Bound To The Devil From My Past
To save my family's dying company, I was forced to marry a billionaire I hadn't seen in fourteen years.
But right outside the City Clerk's office, he tossed our marriage certificate at me like a cheap receipt and shoved a four-year-old boy into my arms.
"Your new life has begun. You're on babysitting duty now."
He sneered and left me stranded on the sidewalk. I realized with absolute horror that my new husband was Ellsworth Marshall, the sickly boy I had relentlessly bullied in middle school.
He didn't spend five billion dollars to save the Bradford family. He bought me to execute a slow, suffocating revenge.
He used his orphaned nephew as a pawn, explicitly threatening my father that if I failed to play the perfect, compliant nanny, he would instantly destroy our family's legacy.
He even had his guards lock me out of his Long Island estate on my first night, forcing me to stand in the cold dark just to prove he owned me.
I was trapped in a gilded cage, suffocated by the guilt of my past and the terror of my present.
Why did he involve an innocent child in his twisted vendetta? How much humiliation was enough to pay for my childhood cruelty?
Looking at the terrified little boy clinging to my skirt, I tightened my grip on my suitcase.
If he wanted to destroy my will piece by piece, I had to find a way to survive the monster I created.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 3
The Bentley merged smoothly into the chaotic flow of New York traffic. Inside, the silence was thick, suffocating. Ashlie sat rigidly in the back seat, Keenen a warm, unsettling weight on her lap. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the man sitting next to her.
She could feel Ellsworth's eyes on her. He was studying her like a bug under a microscope, assessing her discomfort.
Keenen shifted in her arms. "I'm hungry," he mumbled, his voice small.
Ashlie panicked. She didn't know the first thing about kids, let alone this kid. She looked up at Ellsworth, a silent plea for help.
He just stared back, his face blank. He didn't move, didn't speak. He was going to let her drown.
Fine. She had to figure this out herself. She fumbled with her clutch, her fingers clumsy. She dug past her phone and wallet, finding only a small packet of almonds she kept for emergencies.
She looked at the boy. "Do you... do you want some nuts?"
Keenen shook his head, his lower lip jutting out.
Ashlie felt a flush of frustration. She was failing test number one.
Ellsworth's phone rang, breaking the tension. He answered it, and suddenly the car was filled with the sound of rapid, fluent French. It wasn't a casual chat; it was a barrage of business terms, sharp commands, and clipped tones. He was closing a deal or destroying a competitor, and he was doing it with the same cold efficiency he used to order her around.
Ashlie understood maybe one word in ten. The language barrier felt like another wall, a reminder of the vast, unbridgeable gap between her old life and this new world. He was a shark; she was just chum.
But the phone call was a perfect distraction. His focus was absolute, his gaze directed out the front window as he argued a point. This was her chance.
She looked down at Keenen, who was now quietly tracing the patterns on her dress. He seemed so small and lost.
"My name is Ashlie," she whispered, leaning close so only he could hear. "What's yours?"
"Keenen," he whispered back.
"That's a nice name," she said, her voice soft. The boy looked up at her, his big eyes uncertain. An innocent comment slipped out of him. "Uncle Ellsworth says I have to be good for you."
Ashlie froze. Uncle?
The word sent a jolt through her. She glanced quickly at Ellsworth, who was still deep in his call, oblivious. Her heart hammered. She had to be sure.
"Uncle Ellsworth?" she repeated, her voice barely a breath.
"Yeah," Keenen said, nodding. "He's my uncle."
The information hit her like a physical blow. Uncle. Not father. Which meant she wasn't the stepmother from hell. She was the... aunt? The knot in her stomach loosened just a fraction. It was still a forced marriage, still a nightmare, but the label mattered. "Aunt" was a distant relative; "stepmother" was a life sentence.
"So... where is your mommy?" she asked, the words tasting like ash. She had to know.
Keenen's face fell. The light in his eyes dimmed. He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. Uncle says she is sick. She lives far away."
Ashlie's heart ached. This child had a story, a sad, complicated one.
"Stop prying into Marshall family matters."
Ellsworth's voice was a whip crack, slicing through the hum of the French conversation. He had hung up the phone without her noticing.
Ashlie clamped her mouth shut. She looked away, staring out the window, but her mind was spinning. If this was just about revenge, why involve the boy? Why force her into the role of caretaker for his nephew? It didn't make sense.
The car slowed, pulling up to the curb in front of a brick building in SoHo. Her building. Her studio.
"Take him upstairs," Ellsworth said, not bothering to turn around. "Your first task is to take care of him for the rest of the day. I'll send someone to pick you up tonight."
Before Ashlie could respond, the driver opened her door. The noise and smell of the city rushed in, a stark contrast to the sterile bubble of the Bentley.
She scrambled out, holding Keenen's hand. The car pulled away the second her feet hit the pavement, disappearing into the traffic.
She stood there on the sidewalk, a married woman with a child she barely knew, staring up at the sanctuary of her studio. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had been just a designer with a dream.
Now, she was a nanny for the enemy.
You may also like
8.4
Grace, after three years of silence from a crash that stole her voice and family, finally uttered a hoarse syllable. It was her first sound, a breakthrough she desperately wanted to share with Josiah, her childhood protector. Instead, through a slightly ajar door, she heard his careless chuckle, followed by a sharp, entitled voice.
Alexandria's voice sliced through the air: "Josiah, are you really planning to bring that little mute to the banquet? She's a walking trailer park tragedy. It's embarrassing." Grace froze, waiting for Josiah to defend her. He didn't. Instead, he sighed, calling her "a responsibility" and "a lifeless ghost," then pulled Alexandria closer.
