10 Days to Ruin
8.9 / 10.0
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This is my story of how to lose a mob boss in ten days.
I have a
I've been arranged to marry a monster.
Run away? Good idea. Tried that. Didn't work.
Because in my family, my father makes the rules.
And he says this wedding is happening .
But he still has a soft spot for me, his last remaining daughter.
So he offers me a deal.
Take ten days.
Get to know Sasha.
See if you change your mind.
Yeah, right.
Sasha Ozerov is a beast in Brioni.
He's ruthless, flawless, utterly unconcerned with mortals like me.
All he wants is what our marriage would bring
My family's power and the city in the palm of his hand.
But maybe, if I can make him back out of the deal...
I'll keep my freedom.
So I set out to do everything I can to drive him crazy.
I have ten days to make my husband hate me.
What happens if I start to love him instead?
10 Days to Ruin Chapter 1
ARIEL
I blame Superman for the way my life turned out.
If The CW hadn't cast Tom Welling as Superman in Smallville, it would've been different.
If Tom Welling didn't have cinnamon roll eyes and the bone structure of a sex god, it would've been different.
If I hadn't been a hyper-impressionable twelve-year-old girl caught deep in the vicious chokehold of puberty when the season four premiere of Smallville aired, then I wouldn't have been so jealous of Lois Lane getting to see Tom Welling naked that my crush on him immediately and violently transferred to a girl crush on her, and then I wouldn't have wanted to be a reporter, and then I wouldn't have gotten this job at The New York Gazette, and my editor wouldn't have sent me to this gala, and I wouldn't be in this situation I'm in.
But The CW did cast Tom Welling.
Tom Welling did have cinnamon roll eyes and the bone structure of a sex god.
And Lois Lane did get to see him naked in season four.
And so all of the other things did happen, one domino colliding into the next, shit rolling downhill, and so now, I'm cloistered in the men's bathroom at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, hyperventilating and bleeding from a cut on my hand and wondering just how the fuck I'm supposed to go back out there and do my job.
The woman in the mirror doesn't have any more of an idea than I do. She's staring back at me helplessly. Green eyes, auburn hair, punching well above her weight class in a Diane von Furstenberg dress she stole from her best friend's closet.
"What're we gonna do?" I try asking my reflection. She just mouths the question back to me, that useless tramp.
I sigh and look down at my hand. If you thought the Met would be ritzy enough to ensure their door handles were free of jagged, rusted edges, you'd have thought wrong. I just opened up a good two-inch gash in my hurry to slam the stupid thing behind me after I charged in here, because the women's bathroom had a line two dozen deep, because of course it did.
I've got my other hand clamped on top of it to stop my life juice from splurting everywhere. But the blood is starting to well up between my fingers and it's making me a teensy bit queasy.
I don't do blood. I don't do stitches. I don't do grievous wounds or even particularly bad bruises.
When you grow up the way I did, you see enough of that stuff to last a lifetime.
But I'm by myself in here and no one is coming to my rescue. So with a big, brave inhale, I peel away my good hand and take a look at-
"Nope. Nuh-uh. Nooo thank you." My reflection agrees with me-that's a nasty cut. If I spend even a millisecond longer looking at it, I might pass out.
Wouldn't that be a headline? Reporter Faints in Men's Bathroom While On-Duty; Cracks Head Open On Sink; Funeral Sparsely Attended. Honestly, I'd have to laugh-it would be undeniably hilarious if my obituary got a byline before I ever actually got one myself.
In my defense, I haven't had many opportunities to actually, like, do the job I was hired for. My six months at the Gazette have thus far been spent primarily going back and forth to the Starbucks on the corner. I'm not sure if it's an intern thing, or a rookie hazing thing, or just a Hey, you're a woman, therefore you're on coffee run duty thing. But whatever the cause, I've had precious little opportunity to do what I took this job for.
Reporting. Telling stories. Shining little lights into the dark, cramped corners of the world, because I know better than almost anyone what goes on in those corners.
