A Fake Marriage With The Real Tycoon
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.
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Chapter 2
The kiss stretched on, a public declaration carved into the humid night air. Caiden's hand slid from Averie's hair down to the small of her back, pressing her against him. It was a gesture of ownership, of familiarity. It was everything he'd never been with Alayna.
Her blood felt like ice in her veins. The last flickering ember of hope inside her—the tiny, stupid part that whispered it's a misunderstanding—was extinguished. The truth was a cold, hard stone in her gut.
Finally, they broke apart, both of them breathless. Averie's gaze drifted over the pool area and landed on the mascot.
She laughed, a tinkling, cruel sound. "God, that thing is hideous."
Caiden glanced over, his eyes dismissive. "What do you expect? It's cheap entertainment for the new-money crowd."
His words, casual and unthinking, were a fresh wound. Cheap. That's all she was to him.
Inside the costume, Alayna's nails bit into her palms again. The physical pain was a welcome distraction, a focal point in the overwhelming sea of hurt. She wanted to scream. She wanted to rip the turkey head off and show him the face of the girl whose heart he had just systematically destroyed.
But her body wouldn't move. She was paralyzed by the sheer, stunning cruelty of it all.
"Mascot! Get to work!" Brendan's voice cut through her trance. He slapped the fuzzy back of the costume.
The slap jolted her. She forced her heavy, plush feet to move, shuffling toward a dark corner of the patio, away from the glittering crowd. Once she was hidden behind a large potted palm, she reached up with trembling hands and yanked the head off.
Cool, fresh air rushed over her sweat-slicked face. She gasped, gulping it down like a drowning victim. Her reflection in the dark glass of the patio door was a monster. Mascara ran in black rivers down her cheeks, her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her eyes were wide with a pain so deep it looked like madness.
She fumbled for her phone in the apron pocket. The screen lit up, displaying her message thread with Caiden. There it was—the picture of the textbook he'd sent just an hour ago, followed by the goodnight message from last night. Two separate lies, stacked one on top of the other. The goodnight message she'd fallen asleep smiling at. The textbook photo she'd believed without question.
Goodnight, babe. Dream of me.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her lips. It sounded like a sob. She shoved the phone back into her pocket, the lie of it burning a hole through the fabric.
And then, it vibrated. A frantic, insistent buzzing against her leg.
She pulled it out again. The screen read: BRENDA MCCOY. Her next-door neighbor. An elderly woman who checked in on her mom.
Her finger shook as she answered. "Brenda?"
"Alayna, thank God." Brenda's voice was thin and panicked. "It's your mother. It's Laura. She collapsed. The paramedics just took her. They're going to New York-Presbyterian."
The world dissolved.
The party, the costume, Caiden, Averie—it all vanished. There was only Brenda's voice and a terror so absolute it stole the air from her lungs.
"I'm coming," she choked out, the words tasting like ash.
She dropped the turkey head on the ground. Her hands flew to the back of the costume, fumbling with the zipper. The heavy, musty fabric resisted, then finally gave way. She tore the plush body off, kicking her feet free from the oversized turkey legs. The costume collapsed in a heap on the patio. She didn't look back. In nothing but her cheap server's uniform, she ran.
She burst through the club's ornate gates, past the valets, ignoring Brendan's furious shouts behind her.
The sky had opened up. A cold, torrential rain was lashing the pavement, turning the streetlights into blurry halos. She didn't have an umbrella. She didn't have a coat. She didn't care.
She ran to the curb, her cheap server's uniform instantly soaked through, and waved her arm frantically at the passing headlights.
A luxury sedan sped by, its tires throwing a curtain of grimy water that soaked her to the bone. She flinched back, invisible to the wealthy occupants cocooned within. None of them even slowed down. To them, she was just a crazy girl in a cheap, wet uniform, screaming in the rain.
Desperation clawed at her throat. Her mother. She had to get to her mother.
Tears mixed with the rain on her face. A sob tore from her chest, raw and animalistic. Her legs gave out, and she sank to her knees on the wet asphalt, the fight draining out of her. The world was collapsing, and she was at the epicenter.
A pair of brilliant headlights cut through the downpour, stopping directly in front of her. The car was a sleek, black Maybach, its engine a low, powerful hum that was barely audible over the storm.
A door opened. A large black umbrella snapped open, creating a perfect circle of shelter in the chaos. A polished black leather shoe stepped out, landing firmly in a puddle.
A man walked toward her.
Alayna looked up, shielding her eyes from the rain. Through the watery curtain, she saw a face. A face she hadn't seen in person in four years, but one that was seared into her memory. Chiseled jaw, intense dark eyes, an expression of calm authority.
Haskell Knight.
The boy from her prep school scholarship days. The untouchable, brilliant, quiet boy she had watched from afar, the one who existed in a completely different universe. He was standing in front of her, holding an umbrella over her head.
