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Category: Billionaire Romance Books

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

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

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

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

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

    “Don’t call.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Let’s get a divorce.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Our CEO Daddy! Triplets in a Mission by ferocearcadia

    Our CEO Daddy! Triplets in a Mission by ferocearcadia

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    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.

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    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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Whose child is it?” he demanded.

    Georgia scoffed. “Some jerk’s.”

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

    👉 READ NOW

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

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

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

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

    What a surprise, she thought bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Not once.”

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

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

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

    Cayden only frowned and offered no reply.

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

    At that moment, Cayden’s phone began ringing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    A sudden chime from her phone broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    She answered with a quiet hum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Meanwhile, Jake drove Georgia to a private villa.

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

    “Not yet,” Georgia answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Saturday arrived sooner than expected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The rude gesture made her confidence impossible to ignore.

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

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

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

    “Now this is interesting,” Cayden said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    …

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

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

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

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

    “Continue searching!”

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

    Just then, Cayden received a call from the hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Benjamin!” she called out.

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

    “I got married,” Georgia replied plainly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The person looked very much like Georgia.

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

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

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

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • From Abandoned Wife To Powerful Heiress by Abel Dean

    From Abandoned Wife To Powerful Heiress by Abel Dean
    👉 READ NOW

    My marriage ended at a charity gala I organized. One moment, I was the pregnant, happy wife of tech mogul Gabe Sullivan; the next, a reporter’ s phone screen announced to the world that he and his childhood sweetheart, Harper, were expecting a child.

    Across the room, I saw them together, his hand resting on her stomach. This wasn’t just an affair; it was a public declaration that erased me and our unborn baby.

    To protect his company’s billion-dollar IPO, Gabe, his mother, and even my own adoptive parents conspired against me. They moved Harper into our home, into my bed, treating her like royalty while I became a prisoner.

    They painted me as unstable, a threat to the family’s image. They accused me of cheating and claimed my child wasn’t his.

    The final command was unthinkable: terminate my pregnancy. They locked me in a room and scheduled the procedure, promising to drag me there if I refused.

    But they made a mistake. They gave me back my phone to keep me quiet. Feigning surrender, I made one last, desperate call to a number I had kept hidden for years-a number belonging to my biological father, Antony Dean, the head of a family so powerful, they could make my husband’s world burn.

    👉 READ NOW

    From Abandoned Wife To Powerful Heiress Chapter 1

    Charlotte Jennings POV:

    I learned my marriage was ending the same way the rest of the world did: in a blinding flash of a camera at a charity gala I had organized.

    One moment, I was smiling, a glass of sparkling water held delicately in my hand, my mind on the baby growing inside me-our secret, our joy. The next, a reporter shoved a phone in my face, the screen glowing with a breaking news alert.

    “Mrs. Sullivan, any comment on your husband’ s big announcement?”

    The headline was stark, brutal. Tech Mogul Gabe Sullivan and Childhood Sweetheart Harper Nicholson Expecting First Child.

    The air in my lungs turned to ice. My smile froze on my face, a brittle mask that felt like it might crack and shatter. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me, the whispers starting to ripple through the opulent ballroom like a wave of poison.

    I turned, my movements slow, robotic. And there he was. My husband, Gabe. He was standing across the room with Harper Nicholson, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. She was looking up at him with tear-filled, adoring eyes, her own hand protectively cradling a barely-there bump on her stomach.

    They were a perfect picture. A loving couple sharing a beautiful secret with the world.

    A secret that was supposed to be mine.

    The reporter, a vulture sensing a kill, moved closer. “Is it true you and Mr. Sullivan have been living separately?”

    Panic flared in Gabe’ s eyes as he finally saw me. He saw the reporter, the phone, the crumbling expression on my face. His grip on Harper tightened for a split second before he let go, his face paling.

    Our eyes met across the crowded room. In that single, suspended moment, the seven years of our life together played out and died. The late nights when I’ d helped him brainstorm the code for his first app, the way he’ d held me when my adoptive parents criticized my career choice, the whispered promise last week that our baby, our son, would have the love neither of us ever truly had.

    It all turned to ash.

    A cold, quiet rage began to build in my chest, a glacial force pushing aside the shock. I started walking toward him. The murmurs in the room fell silent, the crowd parting before me like the Red Sea. The only sound was the steady, deliberate click of my heels on the marble floor. Each step was a hammer blow against the foundation of our marriage.

    I stopped directly in front of him. I didn’t look at Harper. My entire world had narrowed to Gabe’ s handsome, treacherous face.

    “You have a sixty-second head start to come up with a lie that I might actually believe,” I said, my voice dangerously low, stripped of all warmth.

    He opened his mouth, his charismatic charm already kicking in. “Lottie, baby, it’ s not what it looks like. Let’ s go home and I can explain everything.”

    I didn’ t let him finish. My hand moved on its own, a blur of motion. The crack of my palm against his cheek echoed in the cavernous silence of the ballroom. A collective gasp rippled through our audience.

    Gabe stood there, stunned, the red imprint of my hand blooming on his skin. He didn’ t look angry. He just looked… caught.

    “Please, don’ t blame Gabe!” Harper’ s voice was a saccharine whisper, laced with faux fragility as she stepped between us, placing a hand on his chest. “It was all my fault. I… I was lonely. He was just being kind.”

    Her eyes, glistening with perfectly timed tears, locked onto mine. There was no apology in them. Only triumph.

    The rage inside me finally broke through the ice, and a single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down my cold cheek. I felt the last of my composure shattering.

    Gabe reached for me, his voice a desperate rasp. “Lottie, please.”

    He tried to pull me into his arms, but I flinched away from his touch as if burned.

    “Don’ t touch me,” I choked out.

    His publicist materialized at his side, whispering urgently in his ear. Gabe’ s jaw tightened. He looked from the publicist, to the sea of watching faces, to Harper’ s pleading expression, and finally, back to me. The calculation in his eyes was sickening.

    “The baby is mine,” he said, his voice now clear and firm, not for me, but for everyone listening. “Harper and I have a long history. We’ re going to get through this together.”

    Harper let out a soft sob and leaned into him, burying her face in his expensive suit. He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. A protective gesture. A gesture he hadn’ t offered me, his pregnant wife, standing alone in the wreckage he’ d created.

    “Gabe, what are you saying?” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “What about our baby?”

    He finally looked at me, his eyes dark with a pain that I knew wasn’t for me, but for himself. For the inconvenience I represented.

    “We’ ll talk at home,” he muttered, his voice low and tight. He began to steer a weeping Harper toward the exit, his team closing ranks around them like a royal guard.

    He was leaving me. He was leaving me here, alone, to face the humiliation.

    I stood frozen as they walked away. The weight of his public declaration settled over me, a suffocating shroud. He hadn’t just admitted to an affair. He had publicly claimed another woman’s child and, in doing so, had erased ours.

    My legs gave out and I stumbled back, catching myself on a table laden with untouched champagne glasses. The room started to spin.

    His company, Sullivan Tech, was on the verge of the biggest IPO in a decade. A scandal, a messy divorce, an illegitimate child-it would have been a disaster. But a tech mogul standing by his pregnant childhood friend? That was a story of loyalty. It was noble.

    It was a lie that sacrificed me and our unborn child on the altar of his ambition.

    As one of his security guards approached to escort me out a side door, away from the prying eyes and flashing cameras, a sickening realization dawned. Gabe hadn’t just made a mistake.

    He had made a choice. And he hadn’t chosen me.

    He had chosen her.

