exposed nerve. Sensitive as hell.

    And I like testing how far I can push before she snaps.

    Take this morning, for example.

    Jackson and I were heading to practice, but I swung by his place first. Walking into their kitchen always feels… weird. I don’t know why. Maybe because I can practically feel how much Jessa doesn’t want me there.

    She was standing at the counter, spreading butter on toast like it had personally offended her. Oversized T-shirt, messy hair, bare feet curling against the tile. For a second, I almost didn’t say anything.

    Almost.

    “Morning, sunshine,” I tossed out, leaning in the doorway.

    The way her shoulders stiffened-it was instant gratification. Like watching a fire catch.

    “Don’t call me that,” she muttered, eyes on her plate.

    “What? Thought you’d like a nickname.”

    She rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard them click.

    Jackson laughed, completely oblivious. “Ignore her, bro.”

    I didn’t ignore her, of course. Couldn’t. I never do. Instead, I spotted the toast and couldn’t resist. “Extra butter again?”

    She slammed the knife down like she wanted to stab me with it.

    “Seriously? Do you ever get tired of commenting on what I eat?”

    And just like that, my day was made. That flare of anger in her eyes, the way her voice cracked on ever. She didn’t realize it, but she was giving me exactly what I wanted.

    Attention.

    Here’s the thing: Jessa doesn’t understand me. She thinks I pick on her just to be a jerk, or because I’ve got nothing better to do. But the truth? It’s not that simple.

    I notice her.

    More than I should.

    And noticing her-really noticing her-is dangerous.

    Because Jessa’s not like the other girls who throw themselves at me. She doesn’t giggle when I walk by or bat her lashes hoping I’ll toss her a grin. She doesn’t want anything from me.

    Except maybe for me to disappear.

    And that makes me want to poke, prod, irritate. It makes me want her to look at me, even if it’s with fire in her eyes. Because when she’s angry at me, at least she’s seeing me.

    At school, it’s even better.

    In the cafeteria, Jackson and I had the whole team cracking up over stupid inside jokes when I spotted her sitting with Mariah. Always the far table, always head down, like she’s hoping to disappear.

    But I don’t let her disappear.

    “Hey, Jackson!” I yelled across the room. “Better hide your food or Jess will eat it all before you blink.”

    The table erupted. Perfect.

    I caught the way her shoulders hunched, the way her hand froze halfway to her mouth. She didn’t look up, but I knew she heard me. Knew she felt the sting.

    And yeah, maybe that makes me an asshole. But there’s something about her silence that gets to me. Like she’s holding all this emotion inside, and I’m the only one who knows how to drag it out of her.

    Jackson doesn’t get it. To him, Jessa’s just… Jessa. His twin, his shadow, the sister he doesn’t think twice about. He doesn’t notice the way she winces when people whisper, or the way she pulls her hoodie tighter like armor.

    But I do.

    I see it.

    And sometimes I wonder if that’s why I keep poking-because if I don’t, maybe no one would notice her at all.

    Practice that afternoon should’ve wiped Jessa from my brain. It usually does. Once I’m on the field, nothing else matters. The snap of the ball, the crunch of pads, the roar of the guys-it drowns everything out.

    But not today.

    Today, when I closed my eyes, all I saw was the way she glared at me over her toast, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing.

    And then-God help me-the way her gaze flickered over me. She thought she was subtle, but I caught it. The way her eyes lingered on my shoulders, my chest.

    She thinks I don’t notice, but I do.

    And that thought sticks with me longer than I’d like.

    That night, lying in bed, I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Jessa’s sensitive, that’s all. She reacts to me because I push her buttons. If she didn’t, I’d probably lose interest.

    Except… I’m not losing interest.

    If anything, I’m hooked.

    I want to know how far I can push before she finally snaps. Before she lets me see the fire I know she’s hiding.

    I want to know if that fire burns as hot when it’s not anger.

    The next morning, I catch her staring again.

