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 4
Ashlie led Keenen into the studio. The space was her sanctuary, a chaotic explosion of sketches, fabric bolts, and mannequins. It was a place of creation, and it was entirely unsuitable for a four-year-old.
"Okay, don't touch anything," she said, immediately realizing how impossible that was.
She sprang into action, grabbing the heavy shears from the cutting table and shoving them into a high drawer. She swept the pincushion off the desk, dumping it into a box and pushing it onto a high shelf. She moved with frantic energy, trying to child-proof a room full of sharp objects and expensive silks.
Keenen watched her, his eyes wide. He reached out a hand to touch a swatch of red silk, then pulled it back, looking at her for permission.
"It's okay," she sighed. "Just be careful."
She found a stack of printer paper and a box of crayons in her desk drawer. She cleared a small space on the floor, away from the fabric, and sat him down.
"Here. Draw me a picture, okay?"
Keenen nodded, immediately engrossed in the colors. With him occupied, Ashlie finally allowed herself to collapse into her desk chair. She pulled out her phone, her fingers shaking as she dialed her father's number.
It rang once, twice.
"Ashlie?" Warren's voice was thick with anxiety. "How did it go? Are you alright?"
She walked over to the window, turning her back to the room. She stared out at the street below, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Dad," she said, her voice a tight whisper. "I... we did it. We signed."
Silence. Then a long, shuddering breath. "Did he... did he give you a hard time?"
Ashlie looked over her shoulder at Keenen, who was carefully drawing a circle. She thought of the marriage certificate dropped like trash, the threat whispered in her ear, the child thrust into her arms.
"It's fine, Dad," she lied, the words tasting like glass. "He's... busy. He had to go to a meeting."
She couldn't tell him. She couldn't add to his burden. He was already carrying the weight of the company; she wouldn't add the weight of her misery.
"I have to go, Dad. I'll talk to you later."
She hung up before he could ask any more questions.
Miles away, in the top-floor corner office of the Bradford Group headquarters, Warren Bradford stared at the phone in his hand. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in days. His tie was loosened, his shirt wrinkled.
He paced the length of the room, his mind racing. He couldn't figure it out. How had the sickly boy from fourteen years ago transformed into a financial titan? And why had that boy suddenly decided to save the company that had shunned him?
It had to be a trap. It had to be about Ashlie. The thought made his blood run cold.
A sharp buzz interrupted his pacing.
"Mr. Bradford?" His secretary's voice crackled over the intercom, laced with panic. "Ellsworth Marshall is here. He's... he's on his way up."
Warren's head snapped up. "What? Now?"
He had expected a phone call, a meeting request. He didn't expect that person to appear at his office door just an hour after receiving the marriage certificate.
Warren rushed to the mirror, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair. He took a deep breath, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "Send him in."
The double doors burst open. Ellsworth Marshall strode in, flanked by a team of suits-lawyers, accountants, all carrying briefcases. They moved like a swarm, taking over the space.
Ellsworth ignored the outstretched hand Warren offered. He walked past the desk, past the chairs, straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Manhattan. He stood there, hands in his pockets, surveying the cityscape as if he already owned it.
He turned back to Warren, his expression cold.
"Mr. Bradford," Ellsworth said, his voice echoing in the large office. "Let's talk about the details of that dowry."
He spat the word 'dowry' like an insult, a reminder of the transaction that had just taken place.
Warren's face flushed, but he remained silent. He had no power here.
Back in the SoHo studio, Ashlie's phone buzzed. She looked down at the screen. A text from the number his driver had taken.
Control your curiosity. Do your job. Also, I'm at your father's office.
Ashlie's blood ran cold. He was with her father. Right now.
She immediately hit redial. The phone rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail.
She imagined her father, cornered in his own office, facing the wrath of the man who had just bought his daughter. She felt sick, helpless.
A small tug on her skirt made her jump. She looked down. Keenen was standing there, a crayon in his hand, looking up at her with those big, worried eyes.
He didn't say a word. He just held onto her skirt, a tiny anchor in the storm.
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.