That in itself is a little bit ironic, if only because I've worked like hell to get out of those corners. Didn't I leave home the first chance I could? Didn't I change my name? Didn't I sever (almost) all contact with the man who raised me in those corners?
I did. I did. I did.
The real irony, though, is that the very first chance I get to do some real reporting... is on that man himself.
That's right: Leander Makris, New York's infamous crime boss and head honcho of the city's Greek mafia, is the star of my article.
He's also my dad.
I didn't know he'd be hosting this gala until I showed up tonight, but when that slap from reality landed, it did so with a vengeance. Thus the tears, and the fleeing into the wrong bathroom, and the hyperventilating, and the reminiscing about how Tom Welling led me all wrong and if I ever get my hands on him I'm gonna kiss him and then kick him, possibly not in that order.
"Breathe," cautions my reflection. "You're starting to look a little crazy."
She's not wrong. Gina, the best friend from whom I stole the DVF dress I'm wearing, did my hair in fancy braids for the night (albeit only after I bribed her into it). One is starting to come loose, though, and I lost an earring at some point in my flight to the bathroom. Between those things and the blood starting to trickle down my fingertips, I really do look like a nutcase.
At least nobody else is here to witness my-
"Shit."
The door handle that sliced me starts to turn. I move faster than I've ever moved in my entire life as I sprint into the nearest stall, slam the door, and hike my feet up on the toilet so no one sees that there's a woman in heels and painted toenails creeping her way around the men's bathroom.
The door creaks inward.
Footsteps ring out. Male-I mean, obviously, they're male, given the fact that we're in the men's bathroom, but there's a heavy thump and a kind of power in the stride that can only come attached to a Y chromosome.
Thump.
Thump.
I stare at the gap underneath the stall door. My breath is held hostage in my lungs and I'm doing the best I can to get my heart to stop beating so damn loudly as those feet come into sight.
And then they stop right in front of me.
I used to play a game with my mom when I was little-before she left, before she told Baba, I can't do this anymore and kissed me on the cheek and took her one duffel bag with her-where we'd sit outside coffee shops and make up stories about the people who passed by.
Little old lady in a pillbox hat that Jackie O. would've been jealous of? Secretly a fairy princess, my mom would whisper in my ear. She's been hiding out in our world while her one true love fights a war to make their kingdom safe for her again.
A young, scruffy man busking on the corner for dollar bills dropped into his guitar case? That's an angel, she'd tell me. He accidentally fell off a train in heaven and he's gotta earn enough money to buy his ticket back home.
The hot dog vendor was a genie. The breakdancers on the subway were forest nymphs. Every rat scurrying past on the sidewalk was a poor little boy under a witch's spell who just had to find a way to break the curse.
But these shoes? This man?
That can only be a devil.
It's in the flawless gleam of the oxblood leather loafers. The way the charcoal gray pants cuff, ironed to razor-blade perfection, floats above his ankle. Those socks, black as midnight.
And when he speaks, I know it for sure, because the voice those ankles belong to is like anointing oil poured over broken granite.
"Mne plevat'," he growls in a harsh, ice-cold rumble. "Ya khochu, chtoby ty nashel yego i ubil."
The bathroom is graveyard quiet, but I can hear only mumbled squeaking from the other end of the phone call. The man in the oxblood shoes doesn't let his friend finish before he interrupts.
"Should I repeat myself in English so the message is clear? 'I don't give a fuck. I want you to find him and kill him.' Don't call back until it's done."
The beep that follows ends the call.
I realize when the edges of my vision start to burn and blacken that I haven't breathed since the man walked in. I can feel sweat beading up on my temples and my armpits. But I just have to hold out a little longer, a little longer, a little fucking longer, because if the man will just leave, then I can...
Oh, no.
I see it as it's happening-fast enough to understand, but too slow to do anything about it.
The blood that's been leaking down my knuckles forms a diamond at the tip of my pointer finger. Wells up. Swells up. Stretches...