    She doesn’t realize it-I’m laughing at something Jackson said, tilting my head back, and when I glance over, her eyes are on me. Not in hate. Not in anger. Just… watching.

    And for one insane second, it feels like she sees me. Not the quarterback. Not Jackson’s best friend. Not the jerk who won’t leave her alone.

    Just me.

    Our eyes lock, and the air shifts. She looks caught, like a deer in headlights.

    For once, I don’t smirk. For once, I just look back.

    But then panic kicks in, and I cover it with a grin. “Like what you see, Sunshine?”

    Her face flames. “In your dreams.”

    But I heard the hitch in her breath. I saw the way she couldn’t look away fast enough.

    And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.

    Because tormenting Jessa Lombardi isn’t just a game anymore.

    It’s an addiction.

    And sooner or later, it’s going to blow up in my face.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Flash Marriage To My Best Friend’s Father by Madel Cerda

    Flash Marriage To My Best Friend's Father by Madel Cerda
    👉 READ NOW

    I was once the heiress to the Solomon empire, but after it crumbled, I became the “charity case” ward of the wealthy Hyde family. For years, I lived in their shadows, clinging to the promise that Anson Hyde would always be my protector.

    That promise shattered when Anson walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm. Claudine was the girl who had spent years making my life a living hell, and now Anson was announcing their engagement to the world.

    The humiliation was instant. Guests sneered at my cheap dress, and a waiter intentionally sloshed champagne over me, knowing I was a nobody. Anson didn’t even look my way; he was too busy whispering possessively to his new fiancée. I was a ghost in my own home, watching my protector celebrate with my tormentor.

    The betrayal burned. I realized I wasn’t a ward; I was a pawn Anson had kept on a shelf until he found a better trade. I had no money, no allies, and a legal trust fund that Anson controlled with a flick of his wrist.

    Fleeing to the library, I stumbled into Dallas Koch-a titan of industry and my best friend’s father. He was a wall of cold, absolute power that even the Hydes feared.

    “Marry me,” I blurted out, desperate to find a shield Anson couldn’t climb.

    Dallas didn’t laugh. He pulled out a marriage agreement and a heavy fountain pen.

    “Sign,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble. “But if you walk out that door with me, you never go back.”

    I signed my name, trading my life for the only man dangerous enough to keep me safe.

    👉 READ NOW

    Flash Marriage To My Best Friend’s Father Chapter 1

    The crystal flute in Eliza Solomon’s hand was going to shatter.

    She could feel the hairline fractures in the glass pressing against her palm, a perfect mirror of the way her chest felt—tight, brittle, and one breath away from exploding.

    “He looks happy, doesn’t he?”

    The voice came from her left. A socialite in emerald silk, someone Eliza used to know before the Solomon empire crumbled, before she became the pitiful ward of the Hyde family. They weren’t just her guardians; they were the iron-fisted trustees of the Solomon estate, a vast fortune she couldn’t touch until she turned twenty-five, or married. Anson, as the primary trustee, controlled every dollar.

    Eliza didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat had closed up somewhere between the appetizer course and the moment Anson Hyde walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm.

    Anson looked more than happy. He looked victorious.

    He stood in the center of the room, under the massive chandelier that cost more than Eliza’s entire college tuition. His hand rested on the small of Claudine’s back, his fingers splayed possessively against the white fabric of her dress. He leaned down, whispering something into her ear that made Claudine throw her head back and laugh.

    The sound was sharp. It cut through the heavy orchestral music and lodged itself directly behind Eliza’s ribs.

    It was the same laugh Claudine used when she made fun of Eliza’s second-hand shoes.

    “Excuse me,” a waiter muttered, bumping into Eliza’s shoulder with a heavy tray.

    Champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass, soaking into the bodice of her grey dress. It was cold and sticky.

    The waiter didn’t apologize. He glanced at her, recognized her as the charity case, and curled his lip in a sneer before moving on to serve the guests who actually mattered.

