Bound To The Billionaire's Cruel Contract
Carissa's son was dying in the ICU, and the bone marrow match had just failed.
The billionaire father, Guilford Gates, cornered her with a cruel ultimatum: naturally conceive a "savior sibling" to save their son. But what shocked Carissa more was his family's sudden accusation that she had heartlessly sold her baby to them three years ago.
"You sold your own flesh and blood to us for five million dollars, so your body belongs to the Gates family."
She was dragged into their gilded estate, treated like a filthy, rented womb. Guilford's new fiancée mocked her, the matriarch humiliated her, and Guilford looked at her with pure disgust. When she desperately tried to feed her sick son and accidentally made him vomit, Guilford violently shoved her away and banned her from the room.
Carissa was devastated and entirely confused. She had never seen a single cent of that five million. Driven by a desperate need for the truth, she investigated and uncovered a horrifying reality: her own father and stepmother had secretly trafficked her baby to the billionaire behind her back, leaving her to bear the ultimate blame.
Looking at the bank transfer record bought with her son's life, the last shred of Carissa's vulnerability died.
She signed the conception contract without asking for a single penny. She was going to use the Gates family's immense power to destroy the blood relatives who sold her, and she would survive this hell to take back her son.
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Chapter 3
Carissa descended the sweeping staircase, her hand trailing on the wool-carpeted banister. Before her foot hit the bottom step, a stern-faced maid blocked her path. Maeve was a stocky woman in her fifties, with iron-gray hair scraped back into a severe bun and small, suspicious eyes.
"Madam Essie is waiting for you in the parlor," Maeve ordered. She turned on her heel, expecting Carissa to follow.
Carissa walked through the dim corridors. The parlor smelled of heavy incense and old mahogany. The air was so thick it stuck in her throat.
Essie Gates sat in a high-backed velvet chair. She was a handsome woman in her seventies, silver hair perfectly coiffed, her face a map of hard lines and harder judgments. A string of antique rosary beads moved through her thin, age-spotted fingers. Her eyes stayed fixed on the fireplace.
Carissa stopped three feet away. "Mrs. Gates."
Essie let out a sharp scoff. She stopped moving the beads and snapped her hawkish gaze onto Carissa. "You are a stain on this family."
Carissa's fingers dug into the fabric of her coat. "I was a victim four years ago—"
Essie slammed her palm against the armrest. The loud crack made Carissa flinch. "Shut your mouth! You sold your own flesh and blood to us three years ago for five million dollars. You have no right to play the victim in my house."
The words hit Carissa like a physical blow. Her mouth fell open. The blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy. Sold? Five million dollars?
Essie mistook her shock for guilt. She sneered, picking up a bone-china teacup and taking a slow sip.
When she set the cup down, her voice was eerily calm. "Since you took our money, your body belongs to the Gates family. Saving my grandson is your contractual obligation."
The sheer ugliness of the words made Carissa's stomach heave. A hot, burning anger ignited in her chest. She snapped her head up, her eyes blazing.
Maeve stepped forward, her body coiling tight, ready.
Essie closed her eyes, looking exhausted by Carissa's mere presence. "Move into the estate. Prepare your body for the pregnancy."
Carissa's chest heaved. She saw Isadore's pale face in her mind. She swallowed the scream building in her throat. If she fought back now, she would be thrown out. And she would never find out who took that five million dollars.
She forced her facial muscles to relax. She manufactured a look of greedy hesitation. "I need time to consider the... compensation for this new arrangement."
Essie's eyes snapped open, gleaming with validated disgust. "There it is. The rat shows its tail." She waved her hand dismissively. "Get this filthy woman out of my sight."
Carissa turned and walked out. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the skin broke. The pain kept her steady.
By the time she reached the front gates, a freezing drizzle had started to fall.
The security guard stared straight ahead, refusing to offer her an umbrella. Carissa pulled her thin coat tighter and walked out into the rain.
She stood on the empty, winding road, pulling out her phone. No Uber driver would accept a ride from this zip code.
