Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Best Man
Kloe Guthrie dragged her crystal-encrusted wedding gown down the penthouse corridor, exhausted but ready to finally be alone with her new husband, Justen.
But as she passed the presidential suite, a familiar, cloying perfume stopped her. Through the cracked door, she saw Justen brutally thrusting into her cousin, Candyce.
"Like fucking a corpse with Kloe," Justen grunted, his voice thick with lust. "Worth it for the trust fund control, though."
Candyce giggled, mocking Kloe's pathetic gratitude.
Shattered, Kloe stumbled backward in the dark, only to be caught by Julian Larsen—Justen's billionaire best man.
Instead of offering sympathy, Julian trapped her against the wall. He forced her to listen to her husband's cruel mockery, then dragged her into the opposite suite, tearing off her wedding dress and dismantling her dignity piece by piece.
Everything she had believed for four years was a meticulously calculated lie.
She was nothing but a boring prop to the man she loved, a naive fool meant to be drained of her family's immense wealth and laughed at behind closed doors. The humiliation and betrayal burned through her veins like acid.
"You could cry," Julian whispered against her neck, his eyes predatory and dark. "Or you could make him regret he was ever born."
Instead of running from the man cornering her in the dark, Kloe looked at the destroyed remains of her life, grabbed Julian's collar, and pulled him in.
This time, she would make them all pay.
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Chapter 7
Martha's face appeared in the gap, her expression transforming from professional composure to alarmed recognition. "Mr. Anderson-"
She didn't finish. The figure behind her moved past with surprising speed, silver cane striking the marble floor with rhythmic authority.
Eleanor had clearly mobilized the moment Martha relayed Kloe's desperate phone call, her private car breaking every speed limit from the city to the island. Kloe's grandmother filled the doorway like a storm front. Eleanor Guthrie was eighty-three years old, five feet two inches tall, and possessed of a presence that had reduced corporate raiders to stammering apologies. She wore the tweed suit she'd traveled in from New York-Presbyterian, still carrying the faint chemical scent of hospital disinfectant beneath her Chanel No. 5.
Her eyes-gray-green, Kloe's own color, sharpened by decades of seeing through deception-moved from Justen's raised hand to Kloe's disheveled state to the man's shirt hanging loose on her granddaughter's frame.
"Justen." The cane struck the floor, a punctuation mark of displeasure. "Explain yourself."
Justen's hand dropped as if burned. He stumbled backward, his face cycling through emotions too rapidly to track-rage, guilt, panic, calculation. "Eleanor. We weren't expecting-you should be resting-"
"I rest when I'm dead." Eleanor moved into the room, Martha hovering behind her with the black velvet box that contained the Guthrie emeralds. "Which, based on what I'm observing, may be sooner than anticipated if my granddaughter's husband raises his hand to her in my presence."
"I wasn't-there was a mosquito-"
"A mosquito." Eleanor's voice could have frozen mercury. "In March. In a climate-controlled residence." She settled onto the armchair, her posture suggesting a throne. "Kloe. Come here."
Kloe moved, her bare feet silent on the marble. Her grandmother's hand found hers-papery skin over fragile bone, still strong enough to convey absolute support. Eleanor's other hand lifted, untangling the cashmere shawl from her shoulders, and draped it around Kloe with deliberate care. The fabric settled over the shirt's telltale shape, concealing what couldn't be explained.
"Martha," Eleanor said, not looking away from Justen's pale face. "The box."
The velvet case opened on the coffee table, revealing the parure that had graced four generations of Guthrie women. The necklace alone-forty carats of Colombian emeralds in diamond pavé settings-could have purchased the house they stood in. The bracelet, earrings, tiara completed a fortune in green fire.
Eleanor lifted the necklace, its weight substantial even in her experienced hands. "For your wedding," she said, fastening it around Kloe's throat. The stones settled against her collarbone, cold and heavy, a collar of wealth and protection. "A gift from the Guthrie family. A symbol of our commitment to your happiness."
Her eyes lifted to Justen, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "Kloe is not merely your wife, Justen. She is the primary beneficiary of the Guthrie Family Trust, with full access to our legal resources and investigative capabilities." The cane tapped once, meaningfully. "Should she experience any distress-any at all-our attorneys will review every document connected to the Anderson-Guthrie merger. Every loan guarantee. Every joint venture."
Justen's swallow was audible. "Eleanor, I assure you-"
"I don't require your assurances. I require your understanding." Eleanor's smile showed teeth. "Kloe's wellbeing is my sole priority. Her happiness, my only metric of success." She stood, leaning on her cane, and Kloe felt the shift in power like a physical force. "Martha, I'll rest now. Kloe, assist me."
Kloe's arm supported her grandmother's weight, surprisingly light for so much authority. At the stair's turning, she glanced back.
Justen stood alone in the living room, surrounded by cigarette butts and the emeralds' reflected light. His eyes were fixed on the necklace at Kloe's throat-not with appreciation, but with a hunger that made her tighten her grip on the banister.
He wasn't looking at jewelry. He was looking at access. Control. The fortune he'd thought secured, now guarded by a woman who saw through him completely.
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7.6
Johana walked half a mile through a brutal blizzard just to secure a tutoring job with the elite Black family.
But the very night she was hired, she received a terrifying call from the ER—her quiet roommate, Hazelle, had been drugged and severely traumatized at a Hamptons party.
When Johana rushed to the hospital, she didn't find the police. Instead, she found a team of ruthless billionaires erasing the crime.