    Eliza’s stomach cramped. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders until her knees felt weak. She needed air. She needed to not be here, watching the boy who held the keys to her gilded cage announce his engagement to the girl who had made that cage a living hell. The promise to “protect her” had always been a lie. It was a promise to possess her.

    She turned and walked toward the library, keeping her head down.

    The library was dark, smelling of old paper and lemon polish. It was the only room in the Hyde estate where Eliza had ever felt safe. She closed the heavy oak door behind her and leaned her forehead against the wood, gasping for air. Her lungs burned.

    The door handle turned under her grip.

    Eliza jumped back, wiping frantically at her eyes. She expected Anson. She expected him to come in here and tell her to stop making a scene, to smile for the cameras, to be grateful for the roof over her head.

    But the figure that filled the doorway wasn’t Anson.

    It was a wall of a man in a black tuxedo that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. He was taller than Anson, broader, with a stillness about him that made the air in the library drop ten degrees.

    Dallas Koch.

    Eliza’s breath hitched. Why was he here? The CEO of Koch Industries, the most powerful man in the city, didn’t hide in libraries. He didn’t even look at people like Eliza.

    He stood there, his hand still on the brass knob, his dark eyes scanning her face. He took in the champagne stain on her dress, the red blotches on her cheeks, the way her hands were shaking so hard the crystal flute was rattling.

    For a second, the stoic mask he wore—the one that made him look like a statue carved from granite—cracked. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

    He stepped inside and closed the door, sealing out the noise of the party.

    He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was white silk, folded into a perfect square. He held it out to her without a word.

    Eliza stared at it. “I… I’m fine.”

    “You are not fine,” Dallas said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the quiet room. “Take it.”

    Eliza reached out. Her fingers brushed against his palm as she took the silk. A jolt of static electricity snapped between them, sharp and surprising. She flinched, but he didn’t move.

    The handkerchief smelled of sandalwood and something clean, like rain on pavement. It smelled expensive. It smelled like stability.

    From the hallway, Anson’s voice drifted through the thick wood of the door. He was making a toast.

    “…to my beautiful fiancée, Claudine…”

    The words were like a physical blow to the back of Eliza’s knees. Her legs gave out.

    She didn’t hit the floor.

    Dallas moved with a speed that shouldn’t have been possible for a man of his size. One moment he was standing three feet away, and the next, his arm was around her waist, catching her.

    His grip was firm. Solid. He held her up effortlessly, his arm like a steel bar against her spine.

    Eliza looked up. Her vision was swimming with tears, blurring his features, but she could see the intensity in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at her with pity. He was looking at her with a terrifying kind of focus.

    “Take me away,” she whispered.

    The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was a desperate plea, born of heartbreak and the sudden, overwhelming instinct that this man was the only thing in the room that wasn’t trying to crush her.

    Dallas went still. His eyes darkened, shifting from brown to something nearly black. He looked down at her, assessing the weight of her request, calculating the cost.

    “There is no turning back if we leave, Eliza,” he warned. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “If you walk out that door with me, you do not come back to this house.”

    Eliza nodded frantically. The tears were spilling over now, hot tracks on her cold skin. “Please. Just get me out.”

    Dallas didn’t hesitate. He shifted his grip, guiding her toward the servants’ exit hidden behind a tapestry. He moved his body to shield her from the security cameras, blocking her from view with his broad shoulders.

    The night air outside was biting. A sleek, matte black Maybach was idling at the curb, looking like a predator waiting in the shadows.

    Dallas opened the heavy door and helped her in. The interior smelled of leather and isolation. He slammed the door shut, and the silence was absolute. The music, the laughter, Anson’s voice—it was all gone.

    Eliza slumped against the seat. There was a crystal decanter in the center console. She didn’t think. She just poured amber liquid into a glass and drank it in one gulp.

    It burned. It burned all the way down to her empty stomach, setting her blood on fire.

    Dallas got into the driver’s seat. He didn’t look at her. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

    “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice slurring slightly as the alcohol hit her system with the force of a truck.

    “My place,” Dallas said.