A black Maybach glided out of the estate gates. The rear window was rolled halfway down. She caught Guilford's sharp profile in the shadows.
The car sped past her without slowing. The tires hit a puddle, splashing freezing, muddy water all over her jeans.
Carissa stared at the red taillights disappearing into the mist. She wiped the dirty rain from her face. The last shred of vulnerability inside her died, replaced by something cold and hard.
She walked for nearly an hour in the freezing rain, her worn boots slipping on the slick pavement, until she finally reached the main highway. Pulling out her phone with numb fingers, she managed to hail a premium rideshare. When the sleek black SUV pulled up, she slid onto the pristine leather seat. The driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, glanced at her dripping clothes through the rearview mirror but said nothing. The heater blasted over her shivering frame. She gave him an address in Queens.
Staring out at the blurred neon lights of the city, Carissa made a silent vow. She was going to find out exactly where that money went.
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8.9
I returned to New York for my welcome-home party, expecting a warm embrace from Edwin, my devoted fiancé of twenty years.
Instead, his first words to me were a cold, public warning to stay away from his new girlfriend, Kacy.
He stood in my family's hotel, shielding a girl I had never even met, and painted me as a vicious, jealous bully.
"She is very sensitive, Kaitlyn. Her background is tough. Please, be gentle with her. Don't upset her."
He humiliated me in front of our entire elite circle, allowing them to mock me as the aggressive, discarded ex while he carried her away like a fragile princess.
For twenty years, I had been his loyal shadow, fixing his mistakes and loving him unconditionally.
I couldn't understand how decades of deep devotion could be instantly erased by a few crocodile tears and a manipulative damsel act.
He was absolutely certain I would throw a tantrum, cry, and eventually crawl back to beg for his attention.
But he was wrong.
He didn't know that Everett Rowe, a billionaire tech mogul, had been patiently waiting five years to marry me.
He also didn't know that during my three years abroad, I wasn't just studying art—I became "K.B.", the ruthless Wall Street predator who could swallow his family's empire whole.
I calmly pulled out my phone, ignored the mocking whispers around me, and typed a single message to Everett.
"Yes. I'll marry you."
8.1
Arnetta had been married to a wealthy man for three years, but she had never even seen his face.
After a wild night of drinking, she woke up in a hotel room next to a handsome, ruthless stranger.
He coldly kicked her out, mocking her as just another desperate woman trying to sleep her way to the top.
To her shock, she soon discovered the stranger was Brennan Kirkland—her firm's top-tier client and a legendary Wall Street billionaire.
Hiding her true identity as a corporate spy, she manipulated her way into becoming his executive assistant to steal his data.
During a business dinner, Arnetta received a humiliating text from her absent husband, demanding a divorce and calling her a greedy parasite.
"He is a deadbeat coward who thinks money solves everything," Arnetta spat in anger.
"A man who hides behind lawyers is weak," Brennan agreed coldly.
He had absolutely no idea he was insulting his own actions, nor did he realize the wild, gold-digging wife he despised was sitting right across from him.
The next day, her husband's legal team sent a brutal twenty-million-dollar settlement offer, threatening to ruin her if she didn't take the payoff and disappear.
Staring at the degrading ultimatum, Arnetta's hands shook with blinding rage.
She looked at Brennan, who was busy plotting to destroy his own wife, and a terrifyingly calm smile touched her lips.
She wasn't just going to take the money; she was going to completely destroy him.
7.2
I thought I was just marrying a middle-class commercial pilot who proposed to me in a Brooklyn cemetery to fulfill his grandmother's bizarre dying wish.
But when an arrogant pilot tried to harass me at the airport, my "ordinary" husband suddenly appeared, his eyes like chips of ice.
"Take your hand off my wife."
With that single cold command, he had the airline's top executives groveling and the man practically fired on the spot.