And then it falls to the checkerboard tile floors with a tiny, a soft, but an utterly undeniable plip.
Silence follows.
Then: slowly, slowly... those oxblood shoes turn to face me.
"Whoever's in there," the devil snarls, "open the door before I break it down."
Continue Reading
10 Days to Ruin of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6
Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
7.8
Alayna was working a grueling catering shift in worn-out heels to support her broke college boyfriend, Caiden, who claimed to be studying at the library.
But through the crack of a VIP suite door, she saw him wearing a bespoke suit and a Patek Philippe watch, sipping expensive liquor.
"It's a little poverty role-play. Keeps things interesting."
He was laughing with his rich friends, mocking her as his clueless "charity case."
To make matters worse, she was forced into a humiliating mascot costume just in time to watch him passionately kiss his wealthy ex-girlfriend.
That same night, Alayna's mother collapsed with gastric cancer, requiring a half-million-dollar surgery.
When a desperate Alayna begged Caiden for help, he refused.
"Why don't you just apply for Medicaid? That's the path for people like you."
For two years, she had starved herself to buy his textbooks, his tickets, and his shoes.
He had stolen her sweat and her sacrifices, all for a cruel game.
The sheer audacity of his betrayal made her blood run cold.
When a billionaire stranger stepped in to pay her mother's medical bills in exchange for a one-year fake marriage, Alayna didn't hesitate to sign the contract.
She slipped the flawless diamond ring onto her finger, opened a spreadsheet, and sent Caiden an invoice for every single cent.
This time, she was going to dismantle his entire life.
9.4
I thought the Burch family gave me a loving home when they took me out of the orphanage.
But when the global deep freeze apocalypse hit, my adoptive parents mercilessly kicked me out of the bunker to freeze to death.
As I lay dying in the snow, covered in horrific purple frostbite, my adoptive sister Kendal walked past me in a pristine designer jacket.
Around her neck was my only childhood possession—an antique gold necklace my adoptive mother had ripped off my neck to give to her.
Kendal gloated, bragging that my pendant held a magical space with infinite supplies and fresh food while the rest of the world starved.
I realized I had spent years emptying my life savings to fund their luxury cars and fake medical emergencies.
They had drained my bank accounts, stolen my bloodline's heirloom, and used my magical lifeline to live like royalty while leaving me to die.
I took my last ragged breath in that blinding blizzard, consumed by a toxic hatred.
Why was I so hopelessly weak? Why did I let them take everything from me?
Opening my eyes again, the painful frostbite scars were gone. My skin was warm.
I grabbed my phone. The screen lit up: November 12.
It was exactly three days before the world ended.
When my adoptive mother called, faking a tearful emergency to demand another thirty thousand dollars, I smiled coldly.
"Just tell me where to send the money, Mom."
This time, I'm taking my space back, and I'm going to drain them dry.
8.4
I worked three double shifts at the garage just to buy a velvet-boxed cake for my wealthy girlfriend, Arleen.
But when I pushed open the VIP room door, I saw her lover kissing her bare leg.
She didn't push him away. Instead, she laughed and swirled her martini.
"I only forgot Finn because I knew he would stay. He is a poor boy from Queens who follows me around like a loyal dog."
Later that night, her lover intentionally crashed a Porsche to scare me, sending a piece of jagged metal into my skull.
Lying in a growing pool of my own blood, I watched Arleen crawl out of the wreckage.
She didn't even look at me. She threw herself at her uninjured lover, screaming for a medic.
"He just got scraped by a piece of plastic. He is faking it. Deal with Jaquez first!"
When I woke up, I wasn't free. Arleen had locked me in a private hospital wing with 24-hour security, planning to isolate me and keep me as her broken, captive toy forever.
My blind, pathetic devotion finally froze into absolute disgust.
I looked at the heart monitor next to my bed and grabbed an IV needle.