    The car moved. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon. Eliza felt dizzy, unmoored. The alcohol was mixing with the adrenaline and the grief, creating a toxic cocktail in her brain.

    She looked at Dallas’s profile. He was Azalea’s dad. He was old money. He was power.

    “I need a shield,” she mumbled, the words tumbling out. “I need a wall he can’t climb.”

    Dallas glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable.

    They arrived at a building that pierced the skyline. The elevator ride was a blur of motion sickness. When the doors opened into the penthouse, Eliza stumbled.

    Dallas was there again, steadying her. His hands on her arms felt hot through the thin fabric of her dress.

    She looked up at him. In the harsh lighting of the foyer, he didn’t look like a savior. He looked dangerous.

    “Marry me,” she blurted out.

    The silence that followed was deafening.

    It was the alcohol talking, yes, but it was also a desperate, calculated gambit. Marrying Anson was a life sentence. But marrying anyone else… that was the loophole in her father’s will. It was her only escape clause. It was the survival instinct of a wounded animal trying to find the one predator in the forest who could kill the wolf at her throat.

    Dallas froze. The air in the penthouse turned electric, charged with a tension that made the hair on Eliza’s arms stand up.

    He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tell her she was drunk.

    He walked to a wall safe hidden behind a painting. He punched in a code, the beeps loud in the quiet room. He pulled out a document and a heavy fountain pen.

    He walked back to her and placed the paper on the marble console table.

    “Sign,” he commanded. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a gavel striking a sounding block.

    Eliza blinked, trying to focus on the paper. The words swam. She saw “Marriage” and “Agreement.”

    She didn’t care about the details. She just wanted Anson to know she was gone. She wanted to burn the bridge so thoroughly she could never cross it again.

    She grabbed the pen. Her signature was messy, a jagged scrawl across the bottom line.

    “Done,” she whispered.

    The pen slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the marble. The room tilted sideways.

    The last thing she felt was Dallas catching her again, lifting her into his arms as the blackness swallowed her whole.

    Flash Marriage To My Best Friend’s Father Chapter 2

    The light was aggressive.

    It sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting Eliza squarely in the face. She groaned, rolling over and reaching blindly for the glass of water that usually sat on her nightstand.

    Her hand hit nothing but air.

    She cracked one eye open. The ceiling was too high. The crown molding was too intricate. And the sheets… these weren’t her scratchy, polyester sheets. This was cotton so smooth it felt like water against her skin.

    Memory slammed into her like a physical blow.

    The party. The champagne. Dallas.

    Eliza sat up so fast her head spun. The room tilted, her brain throbbing against her skull in a rhythmic, painful beat. She looked down.

    She was wearing an oversized men’s silk pajama top that swallowed her frame. The fabric was impossibly soft against her skin, and it smelled faintly of sandalwood—his scent.

    Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest. She grabbed the massive duvet and pulled it up to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her own dress, the cheap grey one, was nowhere to be seen.

    She scanned the room. It was minimalist, masculine, and expensive. Dark wood, grey accents, no clutter.

    On the bedside table, a stack of clothes was folded with military precision.

    Sitting on top of the clothes was a piece of heavy cardstock and a black credit card.

    Eliza reached out with a trembling hand. The card was heavy—metal, not plastic. A Centurion card. It was a blank, supplementary card, bearing only the platinum insignia of the bank.

    She dropped it like it was hot coal.

    She picked up the note. The handwriting was sharp, angular.

    Hydrate. The code is your birthday. —D.

    Flashbacks assaulted her. The car ride. The demand for a shield. The paper on the marble table.

    Sign.

    She gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. She had proposed to her best friend’s father. And he had said yes.

    She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications.

    52 missed calls from Anson Hyde.

    30 texts from Anson Hyde.

    12 voicemails.

    Then, a single text from a number she didn’t have saved, but recognized instantly.

    Lawyers are filing. You are safe. Go to school.

    Dallas.

    Eliza stared at her left hand. There was a ring there. It was a simple platinum band, elegant and understated, but it felt heavier than a shackle.