Everyone called him "Mr. Chandler." He handed me an exclusive black Centurion card, claiming it was just a standard "manager's perk." His retired parents, who supposedly ran a small business, visited me wearing Patek Philippe watches. I ignored all the glaring red flags, foolishly believing I had just lucked into a stable, caring marriage after a lifetime of disappointments.
Yet, despite his constant, suffocating generosity, he kept a physical wall between us. After a kiss so desperate and hungry it felt like he had been starving for it his entire life, he violently pushed me away.
"We should take this slow."
I couldn't understand why a man who looked at me with such intense, possessive devotion would treat our marriage like a sterile business deal. Why was he orchestrating every perfect detail of my life while refusing to even share a bed with me?
I had no idea that the man sleeping in the guest room wasn't a pilot at all. He was Harmon Chandler, the ruthless billionaire emperor of the Chandler Group. And he had been secretly monitoring my every move for ten years.
8.3
He laid me on the sheets, climbed over me, caged me with his arms. "Last chance to run," he said, voice low."I need the money," I whispered, feeling so tiny in his arms."You're soaking," he muttered. "Virgin or not, your pussy wants this."I moaned, looking away, couldn't help it,"Eyes on me, sweetheart," he pushed his tip in slowly."Fuck," he groaned. "So tight."He fucked me like he was claiming something. "Come for me," he whispered in my ears, moving faster."Damien," I cried out his name as I came."That's it," he growled. After a long minute he pulled out slowly. "One night," he said again, almost like a reminder....weeks later, I walked through the quiet hall of my school. A massive portrait stared back at me.Damien BlackwoodPrincipal Benefactor and OwnerColumbia University.Same man who'd just taken my virginity for money. My stomach dropped. "Oh fuck... what have I done?"
8.8
My fiancé, Knox, was the man I’d spent ten years building a life with, the one I’d poured my family’s fortune into. But then I found the lockbox. Inside, a photo of him smiling, his arm around a heavily pregnant woman, marked: *To my only wife Deana.*
I’d been looking for a charger in our Boston penthouse closet when I stumbled upon it. The faded Polaroid showed Knox, younger, beaming, with a heavily pregnant stranger. Its timestamp: "Ten years ago"—the exact year I funded his Ivy League PhD.
Flipping the photo, I saw Knox’s familiar handwriting: *To my only wife Deana and our upcoming miracle.* My world crumbled. The man I’d loved had a wife, making me the unwitting mistress. My opulent life was built on his lies.
His text, "Baby, I'm coming home to *our house*," twisted into a cruel joke. My tears froze. A decade of sacrifices, of family alienation—all for a man who used my money and trust—shredded in my mind. The fragile woman in me vanished; my eyes turned cold and clear. I relocked the box, smoothed the rug, and applied crimson lipstick. Practicing a flawless smile, I whispered, "Welcome home, my sweet liar."
9.3
Candice Luna thought her marriage to Julius Hansen was a lifeline to save her father's struggling company.
She didn't know it was a death sentence until Julius coldly slid divorce papers across his mahogany desk.
His true love, Amina Rowe, was nestled in his arms with a triumphant, mocking smile. The "merger" Julius promised had been a brutal, hostile takeover designed to bleed the Luna Group dry from the inside. Bankrupted and utterly broken, Candice's father stepped off the roof of their corporate tower. Meanwhile, Candice was publicly humiliated, stripped of her dignity, and mocked by all of Wall Street as a discarded stepping stone.
She died in a car accident, her final moments consumed by an agonizing, feral scream. She hated herself for letting her blind devotion destroy the father who had always believed in her.
But when Candice opened her eyes to the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room, she realized she wasn't dead.
She was twenty-two again. Three years before the wedding. Three years before her father's suicide.
When Julius's assistant walked in holding a bouquet of blue roses to discuss the preliminary merger, he expected a docile, desperate heiress.
Instead, Candice grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand and flung it directly into his smug face.
"Tell Julius Hansen to never, ever send his dogs to my door again."
This time, there would be no engagement. This time, the Hansen family would choke on her family's legacy.