Her mind went blank. She couldn't form a thought.
He held out a folded, linen handkerchief. His voice was low and steady, cutting through the sound of the rain.
"Alayna Heath?"
He remembered her name.
She took the handkerchief, her fingers numb and clumsy. How could he possibly remember her name?
He didn't wait for an answer. He took her by the wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Come on."
He pulled her to her feet and guided her toward the open car door. She moved like a sleepwalker, her mind still reeling.
The door shut behind them, and the world went silent. The roar of the rain was instantly reduced to a soft, rhythmic drumming on the roof. The air inside was warm and smelled of leather and clean, sharp cedar.
She was shivering violently, dripping water all over the pristine leather seat. She tried to curl into herself, to take up as little space as possible.
Without a word, Haskell shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy and warm, carrying his body heat. The scent of cedar was stronger now, surrounding her.
She flinched at the contact, the memory of his name on the library dedication plaque, the hushed whispers about his family, all of it rushing back. She felt her own pathetic, drenched state more acutely than ever.
He leaned forward, his voice calm and directed at the unseen driver.
"New York-Presbyterian. And step on it."
Alayna's head snapped up. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
He knew. How did he know where she needed to go?
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7.6
After an exhausting fourteen-hour flight, Katia returned to her Upper East Side penthouse, expecting the quiet comfort of the life she had built.
Instead, she found a pair of familiar red stilettos in the foyer and her fiancé, Caleb, tangled in their bedsheets with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.
She didn't scream or cry. She simply took off her three-carat engagement ring, threw it at his bare chest, and demanded he buy out her half of the penthouse by Friday.
Seeking to numb the sickening disgust, she got blackout drunk and crashed at a luxury hotel, accidentally stumbling into the wrong suite.
Thinking the imposing man inside was a high-end escort hired by her friend, she threw him over her shoulder and spent a wild night with him.
The next morning, she left five thousand dollars on his nightstand with a lipstick-stained note.
"Good Job."
For six years, she had funded Caleb's dreams and built his startup from the ground up, only to be treated like a lifeless ATM.
With ruthless precision, she spent the next two months systematically bankrupting his company, cutting off his venture capital, and erasing his life's work.
She felt no heartbreak, only a cold, calculating need to cleanse herself of his betrayal.
But when Katia finally returned to corporate headquarters to co-lead a massive merger, she literally crashed into the new Vice President.
Strong arms caught her waist, and the sharp scent of cedarwood and whiskey hit her like a freight train.
"You came back," Jackson whispered, his eyes burning as he stared at the woman who had treated him like a cheap gigolo.
8.3
I was the long-lost Donovan heiress, finally brought home after a childhood in foster care. My parents adored me, my husband cherished me, and the woman who tried to ruin my life, Kiera Reese, was locked away in a mental facility. I was safe. I was loved.
On my birthday, I decided to surprise my husband, Ivan, at his office. But he wasn't there.
I found him at a private art gallery across town. He was with Kiera.
She wasn't in a facility. She was radiant, laughing as she stood beside my husband and their five-year-old son. I watched through the glass as Ivan kissed her, a familiar, loving gesture he’d used with me just that morning.
I crept closer and overheard them. My birthday wish to go to the amusement park had been denied because he’d already promised the entire park to their son—whose birthday was the same day as mine.
"She’s so grateful to have a family, she’d believe anything we tell her," Ivan said, his voice laced with a cruelty that stole my breath. "It's almost sad."
My entire reality—my loving parents who funded this secret life, my devoted husband—was a five-year lie. I was just the fool they kept on stage.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ivan, sent while he stood with his real family.
"Just got out of the meeting. So exhausting. I miss you."
The casual lie was the final blow. They thought I was a pathetic, grateful orphan they could control.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
8.9
I was tossed into a dark alley like rotting garbage, bleeding and grieving the child I had just lost.
When I was finally brought back to my fiancé Angelo's penthouse, instead of comfort, I was met with absolute disgust.
His family declared me "unclean" after the kidnapping. Angelo coldly announced he was burying the scandal by marrying my sweet, innocent cousin, Carissa.
When we were alone, Carissa stood over my bed, her voice dripping with venomous delight.
"My father arranged the kidnapping. And now, Angelo and I can finally be together."
Before I could react, she forced a silver letter opener into my hand, deliberately stabbed her own shoulder, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Angelo stormed in, struck me across the face, and gathered a sobbing Carissa into his arms, looking at me with absolute revulsion.
The family matriarch appeared at the door, her cold eyes sweeping over the scene before she gave a chilling order to the maids.
"Clean this up."
They pinned me down and brutally drove the blade directly into my chest.
I choked on my own blood, staring at the man who had promised me the world as he turned his back, calling my murder a "mercy."