    She scrambled out of bed, her legs wobbly. She grabbed the clothes. A soft cashmere sweater, dark jeans, fresh underwear. She pulled them on. They fit.

    They fit perfectly.

    She paused, the sweater halfway over her head. How? How did he have clothes in her exact size ready? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she pushed it away. She couldn’t deal with that right now.

    She needed to leave.

    She grabbed her bag and the black card—shoving it deep into her pocket—and fled the room.

    The penthouse was silent. A housekeeper was dusting in the hallway, a stout woman with grey hair.

    “Good morning, Mrs.—”

    Eliza didn’t let her finish. She bolted for the elevator, jabbing the button, half-expecting it not to work. To her surprise, a green light blinked and the doors slid shut. He had already given her access.

    Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Azalea.

    Library. Now. Emergency.

    Eliza’s stomach dropped. Did she know?

    She hailed a cab outside the building, her hands shaking so bad she could barely open the door. The ride to the university took twenty minutes, but it felt like twenty seconds.

    She ran through the campus quad, ignoring the stares of students who probably saw the photos of her fleeing the party last night.

    She found Azalea pacing behind the reference section in the library. Azalea looked manic, her blonde hair messy, phone clutched in her hand.

    “Eliza!” Azalea grabbed her arm and dragged her further into the stacks. “My dad just transferred a crazy amount of money to my account.”

    Eliza froze. “What?”

    “Like, ‘buy a small island’ money,” Azalea whispered, eyes wide. “He said to take you shopping. Why is he spoiling you?”

    Azalea looked suspicious. Her eyes narrowed, scanning Eliza’s face.

    Eliza’s mouth went dry. “I… I helped him with a project. Some translation work.”

    It was a weak lie. Eliza was an art history major, not a translator. Azalea nodded slowly, though a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Translation work? For her father, who had an entire in-house team of linguists? It felt thin, but Eliza looked so fragile, Azalea decided not to press. For now.

    “Whatever. We have orders. Come outside.”

    Azalea marched her out of the library toward the student parking lot.

    “He said your car is a death trap,” Azalea said over her shoulder. “Which, to be fair, it is. The brakes sound like dying cats. So I took the liberty of having it towed to a junkyard this morning. You’re welcome.”

    They reached the lot. A flatbed truck was idling there, its empty bed a testament to Azalea’s efficiency. Parked in her old spot was a silver Aston Martin. It gleamed under the sun, looking alien among the dented Civics and Toyotas.

    The driver hopped out and walked over to Azalea. He handed her a key fob.

    Azalea tossed it to Eliza.

    “He said this is the replacement.”

    Eliza caught the keys. The fob was heavy, leather and chrome. She looked at the car. It was worth more than the house she grew up in.

    “I can’t take this,” Eliza whispered.

    “You have to,” Azalea said, crossing her arms. “You know how he is. If you send it back, he’ll just send two.”

    Students were stopping. Phones were coming out. Whispers rippled through the air.

    “Is that Eliza Solomon? Who bought her that?”

    Eliza’s phone buzzed again. Anson.

    She declined the call, her thumb hitting the red button with aggressive force.

    She walked to the car and pressed the unlock button. The mirrors unfolded. The lights flashed.

    “Get in, Mrs. Koch,” Azalea joked, nudging her ribs.

    Eliza flinched. The title hit too close to home.

    She slid into the driver’s seat. The smell of new leather enveloped her. It smelled just like the Maybach. It smelled like Dallas.

    She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She had signed a contract with the devil, and now she was driving his chariot.

    Flash Marriage To My Best Friend’s Father Chapter 3

    The coffee shop on campus was loud, a chaotic mix of espresso machines hissing and students complaining about midterms.

    Eliza sat in the corner booth, clutching a latte like a lifeline. The caffeine was making her hands shake worse, but she needed it to combat the fog in her brain.

    Azalea was sitting opposite her, scrolling through Instagram with a grimace.