    From Abandoned Wife To Powerful Heiress Chapter 2

    Charlotte Jennings POV:

    The ride back to our penthouse was silent, a thick, suffocating blanket of unspoken words filling the space between myself and Gabe’ s grim-faced driver. I stared out at the glittering lights of New York, but saw nothing. My mind was a chaotic storm of betrayal and disbelief. The home I had designed, the sanctuary I had built for us, now felt like a gilded cage waiting to close in on me.

    When we arrived, Gabe was already there, pacing the length of our living room, the city skyline a dramatic backdrop to his distress. He had shed his jacket and tie, his sleeves rolled up his forearms. He looked like a man preparing for a fight.

    He stopped when I walked in, his eyes searching my face. “Lottie.”

    I said nothing. I walked past him to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared down at the river, a dark, churning ribbon of black.

    “I know you’ re angry,” he started, his voice soft, persuasive. The voice he used to close billion-dollar deals and charm skeptical investors. “You have every right to be. But you have to understand. The IPO…”

    “Don’ t,” I cut him off, my voice flat. “Don’ t you dare talk to me about the IPO right now.”

    “It’ s everything, Lottie! It’ s everything we’ ve worked for!”

    “We?” I spun around, the fury I’ d been suppressing finally erupting. “We worked for this? I was the one holding you up when you were ready to quit. I was the one who believed in you when your own family called you a failure. And this is how you repay me? By publicly humiliating me and claiming another woman’ s child?”

    “It’ s not like that!” he insisted, taking a step toward me. “Harper is… she’ s fragile. She has no one. Her family threw her out. She came to me for help.”

    “And what am I, Gabe? Am I not fragile? Am I not carrying your child? Or does our baby not matter as much as the child of your childhood sweetheart?”

    The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. He flinched as if I’ d slapped him again.

    “Of course our baby matters,” he said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. He knelt before me, taking my hands in his. His touch felt alien, wrong. I didn’ t pull away, my body frozen in shock. “Lottie, look at me. I love you. You are my wife. Nothing changes that.”

    I stared down at the top of his head, at the man I loved kneeling at my feet, and felt nothing but a vast, empty coldness.

    “It’ s just for show,” he continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. “A story for the press. Once the IPO is finalized, everything will go back to normal. We’ ll expose the truth, I promise. I’ ll tell the world that you are the one carrying my heir. We will quietly adopt our own child. Legally, it will be clean. No one will ever know.”

    The sheer audacity of his plan stole my breath. He wanted me to hide my own pregnancy. To give birth to our son in secret, only to “adopt” him later, all to protect his public image and his company’ s stock price. He was asking me to accept that our child would be born a dirty secret, while Harper’ s would be celebrated.

    “You’ re insane,” I whispered, pulling my hands from his grasp. “Absolutely insane.”

    “It’ s the only way!” he pleaded, getting to his feet. “My mother is already on board. Your parents, too. They all agree this is the best solution to protect the family and the business.”

    The mention of our families felt like a physical blow. His mother, Eleanor Sullivan, a woman who valued social standing above all else, had always seen me as an accessory to her son’ s success. And my adoptive parents, the Jennings, who had taken me in as a child but never truly loved me, were social climbers of the highest order. Of course they would side with Gabe. The Sullivan fortune was a prize they would do anything to remain attached to.

    “You told them?” I asked, my voice trembling. “You discussed the fate of my child with them before you even spoke to me?”

    “I had to manage the crisis, Lottie!”

    “This isn’ t a crisis, Gabe! This is our life! Our family! Our son!” My voice cracked on the last word. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, a primal instinct to protect the tiny life he was so willing to sacrifice.

    “And I am protecting him!” he yelled, his frustration boiling over. “I am protecting his future! The fortune he is set to inherit!”

    “He doesn’ t need a fortune!” I screamed back, tears streaming down my face. “He needs a father who will acknowledge him! A father who won’ t trade his legitimacy for a stock ticker symbol!”

    He ran a hand through his hair, his composure finally breaking. He looked cornered, desperate. “What do you want from me, Charlotte?”

    He used my full name. He only ever did that when he was trying to distance himself, to turn a personal conflict into a business negotiation.

    “I want a divorce,” I said, the words tasting like acid.

    His face went slack with shock. “No. Absolutely not. A divorce right now is out of the question. It would be a disaster.”

    “I don’ t care about your disaster, Gabe. You’ ve created mine.”

    He strode over to me, grabbing my arms. His grip was tight, bordering on painful. “You are not divorcing me. You are not leaving this apartment. We are going to see this through, as a family. Do you understand?”

    The threat was unmistakable. I was a prisoner in my own home. His home. He had the money, the power, the family support. I had nothing.

    The doorbell rang, a sharp, intrusive sound that made us both jump. Gabe released me and went to the door.

    My heart sank when I saw who it was. Harper. She stood there, looking small and helpless, an overnight bag at her feet. Behind her stood Gabe’ s mother, Eleanor, her face a mask of cold disapproval, and my own adoptive parents, their expressions a mixture of greed and pity.

    The enemy had arrived. And they were moving in.

    Eleanor swept past Gabe without a word to him, her icy gaze landing on me. “Charlotte. We need to talk.”

    My fate, it seemed, was no longer in my hands. It was a business transaction, and I was the liability being managed.

    From Abandoned Wife To Powerful Heiress Chapter 3

    Charlotte Jennings POV:

    “Get her things out of the master bedroom,” Eleanor Sullivan commanded, not looking at me but at one of the household staff who had materialized in the foyer. Her voice was as sharp and cold as shattered glass. “Harper needs rest. The guest wing is too far from the main living area for a woman in her delicate condition.”

    Gabe said nothing. He just stood by the door, his face a grim, unreadable mask, as Harper offered me a small, tremulous smile of pure, venomous victory. My adoptive mother, Carol Jennings, rushed to Harper’ s side, clucking over her like a hen.

    “You poor dear, you must be exhausted. Let’ s get you settled in.”

    My adoptive father, Robert, simply gave me a look of profound disappointment, as if my very presence was a stain on the family’ s reputation.

    I was being usurped in my own home, and my husband, the man who had vowed to protect me, was standing by and letting it happen. The staff, loyal to the man who signed their paychecks, began moving my clothes, my books, my life, out of the room I had shared with Gabe and into a small, sterile guest room at the back of the penthouse.

    The master suite, with its panoramic views of the city and the bed where our child was conceived, was now hers.

    “This is temporary, Charlotte,” Gabe said later, after the jackals had settled their chosen one into her new den. He found me standing in the middle of the cramped guest room, surrounded by boxes of my belongings. “Just until the media attention dies down.”

    “Temporary?” I echoed, my voice hollow. “You’ ve moved another woman into our bed, Gabe. There is nothing temporary about that.”

    “It’ s for appearances!” he hissed, his patience wearing thin. “Harper needs to be seen here. My mother insisted. It solidifies the story.”

    “And what about our story? What about the truth?”

    “The truth doesn’ t matter right now! Only the narrative does!”

    Over the next few days, my life became a waking nightmare. I was a ghost in my own home. Gabe was consumed with work, orchestrating the IPO launch, and when he was home, he was with Harper. I would hear them laughing in the living room, see them sharing meals on the terrace. Eleanor had taken over the household, directing the staff to cater to Harper’ s every whim, from organic prenatal smoothies to specialized pillows.

    My own pregnancy was ignored. A non-entity. When I experienced morning sickness, the cook told me Mrs. Sullivan had instructed her to prepare only the foods on Harper’ s approved diet plan. When I tried to speak to Gabe, he was always in a meeting or on a call. He was avoiding me, hiding behind the wall of his ambition.

    My adoptive parents were no better. They visited daily, not to see me, but to fawn over Harper and strategize with Eleanor about how best to present the “new family” to the press. They saw Harper’ s baby as a golden ticket, a direct heir to the Sullivan empire, and they were hitching their wagon to it with sickening enthusiasm.

