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 8
The restaurant wasn't just exclusive; it was practically invisible. Tucked away in a quiet Beacon Hill alley, with no sign and a single, imposing doorman who checked her name against a list before letting her in.
The interior was hushed and dimly lit. A maître d' led her to a private booth in the back, secluded by dark velvet curtains.
Haskell was already there, a glass of red wine in his hand. He stood as she approached, pulling out her chair with an effortless grace that seemed out of place for a man who wielded so much power.
She sat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "Thank you for meeting me. And for... everything."
"It was necessary," he said, dismissing her gratitude. He took a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving her face. "Let's not waste time, Alayna. You want to know the price. The repayment terms."
She nodded, her throat suddenly dry.
"There are no repayment terms," he said calmly. "I don't want your money."
She stared at him, confused. "Then what do you want?"
He set his glass down. "I have a problem. My company, Knight Industries, is in the final stages of a merger. The board of the other company is old-fashioned. They value stability. A bachelor CEO with a certain reputation makes them nervous."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "I need a wife. In name only. For one year. Until the deal is closed."
The air left Alayna's lungs in a silent rush. A wife. He was proposing a business transaction that involved her marrying him. It was the most insane thing she had ever heard.
"You would have access to all my resources," he continued, as if discussing a stock portfolio. "A generous allowance, protection, and of course, your mother's medical care will be covered in its entirety, no matter the cost. After one year, we file for a quiet, amicable divorce. You walk away with a settlement that will ensure you and your mother are comfortable for the rest of your lives."
She finally found her voice. "Why me? You could have anyone. Any socialite in New York would line up for this."
"They would come with complications," he said, his voice flat and logical. "Family alliances, media attention, emotional attachments. You, on the other hand, are perfect. You have no connections to my world. You're intelligent, presentable, and you have a compelling reason to agree. You're... manageable."
Manageable. The word stung, a small, sharp insult wrapped in a business proposal. She was a tool. A convenient, easily controlled solution to his problem.
And yet... it made a twisted kind of sense.
She thought of her mother, asleep in the hospital. She thought of the half-million-dollar bill. She had no choice. She never had.
She picked up her water glass, her hand trembling slightly. "When would we... sign the contract?"
A flicker of something—triumph? relief?—passed through his eyes, so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. "My lawyers will have it drawn up by tomorrow."
Dinner arrived, and they ate in a tense, loaded silence. The food was exquisite, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth.
Suddenly, the curtain to their booth was pulled aside.
"Sorry, thought this was the restroom," a familiar voice slurred.
Alayna's head snapped up. It was one of Caiden's friends. One of the men from the VIP suite at the country club.
Her blood ran cold. Panic, stark and absolute, seized her. She instinctively ducked her head, her hair falling over her face, praying he wouldn't recognize her.
Before the man could even focus his drunken gaze, Haskell was on his feet. He moved with a speed that was startling, positioning his body between Alayna and the intruder, completely shielding her from view.
"You're mistaken," Haskell said, his voice low and dangerous. The man mumbled an apology and stumbled away.
Haskell immediately signaled the maître d'. "The check. And have my car brought to the rear exit."
He grabbed her hand. His touch was firm, grounding. "Let's go."
He led her through the kitchen and out into a dark, narrow alley. The cool night air was a shock to her system. She leaned against the brick wall, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.
He took off his suit jacket—a different one from the night of the storm, she noticed distantly; the one from that night was still folded on the chair in her mother's hospital room—and draped it over her shoulders. The familiar scent of cedar was strangely comforting.
She looked up at him, and in the dim glow of the alley light, she saw it again. That fleeting expression in his eyes. It wasn't the cold calculation of a CEO. It was... something else. Something softer. Protective.
Then it was gone, replaced by his usual impassive mask.
The ride back to the hospital was silent. But this time, the silence felt different. It wasn't just empty space. It was filled with the unspoken weight of the bargain they had just struck.
Back in the room, she looked at her sleeping mother, her face peaceful under the soft light of the monitors. The fear from the restaurant was gone, replaced by a cold, hard certainty.
Haskell's world was dangerous. But being without him was a death sentence.
She pulled out her new phone and sent him a text.
I agree. I'll sign tomorrow.
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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.