I severed the sensor wire to trigger a flatline, slipped out the fire stairs while the nurses panicked, and burned my identity to ashes.
This time, I was going to disappear to London, build my own empire, and watch hers burn.
8.6
I woke up choking on rotting air in an alien jungle, surrounded by giant bioluminescent ferns and a three-eyed, armor-plated beast charging straight at me.
Before the monster could tear me apart, I was saved by a squad of men with metallic wings and laser rifles, but my nightmare was just beginning.
When they brought me back to their high-tech military base, every soldier we passed stopped dead, staring at me with a feverish, starving hunger that made my skin crawl.
In the medical wing, a manic doctor bypassed all protocol, pulling out a wicked silver needle to forcibly extract my blood, looking at me not as a patient, but as a winning lottery ticket.
Even their highest-ranking commander, a giant, scarred Admiral, immediately tried to claim me, demanding I be moved into his personal bedroom for "protection."
I didn't understand why I was being treated like a caged miracle, nor why a simple, accidental touch of my hand could bring my winged protector to his knees and silence his feral instincts.
"In the Aethel Empire, there are no females," my protector whispered, his icy blue eyes filled with raw desperation. "You are the only one."
The portal that brought me here was fading, trapping me in a universe of eighty billion shapeshifting Alpha males. Looking at the terrifying devotion in his eyes, I realized my life as an ordinary human was over, and to survive this, I had to tame the beasts.
8.8
Clara supported her boyfriend Leo for four years, paying his rent and buying his headshots while working dead-end extra gigs.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, she caught him in their bed with Veronica, a wealthy producer's daughter who constantly stole Clara's roles.
Leo mocked Clara as a "pathetic, poor stepping stone" who was just there until he got his foot in the door.
Veronica threatened to ruin Clara's career forever.
Clara dumped him, packed her bags, and impulsively entered a contract marriage with a cold stranger she met at City Hall.
But her nightmare wasn't over.
When her mother suddenly needed a $200,000 emergency brain surgery, Clara was forced to take a demeaning extra gig to survive.
There, Veronica and her starlet friend cornered Clara.
They mocked her cheap clothes, ridiculed her new wedding ring as fake glass, and intentionally poured scalding coffee on her feet.
"Well, maid, you better clean that up."
Veronica laughed, forcing Clara to her knees to wipe up the burning liquid while snapping photos.
Clara swallowed her burning humiliation, secretly recording their abuse on her phone.
She endured the pain, desperate for the $300 day rate to save her mother's life, feeling entirely crushed by their overwhelming wealth and power.
What she didn't know was that outside the soundstage, her new contract husband—the man she thought was just a struggling, broke tech worker—was sitting in a sleek black Maybach.
He watched his wife kneeling on the floor, and his dark eyes filled with a lethal, terrifying rage.
7.9
In my past life, I was the naive surrogate who fell desperately in love with Karson King, an untouchable Wall Street billionaire.
I thought my blind devotion would earn me a place in his family. Instead, his cruel mother forced me to sign away my parental rights to my three-year-old daughter.
I was locked in a dark, freezing basement. I watched helplessly as his arrogant relatives tormented my child, pushing her down a flight of marble stairs and shattering her tiny arm.
When we finally died in a horrific car crash, my face covered in blood amidst the shattered glass, Karson didn't shed a single tear. To him, my death was just the convenient erasure of a cheap mistake.
I sacrificed my dignity for his approval, but they treated us worse than stray dogs. Why did my innocent daughter have to pay the ultimate price for their ruthless arrogance?
Opening my eyes again, the harsh glare of a massive crystal chandelier pierced my vision. I was back in the grand foyer of the King estate, exactly five years ago.
"Sign it. You are nothing but a gold digger."
My soon-to-be mother-in-law slammed the thick legal contract onto the marble table, demanding I give up my daughter.
This time, the paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by absolute, icy clarity.
I didn't cower. I picked up the pen, looked right at the billionaire who despised me, and prepared to manipulate his entire empire.