As my heart beat its final agonizing rhythm, I made a silent vow to the shadows that if there was a next life, I would have my vendetta.
When I opened my eyes again, there was no blood, only the soft silk of my nightgown.
I had returned to the day before my eighteenth birthday.
This time, I wouldn't play the desperate victim. I was going to ally with the Devil of Chicago and burn them all to the ground.
8.9
For three years, Alana acted as the sole tactical brain for the Dawnbreaker squad, keeping them alive despite being labeled a useless "Dud" Conduit.
But right before the crucial Ascension Trials, squad leader Cash handed her a corporate sponsorship contract. The condition? She had to become the "private companion" to a greasy corporate heir just so the squad could get high-tier gear.
When she refused, the teammates she had bled for unanimously voted to kick her out.
"You're just window dressing, a liability."
They revoked her safehouse access, burned her belongings, and the academy advisor even tried to force her into a state-sanctioned breeding program. They left her to freeze in the slums, betting she would desperately crawl into the rich man's bed.
What they didn't know was that her inability to summon an Eidolon wasn't a lack of talent. Her teammate Dallin had been secretly sabotaging her rituals for years, crippling her potential just to keep her chained as their free tactician.
Stripped of everything and pushed to the absolute brink, Alana's despair morphed into a deadly resolve.
Using a million-credit black market loan and a forbidden blood matrix, she forcibly anchored an Apex-Tier cosmic wolf disguised as a harmless silver pup.
When her ex-squad tried to publicly humiliate her and burn her new "pet" alive in the cafeteria, a flash of silver light severed Dallin's hand instantly.
Looking at her screaming former teammates, Alana finally smiled.
9.0
Grace's engagement to Dillan Hayes was nothing but a cold business transaction to secure funding for her family's company.
But when Dillan violently shoved her into a marble bar over his ex-girlfriend, leaving her bleeding, Grace didn't hesitate.
She called 911, had her fiancé arrested on the spot, and broke off the engagement.
Returning to the Albert estate, she expected chaos, but not absolute betrayal.
Her family didn't care that she had just been physically assaulted.
They were in a sheer panic because her cousin Ashly had just fled the country, abandoning a terrifying arranged marriage.
The groom was Hudson Turner, a man known across Manhattan as a disgraced, violent psychopath, paralyzed from the waist down in a severe crash.
To save themselves from the Turner family's wrath and financial ruin, Grace's aunt and father ordered her to take Ashly's place.
"You eat from this family, you live in this house! It is time you paid us back!"
Her father even threatened to freeze her bank accounts and faked a heart attack to force her compliance.
For three years, Grace had single-handedly kept the family business afloat while they squandered the profits.
Now, they were throwing her to a monster without a second thought, expecting her to rot as a crippled man's miserable nursemaid.
But they picked the wrong sacrifice.
Grace ruthlessly extorted a legal severance from her family, taking her shares and cutting all ties forever.
She walked straight into Hudson Turner's private gallery to propose a mutually beneficial, cutthroat business marriage.
However, when the prenuptial was signed, the "paralyzed" billionaire placed his hands on his wheelchair.
Slowly, deliberately, Hudson stood up to his full, imposing height of six-foot-three.
"The wheelchair is a necessary illusion for my enemies," Hudson stated calmly. "But it will never be an illusion between you and me."
9.2
I was a broke freelance copywriter, tortured for three sleepless nights by an impossible corporate client.
Needing to vent, I typed out a wild, highly inappropriate rant mocking the brand's stiff heritage.
But in my exhausted, sleep-deprived blur, I accidentally sent the massive block of text to the wrong chat.
The recipient wasn't my friend. It was Emerson Beard, the elite, ruthless brand consultant I was supposed to desperately network with.
I waited for the professional execution, terrified of the massive five-figure penalty fee hanging over my head.
Instead, he didn't block me. He critiqued my unhinged draft.
He saved my career through late-night, encrypted phone calls, his deep, commanding voice becoming my only lifeline.
But when I heard a woman with a sultry French accent knocking on his hotel door during our call, my ugly jealousy flared.
I yelled at him and hung up, completely humiliating myself.
I thought I was just a pathetic, annoying workaholic interrupting his romantic getaway.
But he texted back to clarify he was entirely single, and in the process, realized I was actually twenty-five, not a fresh-out-of-school teenager like he had assumed.
The cold, distant mentor instantly vanished.
In his place was a man radiating a raw, aggressive, and predatory energy that bled right through the screen.
"Texting is too inefficient. The full integration requires face-to-face communication."
He dropped a location pin for an ultra-exclusive Manhattan club, demanding I meet him to save my contract.
Wearing a desperately bought emerald silk dress, I pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping right into the trap of a man who had just taken off his leash.