    I was completely and utterly alone, a prisoner in a home that no longer felt like mine, carrying a child whose existence was an inconvenience to everyone.

    One afternoon, I found Harper in my studio. My private space. She was running her hands over my architectural models, a faint, condescending smile on her lips.

    “You’ re very talented,” she said, without turning around. “It’ s a shame you’ ll have to give it all up.”

    “I have no intention of giving anything up,” I said, my voice tight.

    She finally turned to face me, her expression one of faux sympathy. “Oh, darling. You still don’ t get it, do you? You’ re the past, Charlotte. I’ m the future. Gabe feels a responsibility to you, of course. But his heart… his heart has always been with me.”

    “Get out of my studio,” I said, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

    “This isn’t your studio anymore,” she purred, trailing a finger along the edge of my drafting table. “Soon, this will be the nursery. Gabe and I were just discussing it. We think a celestial theme would be lovely, don’ t you?”

    Something inside me snapped. I lunged at her, my vision blurring with red-hot rage. I didn’ t know what I intended to do, only that I couldn’t stand her smug, triumphant face for another second.

    But before I could reach her, a hand clamped down on my arm, yanking me back. It was Gabe. He had come in silently, drawn by our raised voices.

    He pulled me behind him, shielding Harper as if I were the threat. As if I were the monster.

    “Charlotte, what the hell are you doing?” he demanded, his eyes blazing with anger.

    “She’ s trying to hurt the baby!” Harper cried, clutching her stomach and stumbling backward dramatically. “Gabe, I’ m scared!”

    “I didn’ t touch her!” I yelled, struggling against his grip. “She’ s lying!”

    But Gabe wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking at Harper, his expression softening with concern. He rushed to her side, helping her to a chair, speaking to her in low, soothing tones.

    He believed her. Without a moment’ s hesitation, he believed her over me.

    That was the moment I understood. This wasn’t just about the IPO. This wasn’t a temporary arrangement. This was a coup. And I had already lost.

    Later that evening, Eleanor Sullivan came to my room. She didn’ t knock. She entered with the air of a prison warden, my adoptive parents trailing behind her like obedient lapdogs.

    “You have become a problem, Charlotte,” Eleanor said, her voice devoid of any emotion. “Your instability is a risk to the company. To my son. To my grandchild.”

    She slid a document onto the small desk. A contract.

    “This is a post-nuptial agreement,” she explained. “It outlines the terms of your future with Gabe. You will remain married until after the IPO. You will make no public statements. You will cede all parental rights of Harper’ s child to Gabe. In exchange, you will be well compensated.”

    And then came the final, devastating blow.

    “Furthermore,” she continued, her eyes as cold as a winter sea, “Harper has informed us that you were unfaithful to my son. She said you confessed to her that your child may not even be Gabe’ s. Given your violent outburst today, we cannot risk the scandal of a contested paternity. It is too messy.”

    My blood ran cold. “That’ s a lie. That’ s a disgusting lie.”

    “It doesn’ t matter,” Eleanor said flatly. “The perception is what matters. Therefore, you will terminate the pregnancy. Immediately.”

    The air left my body. I looked from Eleanor’ s merciless face to my adoptive parents. They wouldn’ t meet my eyes. They were complicit. They were selling me, and my child, for a piece of the Sullivan pie.

    “No,” I whispered, shaking my head in disbelief. “No. I won’ t.”

    Eleanor’ s lips curved into a cruel smile. “I’ m afraid you don’ t have a choice. The appointment is tomorrow morning. You can either walk in there yourself, or my men will carry you.”

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir by Bae Writes

    Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir by Bae Writes
    👉 READ NOW

    One lab error. Two betrayals. And a billionaire who doesn’t believe in accidents.
    Emily Vance thought she was carrying a miracle. After her fiancĂ©, Julian, ended up in a coma following a horrific car crash, she underwent IVF to keep his legacy alive. It was supposed to be her anchor. Instead, a clinical mix-up reveals that the child in her womb isn’t Julian’s at all. It belongs to Alistair Wolfe, a man whose name is synonymous with ruthless power and a heart made of ice.
    The nightmare doesn’t stop at the doctor’s office. When Julian finally wakes up, he doesn’t call for Emily. He calls for her stepsister, Chloe, revealing a secret affair that turns Emily’s years of loyalty into a joke.
    Backed into a corner by a family ready to sell her to a predatory debt collector to save their failing business, Emily is left with a devastating choice. Her doctors warn her that this is her last chance at motherhood. To keep her baby and escape her family’s reach, she has to make a deal with the wolf at the door.
    Alistair Wolfe wants his heir. Emily wants protection.
    No love. No strings. Just a temporary union until the child is born. But as Emily moves into Alistair’s world, she quickly learns that playing the wife of a man like Alistair is a high-stakes game where the heart is the first thing you lose.

    👉 READ NOW

    Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir Chapter 1 A Clinical Nightmare

