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 3
"How did you know?" The words were a raw whisper, barely audible over the soft hum of the engine.
Haskell didn't look at her. His gaze was fixed on the rain-streaked windshield ahead. "I have a membership at the club. I saw the ambulance."
It was a plausible lie. Too plausible. But her mind was too fractured to dissect it. All that mattered was the car was moving, speeding through the slick city streets, taking her to her mother.
She clutched the edges of his jacket, the fine wool a stark contrast to her cheap, soaked polyester uniform. The warmth was seeping into her skin, a small comfort in the frozen landscape of her fear.
He must have noticed her shivering. He reached forward and adjusted a knob on the console. A moment later, warmer air flowed from the vents, caressing her cold, damp skin. He did it without a word, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of kindness that made the lump in her throat tighten.
Caiden would have complained about the seats getting wet.
The thought was a bitter pill. The comparison was so stark, so brutal, it almost made her laugh.
The Maybach pulled smoothly to a stop under the brightly lit awning of the emergency room entrance. Haskell was out of the car before the driver could open his door, his umbrella already shielding her as he led her inside.
The ER was a controlled chaos of beeping machines, hurried footsteps, and the low murmur of pain and anxiety. The air smelled of antiseptic.
"Alayna!"
Brenda McCoy was there, her face etched with worry, wringing her hands in the waiting area.
"Brenda, what happened? Is she okay?" Alayna's voice cracked.
"They took her back right away. She was complaining about her stomach, and then she just... fainted."
Alayna's legs felt like they were about to buckle. A strong hand gripped her elbow, steadying her. Haskell. He was still there, a silent, solid presence at her side.
A nurse with a clipboard approached them. "Can I help you?"
Before Alayna could speak, Haskell stepped forward. "We're here for Laura Heath."
The nurse's eyes flicked from Haskell's expensive suit to his face, and a flicker of recognition crossed her features. Her demeanor shifted instantly from harried to deferential.
"Mr. Knight. Of course. Right this way."
She led them through a set of double doors into the ER proper. Alayna looked at him, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"The Knight Foundation is a major donor to this hospital," he said, his voice low, answering her unspoken question. It wasn't a boast. It was a statement of fact.
A doctor in blue scrubs met them in the hallway. His face was grim.
"Ms. Heath? I'm Dr. Aris. We've done a preliminary scan. Your mother had a rupture. It appears to be a tumor on her stomach wall."
Tumor. The word hung in the sterile air, heavy and suffocating.
"We've stabilized her for now, but she's in critical condition. Based on what we're seeing, it's likely Stage II gastric cancer. We need to admit her immediately and schedule surgery as soon as possible."
Alayna's mind went white. Cancer. The word was a hammer blow, shattering the last of her composure. Her breath hitched. She couldn't breathe.
The doctor continued, his voice gentle but firm. "We'll need to run more tests, but you should prepare yourselves. The surgery, followed by chemotherapy... it's a long road. And the costs will be substantial. Without premium insurance, you're looking at several hundred thousand dollars, at least."
Several hundred thousand dollars.
The number was so astronomical, so completely outside the realm of her reality, that it didn't even feel real. It was a death sentence.
Her nails dug into her palm, the sharp pain a distant pinprick. She was vaguely aware of Haskell standing beside her, listening intently, his expression unreadable.
"Can I see her?" she asked, her voice hollow.
The doctor nodded.
Laura Heath looked small and fragile in the hospital bed, an IV line taped to the back of her hand. Her eyes fluttered open as Alayna approached.
"Alayna, honey." Her mother's voice was weak. "Your clothes... you're soaked."
Tears Alayna didn't know she had left began to fall. She collapsed into the chair by the bed, grabbing her mother's hand. "Mom, don't worry about me."
"It's my fault," Laura whispered, her own eyes welling up. "I'm a burden. I don't want the treatment, baby. We can't afford it. I don't want you to be in debt for the rest of your life because of me."
"No," Alayna said, her voice fierce. She squeezed her mother's hand. "Don't you dare say that. We are going to fight this. I'll get the money. I don't care how. You are going to get better. That's an order."
She stayed until her mother drifted into a restless sleep, then quietly slipped out of the room.
Haskell was still there, leaning against the far wall of the corridor. He pushed himself off the wall as she approached. For a moment, she thought he might say something soft, something comforting.
He didn't.
He just looked at her, his dark eyes holding an emotion she couldn't decipher. "I'll have my assistant follow up with you regarding the Knight Foundation's patient assistance program," he said, his voice even. "There may be options available to you."
"I can't accept charity, Haskell."
"I'm not offering charity," he said. "I'm offering information. It's up to you whether you use it."
He gave her a slight nod, then turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the linoleum floor, disappearing down the hallway without a backward glance.
Alayna stood alone in the cold, bright corridor, the weight of the world on her shoulders. She pulled his jacket tighter around herself—she still had it, she realized with a start—and the scent of cedar wrapped around her like a quiet promise she didn't dare believe in.
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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.