    “Everybody is talking about how you vanished,” Azalea said, not looking up. “Claudine is posting passive-aggressive quotes about ‘loyalty’ and ‘trash taking itself out.’”

    Eliza flinched. A drop of foam spilled onto her thumb. “Let her talk.”

    “Oh, I am,” Azalea said darkly. “I’m commenting with vomit emojis on every single post.”

    Eliza reached for a napkin to wipe her hand. As she moved, the cashmere scarf she was wearing slipped slightly to the side.

    Azalea gasped.

    The sound was so loud that two people at the next table turned around. Azalea dropped her phone onto the table with a clatter.

    “Eliza! What is that on your neck?”

    Eliza’s hand flew to her throat. She felt the tender spot just below her ear. A dark, purplish bruise against her pale skin.

    She had seen it in the mirror this morning and had been trying not to think about it. The memory of the night was hazy, obscured by alcohol. She remembered stumbling. She remembered Dallas catching her. Had he held her too tightly? Or was it… something else? She couldn’t be sure, and the uncertainty was terrifying.

    “It’s nothing,” Eliza stammered, pulling the scarf tighter. “The car door hit me on the way out this morning.”

    “Bullshit,” Azalea hissed, leaning over the table. Her eyes were wide, predatory. “That’s not a door, that’s a hickey. A world-class, possessive, ‘stay away from her’ hickey. Who is he?”

    Eliza’s heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn’t say Your Dad. She absolutely could not say that.

    “It’s… complicated,” Eliza said, looking down at her cup. “An older guy.”

    Azalea’s eyebrows shot up. “Older? Like… Anson’s age?”

    “Older,” Eliza whispered.

    Azalea opened her mouth to scream, but her phone cut her off. It began to ring, vibrating violently against the wooden table.

    The Caller ID flashed: The Bank.

    That was her contact name for Dallas.

    Azalea answered immediately, her posture straightening instinctively. “Yes, Daddy?”

    Eliza held her breath. She could hear the deep rumble of Dallas’s voice on the other end, though she couldn’t make out the words. The sound alone made the hair on her arms stand up.

    Azalea frowned. “Right now? But we have class in an hour.”

    She listened for another few seconds, then sighed. “Okay. Fine. We’re coming.”

    She hung up and looked at Eliza, confused.

    “He wants us at the flagship store downtown.”

    Eliza’s stomach dropped. “Both of us?”

    “Yeah. He says you need ‘appropriate attire’ for a dinner tonight.”

    “Dinner?” Eliza squeaked.

    “Apparently.” Azalea gathered her bag. “Come on. You don’t keep The Bank waiting.”

    They walked back to the parking lot. The silver Aston Martin was gleaming in the sun, drawing stares from a group of fraternity guys.

    Eliza unlocked the car. She slid into the driver’s seat, the leather molding to her body. She pushed the start button, and the engine roared to life, a guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards.

    “You’ll get used to the high life, eventually,” Azalea laughed, buckling her seatbelt.

    Eliza pulled out of the lot, merging onto the main road toward the city. The skyline loomed ahead, glass towers reflecting the afternoon sun.

    She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She adjusted the scarf again, ensuring the mark was covered.

    Whether it was a bruise or… something else, Dallas had left a mark on her. And he had done it in a place that was hard to hide.

    It felt like a brand.

    Suddenly, the dashboard screen lit up. Eliza had paired her phone to the car’s Bluetooth earlier.

    A text message notification popped up on the center console, huge and undeniable.

    Sender: Anson Hyde

    Message: Stop playing games. Come home. You belong here.

    Azalea saw it. She let out a low whistle.

    “He’s obsessed,” Azalea said, shaking her head. “It’s actually creepy. Good thing you have a new ‘older man’ to distract you.”

    Eliza gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Yeah. Good thing.”

    She drove faster, putting distance between herself and the university, between herself and Anson. But she was driving straight toward the man who had put a ring on her finger and a mark on her neck.

    And she had no idea what his game was.

    👉 CONTINUE READING