    I’m staring at a document that just erased the last thread of my sanity.
    I’ve pinched myself so many times that my skin has turned bright pink. Yet…I haven’t woken up from this nightmare that seems to be my life and reality.
    Dr. Miller sits across from me, his hands folded over a tan folder, looking everywhere but at my face.
    “Can…can you repeat yourself?” I ask the doctor, hoping that I misheard him the first time. Because this can’t be real. This can’t be real.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Emily,” he says. His voice is small, lacking the professional confidence he usually carries. “There was a clerical error in the lab. A mislabeling during the cryopreservation retrieval.”
    “What…what does that mean?”
    He adjusts in his seat. “The embryo we implanted… it wasn’t created with Julian Thorne’s samples. The sperm used belonged to another donor.”
    I wrap my arms around my middle, feeling the slight curve of my belly through the thin fabric of my floral dress. This child is my anchor. Since Julian’s car spun out on that rain-slicked highway a month ago, this pregnancy has been the only thing keeping me from sinking. The doctors said Julian might never wake up from the coma, and his parents begged me to use the samples he’d frozen before we even got engaged. They wanted a piece of him to live on. I wanted it more.
    “No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. My voice is so calm it surprises me. “No, that’s not right. We… we used Julian’s sample. That’s what we agreed on. That’s what I signed for.”
    “Miss Emily-“
    “I went through weeks of treatment,” I snap, and the calm in my voice is gone. “Hormones. Injections. Blood tests. You told me everything was fine. You told me this would work.”
    “It did work,” he says gently. “You are pregnant.” Then his voice reduces. “But the biological father is not Julian Thorne.”
    A tear rolls down my cheek before I can stop it, and I angrily swat it away.
    “That’s not my child,” I say confidently, as if my confidence can erase the truth.
    “It is your child,” he says. “Genetically, you are the mother.”
    I glare at him for a few seconds and then I laugh. It’s a bitter, humorless sound. “It’s not my child with my fiancĂ©. I wanted a baby with the man I love. The man I’m going to marry. I did everything right. I followed every step. I trusted you.”
    “I understand how difficult this is-“
    “No, you don’t!” I yell, banging my shaking hands against the table. “You don’t understand what this means.”
    Because Julian might never wake up. Because this child was supposed to be the only piece of him I’d have left. Because I built my entire future around this one thing.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You’re sorry?” I scoff. “You didn’t lose my luggage, Doctor. You lost the last living piece of my fiancĂ©. Julian is in a coma. He might never wake up, and you’ve filled me with-with what? Some random guy’s DNA?”
    The irony is a jagged pill in my throat. I spent six weeks pumping myself full of hormones, bruising my thighs with needles.
    “I want it out,” I say calmly. “Terminate the pregnancy. We’ll redo the cycle. I’m not carrying a ‘coding error’ to term.”
    “Miss Emily. The hospital board is prepared to offer you a settlement of one million dollars,” Dr. Carter continues quickly, his face pale. “Along with a full refund and the best prenatal care money can buy, provided you sign a non-disclosure agreement.”
    I stand up so fast my chair screeches against the linoleum. One million dollars. They want to pay me off for a stranger’s child. I look at the framed degrees on his wall, the anatomical charts, the little plastic models of life, and I feel a wave of heat wash over my neck. My skin feels too tight for my body.
    “One million dollars?” I whisper. Another tear slides down my face and that chilling calm returns. I am slipping between calm and rage, and I have no way of controlling it.
    “I… I don’t want your money,” I say. “I want this,” I point to my belly. “Gone.”
    His expression tightens. “I’m afraid that may not be advisable-“
    “I don’t care. Get. Rid. Of. It.”
    “That would be a mistake.”
    The voice is like a low vibration, commanding and cold. I spin around to see a man standing by the doorframe. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing an expensive-looking charcoal suit. His eyes are a piercing, unforgiving grey, and they are fixed directly on me.
    Dr. Carter stands up so fast he nearly trips. “Mr. Wolfe. I didn’t realize you were on the premises.”
    “I tend to move quickly when my assets are mishandled, Doctor,” the man says. He steps into the room, and the space suddenly feels half its size. He doesn’t look at the doctor; he looks at me, scanning me with a clinical, predatory intensity.
    His presence is so intense and intimidating that I almost feel the need to step back. But I don’t. I struggle with every bone in my body to maintain my composure.
    Mr. Intimidating reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick, matte-black business card onto the desk. Alistair Wolfe. CEO, Wolfe Industries.
    My lips part slightly. This is the man who has effectively automated half the logistics firms in the country. He is the “Ghost of Wall Street.”
    “I am the biological father of the child you’re carrying,” Alistair says. His tone isn’t apologetic; it is a statement of fact. “And I have no intention of letting you terminate. Carry the pregnancy to term. Hand the child over to me the moment it’s born, and I will deposit one hundred million dollars into an account of your choosing.”
    I take a step back until my calves hit the guest chair. I stare at him, my breath hitching. My calm changes to that hot feeling in my chest and I clench my fists. “You’re insane.”
    Dr. Carter’s eyes widen and Mr. Intimidating frowns. “What?”
    “You’re insane,” I repeat. “My fiancĂ© is lying in the hospital in a coma and you think you can pay me to have your baby and not his?”
    “Two hundred mi-“
    “I don’t care about your money!” I snap. “I want my life back. I want my fiancĂ©’s child.”
    Alistair’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it turns to stone. “Money buys time, Ms. Vance. And right now, you’re out of it.”
    “What does that mean?”
    He signals to Dr. Carter, who hands me another report from his table. “Your latest screenings came back this morning. Your uterine lining is… it’s significantly thinner than we anticipated. The hormonal stress of this IVF cycle has caused severe scarring.”
    He pauses, looking at Alistair, then back to me. “If you terminate this pregnancy, the damage will be irreversible. The likelihood of a successful second implantation is virtually zero. You would be permanently infertile.”
    My head spins, and I feel like I’m going to pass out. “That…that’s not true. You can give me some kind of injection. You can perform a surgery.”
    “Those aren’t feasible options Miss Emily.”
    The dream of a house with a tire swing, of a little boy with Julian’s messy blonde hair, it all starts to evaporate like mist. If I end this, I end everything. I will never be a mother. Not with Julian’s child. Not with any child.
    “Think about it,” Alistair says, his voice dropping to a silken thread. “You keep the child. You fulfill your biological potential. You get a fortune that ensures you never have to work a day in your life. And then you can have another child with your fiancĂ©. All I ask is for-“
    He pauses when he sees fresh tears gather in my eyes. Something softens in his expression, but it lasts just one second.
    “What’s mine,” he completes.
    The dizziness worsens and now I can’t breathe. It’s too much information. I need to see Julian. I need to touch his hand and tell him I am sorry I’ve failed him.
    As if the universe read my mind, my phone on the table begins to vibrate. I lunge for it the second I see Julian’s mother’s name on the screen.
    “Emily!” she sobs the moment I answer. “Emily, come to the hospital. Now! Julian…he opened his eyes. He’s awake!”
    I don’t say a word to Alistair Wolfe. I don’t even look at him. I run. I sprint through the hospital corridors. My heart is a drum, beating out a single word: Julian. Julian. Julian.
    I reach the Intensive Care unit, my lungs burning. I slow down as I approach Room 402, my hand trembling as I reach for the handle. I want to burst in, to throw my arms around him, to tell him that we will figure out the mess with the baby together.
    But the door is cracked open an inch. And from inside, I don’t hear the beep of monitors or the steady breathing of a recovering patient. I hear a muffled, familiar sob.

    Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir Chapter 2 Double Betrayal