The words were serrated blades. Her silent devotion, her self-erasure for his peace, had made her a punchline. He was relieved she was broken. The bitter realization of his betrayal ignited a cold, white-hot fury.
Wiping away tears, Grace met Josiah, feigning her usual submissive smile, and quietly refused his "hush money." As he walked away without a glance, her inner voice was clear, sharp, and resolute: "I'm done playing your game."
9.3
Halie woke up to a sharp pain and a terrifying reality. She was in a new body, her face covered in a hideous web of scars, and her spiritual power reduced to a pathetic D-Class.
Before she could even process the memories of being framed, her bedroom doors were violently kicked open.
Her sister Seraphina sauntered in with a venomous sneer, followed closely by Halie's S-Class fiancé, Jett.
"Look at the disgrace of the Avila family. What a waste," Seraphina mocked, throwing a mirror at her bed.
"I can't be tied to a cripple. As an S-Class, I have to break our engagement," Jett added, his gaze full of disgust.
The nightmare didn't stop there. Her father called, screaming about how she had shamed the family name. He officially stripped her of her inheritance, froze all her accounts, and exiled her to the decaying Southern District to rot.
To make matters worse, a cold, mechanical voice suddenly echoed in her skull, warning her of an impending genetic collapse. Without an immediate energy infusion, she would face total organ failure in thirty days.
A ruined face, a treacherous family, a world that wanted her dead, and a literal death clock ticking in her brain. The original owner had died in absolute despair, a tragic victim of sheer cruelty.
But if they thought she would just sit there and die, they were severely mistaken.
Armed with a mysterious system and her brilliant scientist mind from her past life, Halie packed her bags. She chose the craziest survival quest: head to the slums, find the exiled, sterile S-Class "madman" Coleman, and cure him to harvest his life energy. It was time to start her counterattack.
8.3
On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news.
He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city.
The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.”
For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets.
My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me.
So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts.
He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked.
He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree.
He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.
8.8
My husband thought I was just a docile wife, easily controlled. He didn't know I'd spent five years meticulously dismantling his life. Tonight, his world would finally crumble into dust.
For five years, I endured Jackson's entitled demands and his family's greed, silently funding their lavish life in our Beverly Hills mansion.
My illusion shattered finding his mistress Amber's lingerie in his suitcase. My attorney just severed all financial ties, making Jackson's arrogant demands hollow.
I tossed my diamond ring into the trash, summoning an industrial compactor. Jackson, his mother, and mistress watched in horror as their designer luggage, bought with my money, was crushed, turning their lavish trip into garbage.
A cold, dead smile marked my cathartic release from five years of betrayal. How could they be so blind to the woman they dismissed?
Stepping into an armored Maybach, I left them in chaos. My iPad confirmed Jackson's credit cards freezing. This wasn't just divorce; it was a calculated demolition, making their pampered lives very real.
9.3
My husband Hudson had kept me a medicated ghost for three years, convinced I was unstable. But a cheap pink hair clip, tangled with golden blonde hair in his car, ripped through the chemical haze. The bitter pill he forced me to take wouldn't numb the burning truth, only fuel my awakening.
I was an architect once, but now I was just Cora, a docile wife trapped in his suffocating world. When he saw my shock, his concern was sickeningly sweet as he offered another Xanax. I pretended to swallow the poison, letting it dissolve under my tongue, a constant reminder of my awakening.
Back at the mansion, his massive car deliberately blocked mine, a crude barricade confirming his control. Then, a message from an old intern confirmed my darkest fears: this was domestic abuse. He urged me to check Hudson’s closet, to record everything.
I knew then I was living with a dangerous monster, and my denial shattered. The anger burned, fueled by the bitter taste of that undissolved pill.
That night, Hudson walked in, wearing a hideous, sloppily tied red polka-dot tie. It was a clear, undeniable sign of another woman. My architect’s mind was awake, cold and calculating. "Game on, Hudson." I would make him taste this bitterness back a thousand times.
7.4
The house was a living inferno, the heat devouring the air in my lungs as I clutched my five-year-old daughter to my chest. Emily was dead weight, her skin already cooling even as the room turned into a furnace of orange and black.
Through the stinging smoke, I saw my husband, Kenney, crawling toward the door with a wet handkerchief pressed to his face. He didn't look back at the crib, and he didn't call my name; he was simply leaving us to burn.
I lunged forward and grabbed his ankle, my nightgown catching fire, but he didn't reach down to save me. He recoiled in horror at the sight of my burning hair and our dead child, kicking me back with a panicked shriek.
"Let go!" he shrieked.
I died as a massive, flaming timber snapped from the ceiling and crushed us both into silence. I couldn't believe that the man I loved would leave his family to die just to save his own skin, but the rage I felt was colder than the death that followed.
But then the burning stopped instantly, replaced by a cold so sharp it made my teeth ache. I gasped, jerking upright in my bed to find the velvet duvet cool under my palms and the nursery quiet, with Emily still breathing softly in her crib.
I had returned to the winter morning two years before the fire, the exact day Kenney finalized the deal to sell me to the King for a promotion. As Kenney stepped into the room with a practiced mask of concern, I realized I was no longer the victim of this story.
"A nightmare, my love?" he asked, reaching out to touch my shoulder.
I flinched away, my eyes burning with a hatred he couldn't yet understand. Tonight was the Winter Masquerade, the night he planned to offer me to the King as a prize, but this time, I was going to turn his social ladder into a gallows.