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 6
The morning after signing the NDA, Alayna sat in her mother's hospital room, the signed agreement now locked in Jax's briefcase and on its way back to New York. Her new phone rested on the windowsill beside her—the encrypted phone Jax had given her yesterday, its screen dark for now.
Her old phone buzzed. It was Haskell—on her old number, she noted with mild surprise. He must have gotten it from Jax.
Specialist consultation. 3 PM. Dr. Evans.
The efficiency was staggering. Dr. Evans. The impossible-to-book doctor Eleonora had just told her about. So the Knight Foundation had already arranged it. Of course they had.
She rushed back to the room just as a team of doctors, led by the renowned Dr. Evans, was finishing their examination of her mother. Dr. Evans pulled Alayna aside into the hallway.
"Your mother is a strong woman," he said, his eyes kind but serious. "The tumor is aggressive, but it's operable. We have a good chance of getting it all."
Hope, bright and brilliant, surged through her. "Really?"
"But the surgery and the subsequent year of immunotherapy will be costly," he continued, his tone sobering. "You're looking at a total cost of around half a million dollars."
The hope deflated as quickly as it had appeared. The number was a physical weight, pressing down on her, squeezing the air from her lungs. She knew the Knight Foundation had agreed to cover it, but the reality of owing so much—of being so deeply indebted to a man she barely knew—settled over her like a shroud. The debt was real, and it would take years, maybe decades, to repay.
She thanked Dr. Evans and returned to her mother's room. Laura was awake, her eyes clearer than they'd been in days.
"The doctor said they can operate," Alayna told her, forcing brightness into her voice.
Laura smiled weakly. "See? I told you. I'm tougher than I look."
They talked for a while, about nothing and everything—old memories, bad TV shows, the flowers on the windowsill. When Laura drifted off to sleep, Alayna slipped into the hallway.
She walked out of the hospital, the crisp Boston air doing little to clear her head. She pulled out her old phone, checking for updates.
A text from Eleonora appeared on the screen.
GOOD NEWS! My uncle just confirmed—Dr. Evans agreed to take your mom's case after all! Someone pulled strings big time. Is it that Knight Foundation you mentioned? Because whoever they are, they've got some serious weight.
Alayna stared at the screen, her vision blurring. Haskell. It had to be. He'd made it happen without her even having to ask.
She walked back into the hospital, her pulse steady. Her mother was in good hands. Whatever came next, whatever price she had to pay, at least she had this.
She pulled out the encrypted phone and opened the message thread with Haskell.
Thank you, she typed. Dr. Evans says she has a good chance.
His reply came in less than a second.
No need. Get some rest.
The command was so simple, so direct. And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she actually could.
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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.