    The man I planned to spend my life with is currently stroking my sister’s hair like she’s the one who’s been sleeping in a hospital chair for a month.
    I stand in the shadows of the hospital door, my fingers curled in a fist. Julian looks different propped up against those white pillows. The rugged, athletic fiancĂ© I knew has been replaced by a man who looks brittle. But his eyes are wide and focused on Chloe. She’s leaning in so close that their foreheads touch.
    “I was coming to see you that night,” Julian whispers. “I was in the car because I couldn’t wait another day to tell Emily that the wedding was a mistake. I was rushing to her to call it off, Chloe. The rain…I just didn’t see the truck coming.”
    Chloe lets out a strangled sob, burying her face in the side of his mattress. “You almost died for us,” she wails. “I’ve been so scared, Julian. Having to watch her play the grieving girlfriend when I’m the one who actually loves you.”
    The air in the hallway turns to ice. Every sacrifice I’ve made over the last four weeks comes to my mind. I think of the needles I stuck into my thighs for the IVF. I think of the crushing guilt I felt, believing he’d crashed that car because he was rushing home to me. I think of the child growing inside me, the child that belongs to a cold-eyed stranger named Alistair Wolfe, all because I wanted to give Julian’s parents a piece of their son before he slipped away.
    I push the door open and step into the room. The moment the light hits them, Chloe jerks away. Julian looks toward me, his eyes wide and glassy. He doesn’t hold my gaze for a second before his cheeks flush pink and he looks away at the ceiling.
    Before I can find my voice, a sound comes from behind me. I turn to see Julian’s mother standing there with a cardboard tray of coffees. Her eyes are rimmed with red and she looks like she hasn’t slept in a week.
    “Emily, dear, you’re white as a sheet,” she says. She looks at my stomach with a hopeful, watery smile. “How did the appointment go? Is our little miracle holding on?”
    I look at her, the woman who has treated me like a daughter for three years, then at Julian. The coward is still staring at the ceiling. The truth about Alistair Wolfe’s baby sits like a mouthful of ash in my throat.
    “It didn’t work,” I say. My voice is steady, devoid of grief in a way that surprises me. “The IVF failed. There is no baby.”
    The older woman’s face seems to collapse. She reaches for the back of a plastic chair to steady herself. “Oh, Emily. No. Not after everything. I’m so sorry.”
    I watch Chloe out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring at me, her mouth slightly open in a mock expression of shock. She brings a lace handkerchief to her eyes, dabbing at tears that aren’t there.
    “Oh, Emily, that’s devastating,” Chloe says. She stands up and moves toward me. She looks at the mother with a mournful expression before turning that gaze back to me. Her eyes don’t look sad. If anything, they’re bright. “I know how much you wanted this. We all did.”
    She stops a foot away from me. “But maybe,” Chloe continues, her tone dropping into a whisper, “maybe it’s probably for the best, isn’t it? Everything is so complicated right now with Julian’s recovery. Now you don’t have that burden holding you back. You can focus on yourself for once.”
    The word burden rings in my ears like a bell.
    A strange, freezing calm settles over me. The heat in the room seems to vanish, replaced by a clarity so clear it feels like a veil dropped from my eyes. I think of the hormones I pumped into my body. I think of the way I sat by Julian’s bed, whispering to him about a child I thought would save his family’s spirit.
    The rage I feel is not something I’ve ever felt before. It just sits there, a blinding, white-hot stillness that dictates my next move.
    Before I can even process, my hand goes up with a speed that catches her completely off guard. The sound of my palm hitting her cheek is loud in the small room.
    Chloe’s head snaps to the side and stumbles back, a red handprint blooming across her skin.
    “Emily!” Julian shouts from the bed. He tries to sit up, his face contorting in pain as his monitors begin to beep a frantic, irregular rhythm. “What the hell are you doing?”
    I don’t answer him. I grab Chloe by the collar of her silk blouse, dragging her toward the side of the bed. She’s screeching, her polished nails clawing at my wrists, but I don’t feel a thing. I shove her toward Julian.
    “You want to talk about burdens, Chloe?” I ask. “Let’s talk about the burden of being a liar. Let’s talk about what you two were doing while I was at the clinic trying to save a legacy that didn’t even want to be saved.”
    Julian reaches out, his fingers trembling as he tries to pull my hand away from her collar. “Emily, stop. You’re being hysterical.”
    I look at him then, and the man I thought I loved is gone. In his place is a stranger with a weak chin and a terrified expression. I let go of Chloe’s shirt, but only so I can turn the full force of my attention on him.
    I raise my hand and bring it down on his face. The first slap is for the three years I wasted. The second slap is for the guilt I carried, thinking I was the reason he was hurt. The third slap is for the farce. For the way they let me walk into a hospital and have a stranger’s child implanted in me while they were planning their getaway.
    “We’re done,” I say. “Don’t call me. If I see either of you again, I’ll make sure the rest of the world knows exactly what kind of people you are.”
    I turn and walk out, ignoring the muffled cries and the chaos erupting in the room. I don’t stop until I’m in the empty stairwell three flights down. I lean against the cold concrete wall and finally, the air breaks. I sob until my lungs ache.
    I am alone. I am pregnant with a billionaire’s child. And I have nothing.
    An hour later, I’m sitting in the waiting room of a low-cost women’s clinic on the other side of town. I can’t keep Alistair Wolfe’s child, not when it was conceived under the umbrella of a lie.
    The doctor is a woman in her sixties with tired eyes. She looks at my charts, then back at me. “I have to be honest with you. Your records show a history of severe endometriosis and a very thin lining. This pregnancy is essentially a medical fluke. If we proceed with the termination, the scarring will be permanent. You’ll likely never conceive again.”
    I leave that clinic and go to another. And another. I spend the entire afternoon driving through the city, hearing the same sentence repeated in different accents and different offices. Permanent infertility.
    By the time I pull into the driveway of the Vance estate, the sun is already setting. I head toward the study to find my father, but I stop when I hear voices coming from the cracked door of the sitting room.
    At this point, I should know not to listen to voices from cracked doors.
    “I don’t know about this, Lydia,” my father’s voice says.
    “The firm is underwater,” a voice replies. It’s Lydia, my stepmother. “And this deal with Silas Reed is the only thing that can save us now. He’s been asking about Emily for months. He won’t care about the fact that the engagement fell apart. He’s willing to pay off the primary debt the moment the marriage certificate is signed.”
    “But the rumors about him,” my father says weakly. “The way his last wife ended up… and he’s nearly twenty years older than her.”
    “He’s wealthy, Thomas,” Lydia snaps. “After the news we got from the hospital, we know that Emily needs to be handled. Silas will keep her on a short leash. “
    I lean against the hallway wall, my stomach churning. Silas Reed. He’s a predator who is known for his cruelty. My own family is selling me to a monster to save a failing business.
    My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and read the words on the screen with blurry vision. .
    Have you reached a decision, Emily? – Alistair Wolfe.
    I look at the door to the sitting room, where my father and stepmother are negotiating my life like a piece of livestock. Then I look at the text. I have no husband. I have no family. And if I lose this baby, I have no future.
    I hit the call button on the unknown number. It rings once before he picks up.
    “I didn’t expect your call,” the voice says.
    “I’ll do it,” I say. I stand up straight, my hand resting on my stomach. “I’ll carry the child. I’ll give you your heir.”
    There’s a brief silence on the other end. “A wise choice, Emily. I’ll have the papers drawn up for the trust.”
    “No,” I say, my voice hardening. “I don’t want the hundred million. I want something else.”
    “Name it.”
    I take a deep breath. “You have to marry me, Alistair.”