Leading them was Dalton Black, the cold, arrogant older brother of her new student.
Within minutes, Dalton's fixers wiped the hospital's security footage, deleted all digital evidence, and forcefully transferred Hazelle to a locked private psychiatric facility.
"We are ensuring her privacy."
Dalton's voice was devoid of emotion, treating the horrific assault like a minor PR glitch.
His friends mocked Johana's powerlessness, while Dalton authorized a blank check to pay for the private ward, effectively burying the scandal and buying their silence.
Johana stood in the sterile hallway, trembling with a mix of despair and absolute rage.
How could they destroy an innocent girl's life and simply pay to make it disappear? Why was the truth so easily erased by money?
She had no wealth, no connections, and no proof, but she refused to be a victim of their cover-up.
Staring directly into Dalton's intimidating, icy blue eyes, Johana made a vow.
"I don't want your money. I will find out what you monsters did to her."
She thought the billionaire heir would crush her on the spot, but instead, he watched her walk away and quietly ordered his assistant: "Find out everything about Johana Neal."
7.4
Avery thought she'd found her happily ever after with Ethan, the charming billionaire who swept her off her feet in Willow Creek. But after one night of passion, he vanished, leaving her heartbroken and alone. She returned home to find her grandmother, her only family, had passed away.
Devastated, Avery discovered a shocking truth: she was the daughter of a millionaire who'd left her a vast fortune. Relocated to New York, she met Ethan again, but this time, he was determined to win her back. Unbeknownst to him, Avery had been hiding a life-changing secret: she's the mother of his twin babies.
As Avery navigates her complicated past and the wicked family members who despise her, Ethan's pursuit becomes relentless. He'll stop at nothing to reclaim the love they shared, but Avery's secrets threaten to tear them apart. Can she trust him with her heart and the truth about their children, or will it drive them further apart?
Ethan's words echoed in her mind: "I've been searching for you for six years, Avery. I won't let you go again." But Avery's secrets were only the beginning. Little did Ethan know, their love story was only just beginning...
8.3
For three years, I was the perfect, invisible wife to Bart Brown. On our third anniversary, I stood in the kitchen for four hours, preparing his favorite meal with imported truffles, only to receive a cold text command.
"Crysta fainted again. Get to the hospital. Now."
My rare Rh-negative blood was the only thing the Brown family valued. Bart didn't want a wife; he wanted a walking blood bank for his "sick" best friend, Crysta. While I was fainting from chronic anemia, Crysta was smirking in her hospital bed, clutching Bart's hand and mocking my "peasant" lifestyle.
Even his mother treated me like a servant, demanding I vacuum the floors after I'd already offered my veins for the hundredth time. When I finally reached my breaking point and signed the divorce papers, they didn't let me go quietly. They filed a false police report, accusing me of stealing a multi-million dollar diamond necklace just to watch me crawl.
I didn't understand how a family could be so heartless. I had cooked their meals, cleaned their house, and literally bled for them, yet they were determined to ruin my life the moment I stopped being useful. Did they really think I was a nobody with nowhere to go?
Standing outside the hospital with a bruised wrist and nothing to my name, I didn't cry. I simply took off my cheap wedding ring and dialed a secure line I hadn't touched since the day I married him.
"It's me, Dad," I whispered as a fleet of black Maybachs rounded the corner. "The extraction is a go. I'm coming home."
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.
7.2
Leila never believed in fairy tales - especially not the kind sealed with signatures instead of kisses.
When a carefully structured contract binds her to billionaire Damian Black, it's supposed to be simple: public appearances, flawless smiles, and zero emotional attachment. A calculated arrangement designed to protect reputations and secure power.
But high society is watching.
Whispers follow her into every ballroom. Rumors trail behind every step she takes beside him. They call her an outsider. A contract wife. Temporary.
What they don't see is the silent tension unfolding beneath polished smiles.
Damian Black is controlled, strategic, unreadable - a man who doesn't allow weakness. Yet Leila begins to notice the subtle shifts. The possessive glances. The quiet approval in his voice. The rare moments when his composure falters... just for her.
And Leila is far from fragile.
As jealousy simmers, rivals test boundaries, and past secrets threaten to surface, the line between pretense and reality begins to blur.
What happens when a marriage built on conditions starts to demand something real?
In a world where power is currency and vulnerability is dangerous, can a contract survive the slow burn of genuine emotion?
A billionaire romance filled with tension, rumors, emotional push-and-pull, and undeniable chemistry.
7.8
Growing up as the maid's daughter in the glittering, suffocating Collins mansion, Nora Macie has perfected the art of being invisible. Enter Asher Collins. Rich, ruthless, and infuriatingly untouchable, unfortunately for Nora, her stepbrother has always had the power to ruin her with a single word.
The moment a private video she never intended anyone to see is accidentally sent straight to Asher Collins. Except Asher doesn't expose her. He becomes curious... and dangerously invested.
He will remake her. Not just into someone noticed, but into someone unforgettable, someone who commands attention the moment she walks into a room.
Suddenly, the boys who never knew her name are watching her. Through it all, Asher remains in control... or at least he should be.
Because the closer Nora gets to becoming everything he designed, the harder it becomes for him to remember that she was never meant to be his.
*
His fingers lifted, brushing lightly along the side of her throat. "I think you've been lying to yourself," he said. "Because your body already knows what it wants."
Her breath faltered. "I swear, I'll kill you if you don't back the hell up."
And then, without giving her the chance to retreat, he closed the final inch between them. "I would much rather you kiss me."