    Accidentally Pregnant With The Billionaire Heir Chapter 3 The Gold Seal

    I’ve just asked a billionaire to marry me to save myself from a predatory debt collector and a family that views me as a line item.
    Silence feels like punishment when you’re talking to a man like Alistair Wolfe. And the phone has been silent for what feels like hours now. I grip the phone so hard that the edge of the case bites into my palm,
    “Just a marriage of convenience,” I say, my voice sounding much firmer than I feel. “I don’t want your money. Once the baby is born, we can file for divorce. The only thing I ask for is visitation rights so I won’t be a ghost in my own child’s life.”
    The silence stretches for another five seconds, long enough for me to count the cracks in the hallway floorboards. I’m about to emphasize that it’s just for convenience but I don’t get the chance.
    “Seven in the morning,” Alistair says. “The City Clerk’s Office. Bring your birth certificate, your passport, and every piece of identification you own. My lead attorney will be there at six forty-five with the paperwork. Don’t be late, Emily.”
    The line clicks dead before I can even breathe a sigh of relief. He didn’t say yes, but the instructions are good enough. I lean my head against the cool wallpaper, closing my eyes. This isn’t the wedding I spent my girlhood dreaming about. There are no peonies, no cathedral veils, and certainly no groom who looks at me like I’m his entire world. Instead, I’m trading my freedom for a shield. It’s a fair trade, I suppose.
    I sleep fitfully, waking every hour to the image of Silas Reed’s oily smile and Chloe kissing my fiancĂ©. When the sun finally starts to bleed through the curtains, I pull myself out of bed, take a short shower, and reach for a simple navy blue wrap dress. It’s professional, modest, and hides the fact that I’ve lost weight over the last few weeks. I brush my hair until it’s a dark, glossy sheet. A little concealer and a swipe of tinted lip balm hide my weary look.
    The City Clerk’s Office smells like lemon floor wax and old coffee. It’s a drab, municipal building with rows of plastic chairs and the constant, dull drone of a printer somewhere in the back. A man in a charcoal suit stands near the information desk, clutching a leather briefcase. The quality of his suit tells me he’s the billionaire’s lawyer.
    “Ms. Vance?” he asks when he sees me. He doesn’t smile. “I’m Markson, Mr. Wolfe’s personal counsel. We have quite a bit to get through before he arrives.”
    He leads me to a small, private table in the corner and begins spreading out sheets of thick, high-bond paper. The prenuptial agreement is so detailed I almost suspect it was prepared weeks before. But that’s not possible because this marriage was my idea. It outlines the duration of the marriage, the post-divorce property arrangements, and the most painful part: full legal and physical custody of the child for Alistair Wolfe. My visitation rights are listed in a series of bullet points.
    I read every word, the ink blurring as tears gather my eyes. I realize I’m signing away the only thing that will be truly mine. But then I remember the alternative. If I stay in that house, my stepmother will drag me to marry a man who breaks women for sport. I reach for the gold-tipped pen Markson offers and sign my name on the bottom of every page.
    “Everything seems to be in order,” Markson says, checking his watch.
    A few minutes later, the glass doors at the entrance swing open, and the atmosphere in the room shifts. It’s as if the temperature has dropped ten degrees. Alistair Wolfe walks in, and almost everyone in the room turns to lok at him. He isn’t wearing a full suit today. He has on a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of dark tailored trousers. He looks effortless, rugged, and breathtakingly handsome in a way that makes my throat feel dry.
    He stops in front of our table, his gaze sweeping over me with the same intensity he had yesterday. He doesn’t offer a greeting. He looks at the signed papers, then back at me. For a split second, his eyes drop to my lips, his focus lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. Then, the coldness returns.
    “Did she sign?” Alistair asks the lawyer.
    “Every page, sir,” Markson confirms.
    “Good. Let’s get this over with.”
    The registration process is a blur of stamps and signatures. Because of Alistair’s influence, we are ushered into a private office where a clerk with a tired expression processes the expedited service. Within fifteen minutes, a piece of paper with a gold seal is slid across the desk toward us.
    Alistair picks up one copy and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine, and I feel a jolt of something that isn’t quite fear but feels just as dangerous. His skin is warm, a sharp contrast to his icy demeanor.
    “You’re now Mrs. Wolfe,” he says. “I have to fly to London immediately. There’s an acquisition that needs my direct attention. I’ll be gone for three days.”
    I stare at the paper. Emily Wolfe. It looks wrong. It looks like a lie written in gold ink.
    “I’ll send a car and a team of movers to your father’s house on Thursday morning at eight,” he continues. “You’ll move into my estate. For the duration of this contract, you live with me. I need to ensure the health of my heir is monitored properly.”
    “I can take care of myself, Alistair,” I say, trying to reclaim some shred of my dignity.
    He steps closer, his shadow falling over me. He smells like sandalwood. “You’re carrying my child, Emily. That makes your safety my business. Don’t make this difficult.”
    He pauses, his gaze softening by a fraction of a millimeter. “Do you need a ride back?”
    I shake my head quickly. The thought of Alistair’s black car pulling up to my father’s driveway is a nightmare. Lydia would have a heart attack, and Thomas would probably try to ask him for a loan before I could even get out of the vehicle. “No. I’ll take a cab. I need to handle things at home first.”
    Alistair nods once, a sharp, decisive movement. “Thursday. Eight o’clock. Don’t make my men wait.”
    He turns and walks out, Markson trailing behind him like a loyal shadow. I stand in the middle of the lobby, clutching my marriage license to my chest. My heart is a steady, heavy thud. I’ve done it. I’ve jumped off the cliff, and now I just have to wait and see if the parachute opens.
    When I walk through the front door of the Vance estate, the scent of Lydia’s expensive lilies almost suffocates me. My father and stepmother are sitting in the foyer, dressed as if they’re going to a funeral. Lydia is wearing a sharp, black suit, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looks painful. Thomas is fidgeting with his cufflinks with a small frown on his face.
    “Where have you been?” Lydia snaps, standing up the moment the door clicks shut. “We’ve been calling you for two hours. We have someone expecting us at the St. Regis for lunch. You need to go upstairs and put on that red dress I bought you. And for heaven’s sake, do something about your face. You look exhausted.”
    “Who are we going to meet?” I ask, pretending not to already know.
    “Someone important.”
    My father stands up too, though he won’t quite meet my eyes. “Emily, please. Just cooperate. It’s a simple lunch. This person is a very influential man. He can help us.”
    “Help you,” I correct him. I feel a strange sense of power bubbling up inside me, a cold, clean anger that burns away the last of my fear. “I know it’s Silas Reed we’re going to meet. And you want to see me off because he can help you pay for your bad investments and Lydia’s jewelry. But he can’t help me.”
    “Don’t be dramatic,” Lydia says, walking toward me. “You’re a Vance. You have a responsibility to this family. Now, get upstairs.”
    I don’t move. I reach into my purse and pull out the marriage license. I hold it up, the gold seal catching the light of the chandelier.
    “I’m not a Vance anymore,” I say. “I got married this morning.”
    Lydia stops dead in her tracks. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. My father’s face goes pale, his eyes wide as he stares at the document.
    “What are you talking about?” he stammers. “Married? To who? Julian is still in the hospital, he-“
    “Not to Julian,” I say, stepping closer so they can see the name on the paper. “To Alistair Wolfe. I’m his wife now. Which means I’m his responsibility. So, you can call Silas Reed and tell him the deal is off. I’m moving out on Thursday.”
    The silence that follows is the most satisfying sound I’ve ever heard. I walk past them toward the stairs, my head held high, leaving the ruins of their plans scattered on the floor. I’m going to a house of ice, but at least the walls there would be mine.
    For a while.

    👉 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 fiancĂ©e. 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 fiancĂ©e, 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

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

    Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle by Ming Yue
    👉 READ NOW

    Twenty minutes before the “Wedding of the Century” at The Plaza, I stood outside the Presidential Suite in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown. I was the girl from a West Virginia trailer park about to marry Hugh Maxwell, the golden heir to a billion-dollar defense empire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    👉 READ NOW

    Married To My Ex-FiancĂ©’s Silent Uncle Chapter 1

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

    Married To My Ex-FiancĂ©’s Silent Uncle Chapter 2

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

    Married To My Ex-FiancĂ©’s Silent Uncle Chapter 3

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

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Jilted Wife Returns As A Billionaire Heiress by Paula Gardini

    Jilted Wife Returns As A Billionaire Heiress by Paula Gardini
    👉 READ NOW

    Chloe had just given birth to twins, lying exhausted in a cramped, bustling hospital ward.

    When she called her husband, Julian, he was busy partying with his actress mistress. He coldly hung up on her, having already drafted a brutal divorce agreement that would leave her with a pittance.

    Strangers in the next bed loudly mocked her pitiful state, gossiping about how Julian was dumping her. For years, Chloe had erased her own identity to fit into his elite world, only to be thrown away like garbage. She was completely alone, clutching her helpless babies, bracing herself to sign the cruel papers just to survive.

    She couldn’t understand why her absolute devotion was met with such chilling indifference. Why did she have to suffer this ultimate humiliation while he celebrated with the woman who ruined her life?

    But then, a senior doctor noticed a unique mole on her wrist and ran a secret DNA test. The results were staggering: Chloe was the long-lost daughter of the billionaire Beaumont family. With her fiercely protective parents and three powerful brothers suddenly forming an impenetrable fortress around her, Chloe picked up her phone and texted her arrogant husband.

    “City Hall tomorrow at 10 AM. If you don’t show up, my lawyer will handle everything. And trust me, you won’t like their terms.”

    👉 READ NOW

    Jilted Wife Returns As A Billionaire Heiress Chapter 1

    A sharp, piercing cry sliced through the sterile air of the delivery room, followed immediately by another.
    Chloe Hayes’s vision swam. Sweat pasted strands of hair to her temples. The exhaustion was a physical weight, pressing down on her bones, but the sound of her babies’ cries was a tether to life. Tears, hot and thick, blurred the already hazy lights above her.
    With a kind expression on her face, the midwife placed the two warm little babies on Chloe’s chest. The weight was surprisingly solid. A tiny, thumping heartbeat pulsed against her own exhausted one. A wave of love, so fierce it felt like a physical blow, crashed over her, stealing what little breath she had left.
    The midwife ’s voice a soothing balm. “You gave birth to a pair of adorable boy and girl twins . Both perfectly healthy.”
    Chloe smiled weakly, trying to look at the two babies surrounded by the midwives.
    Outside the delivery room, a nurse cried out, “Where’s Chloe Hayes’s family? Where are Chloe Hayes’s parents?”
    She called out again and again, but no one responded.
    On the hospital bed, Chloe’s face turned even paler at the sound.
    Had Julian really not come?
    Even though they were divorcing, he was still the children’s biological father. So before entering the delivery room, she called him.
    She lay in the hospital bed, completely exhausted and weak.
    The doctor and nurse quickly took her to the ward.
    However, she wasn’t taken to the private VIP ward that Julian had promised her, but rather an ordinary multi-person room.
    There were many people in the ward. Besides her, there were also pregnant women lying in the other three beds. Each of them was attended to by several family members.
    Some were taking care of their wives, some were leaning over the baby cribs to watch their children, and there were also new dads holding their babies and comforting them. Everyone had a happy smile on their face.
    A sense of icy humiliation swept through Chloe’s entire body.
    She gave birth suddenly, and now there was no one to take care of her. She was unable to care for the baby on her own, and the nurses couldn’t help all the time. So, she decided to call Julian for help.
    A nurse handed Chloe her phone. Her trembling fingers fumbled across the screen until she found Julian Sterling’s name in the contacts. The sharp-looking business photo he used as his profile picture seemed to mock her from the screen.
    She took a deep, shaky breath and pressed the call button.
    The sound that answered wasn’t his voice. It was the cacophony of a party-loud music, the clinking of glasses, a swell of laughter.
    Then, his voice, sharp and impatient. “Chloe? What is it? I’m busy.”
    The coldness in his tone was a familiar ache. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the words out. “Julian, the babies… have been born. “
    A beat of silence on the other end. Just long enough for a sliver of hope to flicker in her chest.
    Then it was extinguished. “Okay. Send the details to my assistant.”
    Before she could form a reply, a woman’s laugh, high and melodious, echoed close to the receiver. It was a laugh she recognized from countless celebrity news segments. Amelia Hayes.
    Julian’s voice returned, layered with a dismissive politeness that was worse than outright anger. “I have to go. We’re celebrating Amelia’s new movie deal.”
    The line went dead.
    The dial tone buzzed in her ear, a relentless, mechanical sound that felt like it was drilling into her skull. Chloe’s hand fell limp, the phone slipping from her grasp onto the starchy white sheets.
    The tears finally came. Not loud, hysterical sobs, but silent, wracking tremors that shook her entire body. She curled onto her side, facing the wall, pressing her face into the thin pillow to muffle the sound. She couldn’t bear the thought of the woman on the other side of the curtain hearing her.
    A boisterous family spilled in, their happy chatter filling the small space.
    “Look at the one in the next bed,” a middle-aged woman said, her voice a stage whisper. “So pitiful. Gave birth and her husband isn’t even here.”
    A younger girl replied, “Isn’t that Chloe Hayes? The one who married into the Sterling family.”
    “That’s the one!” the woman confirmed, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The papers are saying Julian is going to divorce her for that actress, Amelia Hayes.”
    “I heard Amelia’s pregnant too,” the girl added. “This is going to be some drama.”
    Each word was a fresh cut. Pity and malice, a cruel cocktail served by strangers.
    In fact, not many people knew about their marriage, as Julian always refused to bring her into his life.
    Occasionally, a few people might have seen her through certain channels and learned who she was. But so what? She smiled bitterly. Even if she became an actress like Amelia and was exposed to everyone, it was also possible that no one would recognize her as Julian’s wife.
    Chloe clamped her hands over her ears, but she couldn’t block them out. She squeezed her eyes shut, the darkness a welcome relief.
    A gentle squeak of wheels broke through her misery. A nurse was pushing a clear, plastic bassinet towards her bed, then another. The two sleeping infants were placed beside her.
    Chloe’s sobs caught in her throat. She pushed herself up, her sore muscles protesting, and gazed at her children.
    Their faces were so new, so perfect. The boy had her brow, a serious little frown even in sleep. The girl had a delicate nose that was an exact replica of Julian’s.
    She reached out a hesitant finger, her nail bitten and short, and gently stroked her daughter’s cheek. The skin was impossibly soft.
    In that moment, something shifted inside her. A foundation of steel began to form where only rubble had been. She was no longer just a wife, waiting for a man who would never love her.
    She was a mother.
    She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. Her gaze, once filled with despair, now held a new, hard-edged resolve.
    For her babies, she had to be strong.
    She picked up her phone again. Not to call Julian. She scrolled through her contacts, a desperate search for a friend, a lifeline. Her finger swiped past business contacts for the Sterling family, past numbers for caterers and florists from a life that was no longer hers.
    The scrolling stopped. The screen glowed with the names of people who were not her people. She had spent years trying to fit into Julian’s world, and in the process, she had erased her own.
    She was utterly, completely alone.

    Jilted Wife Returns As A Billionaire Heiress Chapter 2

    The early morning sun cast long, pale stripes across the floor. Chloe hadn’t slept all night. Her eyes burned with a dry, gritty exhaustion that went deeper than the physical toll of childbirth.
    She watched the gentle rise and fall of her son’s chest, the tiny flutter of her daughter’s eyelids. And as she watched them, a memory, sharp and unwelcome, surfaced.
    Six months ago, Julian, who hadn’t been home in ages, suddenly returned and handed her a divorce agreement.
    The terms were a public execution on paper. She was to relinquish all claims to any Sterling assets. She would receive a one-time payment, barely enough to cover a year’s rent in a decent neighborhood. In return, she had to sign a non-disclosure agreement so ironclad it would prevent her from ever speaking about their marriage, his family, or even the existence of the agreement itself.
    “Sign this,” he had said, his voice devoid of any emotion. He didn’t even look at her, his gaze fixed on the skyline outside his window. “Amelia is the partner I should have had from the beginning.”
    “What about the babies?” she had asked, her hand instinctively going to her swollen belly.
    He had finally turned to look at her then, his eyes filled with a chilling indifference. “The Sterling family will provide for their financial needs. But don’t think you can use them as leverage for anything more.”
    She didn’t want to agree at all. She even thought that she’d be willing to endure this situation for the rest of her life. She refused to get a divorce. Even if his heart belonged to Amelia, she would still keep his wife’s title, ensuring that Amelia could never be anything more than a mistress.
    But she was willing to risk her entire life, yet she lost to his ruthlessness.
    He threatened her with the children—if she didn’t sign, the babies in her womb had to be aborted!
    She couldn’t give up her children.
    The doctor said that she had a special physical condition. If she aborted the babies, she might not be able to get pregnant again in the future.
    She had no relatives left. Her children were her only hope.
    For the sake of her children, she ultimately signed the divorce agreement.
    But she never expected that this man would be so heartless as to wouldn’t even take a look at his own children.
    Was it just because she was only a foster daughter of the Hayes family, while Amelia was the biological one?
    Twenty-two years ago, her adoptive parents, who had been unable to have children after years of marriage, adopted her from an orphanage. But no one expected that just a few months after adopting her, the adoptive mother became pregnant and gave birth to their own daughter, Amelia. From then on, she became the daughter whom the family didn’t really care for. Her adoptive parents always favored Amelia.
    Three years ago, Julian was in a car accident and fell into a vegetative state. In their own interest, the Hayes family put her forward as Julian’s wife in exchange for investment from the Sterling family.
    A year ago, Julian woke up unexpectedly. She thought that at last, after all the hardships, sweetness would come. But to her surprise, her sister Amelia fell in love with him at first sight.
    Throughout her life, she had already given in to Amelia far too much. She didn’t want to let her husband go to Amelia as well. In the end, she cut ties with her adoptive parents, because she truly loved him.
    But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t win Julian’s heart.
    Now, back in the stark reality of the hospital room, her nails dug into her palms. They signed the divorce agreement last time, but they haven’t officially gone to the civil affairs office to get the divorce certificate. So, legally speaking, they’re not yet divorced. She was determined to put an end to this as soon as possible.
    For her children, she had to. She had to take the money and get them as far away from the Sterling name as possible.
    A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
    A man in a crisp white coat entered, a warm, professional smile on his face. He was older, perhaps in his late fifties, with kind eyes and a calm demeanor that immediately set him apart from the rushed nurses. His name tag read: Dr. Quentin Beaumont, Head of Obstetrics.
    He was the department head. She wondered why he was doing routine rounds in a shared ward.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Sterling,” he said, his voice gentle. He asked about her recovery, his questions precise and his manner so genuinely caring it caught her off guard.
    Chloe answered politely, a wall of practiced courtesy around her.
    Quentin’s gaze drifted to the bassinets. His friendly expression tightened, just for a second. His eyes narrowed slightly.
    He turned back to her, his tone casual. “The children resemble you. Are your family coming to visit soon?”
    The question landed like a stone in her stomach. Chloe’s gaze dropped to her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t have any family,” she said, the words tasting bitter.
    A fleeting, elusive expression crossed Quentin’s face. He noticed a small, light-brown mole on the inside of her left wrist, just below the pulse. That mole was identical to the one his sister-in-law Eleanor Beaumont had.
    His heart trembled violently. An idea, a hope that he had buried for over twenty years—a wild and seemingly impossible hope—struggled to surface in his mind.
    His heart gave a sudden, violent lurch. That was exactly why he came here. Confirm the birthmark.
    Yesterday, when he accidentally saw Chloe, he was shocked. Her appearance was too similar to his sister-in-law’s. There was even a faint resemblance to his brother Richard Beaumont in the girl’s features. He immediately thought of her niece who had gone missing 22 years ago.
    In the end, he couldn’t resist and secretly took a sample of the girl’s blood for a paternity test.
    The test results would be available today, and he would know the answer soon.
    “Get some rest,” he said, “I’ll make sure the nurses take good care of you.”
    Quentin returned to the office with steady steps, ready to endure the wait for the test results.
    The wait was agonizing. He paced the confines of his office like a caged animal. Every tick of the clock on the wall was a hammer blow against his nerves.
    An hour later, an email notification pinged. The subject line was stark: “99.99% Match.”
    Quentin’s hand shook so badly he could barely control the mouse. He clicked open the email. He stared at the report, at the undeniable, scientific proof on the screen.
    The doctor who had delivered thousands of babies, who had faced life and death with unwavering composure, felt his eyes burn with tears.
    He had found her.
    He had found Richard’s daughter.
    He grabbed his phone, his fingers punching in a number he knew by heart.

    Jilted Wife Returns As A Billionaire Heiress Chapter 3

    In a sprawling corner office atop a skyscraper in New York City, Richard was concluding a transatlantic video conference. His voice was a low, commanding rumble, and the executives on the screen listened with rapt attention. He was a man accustomed to absolute control.
    Suddenly, his private, encrypted cell phone vibrated against the polished surface of his desk. It was a frantic, insistent buzz. The caller ID showed a single name: Quentin.
    Richard knew his younger brother. Quentin would never call this line, at this time, unless it was a matter of life or death.
    He held up a hand to the screen. “Meeting adjourned.” He didn’t wait for a response before ending the call, plunging the screen into darkness.
    He answered the phone, his voice tight with apprehension. “Quentin, what’s wrong?”
    The voice on the other end was choked with an emotion Richard hadn’t heard in years. It was a raw, trembling mix of shock and elation.
    “Richard… I found her. I found your daughter. Her name now is Chloe Hayes.”
    The words struck Richard like a physical blow. The world tilted on its axis. He shot up from his leather chair, the heavy, gold-plated fountain pen in his hand clattering to the floor.
    “Are you sure?” he demanded, his voice a strained whisper. “One hundred percent?”
    “DNA match. 99.99%,” Quentin’s voice cracked. “She’s here, Richard. In my hospital. She just gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl.”
    Richard stumbled back, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. Twenty-two years of hollow anniversaries, of his wife’s silent tears.
    He took a deep, shuddering breath, the titan of industry forcing himself back into the role of the patriarch, the protector. “Don’t let anyone near her,” he commanded, his voice now laced with steel. “I’m on my way.”
    He hung up and slammed a small, red button concealed on the underside of his desk.
    Within seconds, his chief of staff burst into the office, his face pale with alarm.
    “Get the jet ready. We’re flying to Massachusetts. Now,” Richard ordered, his voice leaving no room for questions. “And get Eleanor, Alexander, Sebastian, and Nicholas on a conference call. Immediately.”
    The assistant, sensing the seismic shift in his boss’s universe, simply nodded and vanished.
    Minutes later, the Beaumont family’s emergency protocol was activated.
    On a screen in Richard’s office, four faces appeared. His eldest son, Alexander Beaumont, the formidable lawyer, was in his chambers, a court recess just beginning. His second son, Sebastian Beaumont, the hardened police detective, was at his desk in a bustling precinct. His youngest son, Nicholas Beaumont, the maverick film director, was on a chaotic movie set in California.
    Richard looked at his sons, his composure a thin veneer over a raging sea of emotion. “We found her,” he said, his voice thick. “Your sister is alive.”
    A stunned silence fell over the call. It was broken by a collective gasp, a chorus of disbelieving voices.
    At a charity luncheon on the Upper East Side, Eleanor was gracefully holding court. An assistant discreetly handed her a phone with an urgent message. Excusing herself with a serene smile that betrayed none of the sudden panic in her heart, she stepped into a private powder room and joined the call.
    When she heard her husband’s words, the regal composure she had maintained for decades shattered. A sob escaped her lips, and she pressed a silk handkerchief to her mouth, her perfectly applied mascara threatening to run for the first time in public memory.
    “She’s in a hospital in Massachusetts,” Richard continued, his voice firm, a general rallying his troops. “She needs us. Everyone, drop what you’re doing. We’re going to get her back.”
    The response was immediate and absolute.
    “Cancel all my appointments for the next week,” Alexander told his assistant off-screen.
    Sebastian was already on his feet, grabbing his keys. “Family emergency, cover for me!” he yelled to a bewildered colleague.
    On the film set, Nicholas ripped off his headset and bellowed into a megaphone, “Wrap for the day! Everyone go home!” The entire production ground to a halt, leaving a crew of hundreds standing in stunned silence.
    The vast, powerful machinery of the Beaumont family, an empire that spanned continents and industries, stopped on a dime. All for one girl.
    Back in Massachusetts, Quentin had already set his own plans in motion. He walked with purpose down the hospital corridor, his white coat a banner of authority. He stopped outside the door to multi-patient wards.
    He took a deep breath. His first job was to get his niece out of this public, undignified room. He was going to take her to a place where she would be safe, cared for, and treated like the princess she was.
    He raised his hand and knocked gently on the door, composing his features into the kindest, most reassuring smile he could muster.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

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

    Nine Rejected Marriages, I Wed My Ex's Rival by Mattie Valelly
    👉 READ NOW

    Amelia sat alone at the City Marriage Bureau, watching the clock tick down to closing time.

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

    It was his ninth broken promise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    👉 READ NOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Amelia Frye was now Amelia Thornton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    She recited the address of the imposing Carlisle family estate.

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

    “You are heading to the Carlisle estate?”

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

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

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

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

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

    He typed a single word as the caption.

    “Married.”

    And then he hit post.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

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

    The Neglected Wife's Vicious Comeback Game by Xiu Luo
    👉 READ NOW

    On our third anniversary, my husband canceled our dinner, claiming a sudden work emergency.

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

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

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

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

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

    👉 READ NOW

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 1

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

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 2

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

    The Neglected Wife’s Vicious Comeback Game Chapter 3

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

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