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.
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Chapter 7
Ashlie hung up the phone, the dial tone buzzing in her ear like an insect. She tried to focus on the sketch in front of her, but the lines blurred together. Her mind was a mess of worry for her father and fear for herself.
A rustle of paper drew her attention. She looked over at Keenen. He was still sitting on the floor, his small body hunched over his drawing. He had been quiet for a long time.
She walked over and knelt beside him. The drawing was simple, drawn with the clumsy strokes of a child. It was a picture of a woman holding a little boy's hand. But the woman had no face. Just a blank oval where her features should be.
"That's a nice picture," Ashlie said softly.
Keenen pointed a crayon at the faceless woman. "That's Mommy," he said.
Ashlie's heart twisted. The longing in his voice was palpable. She wanted to hug him, to tell him it would be okay, but she didn't know how.
The buzzer at the door rang out, sharp and sudden.
Ashlie jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. She stood up quickly, her body tensing. He sent someone already.
She walked to the door on unsteady legs, preparing herself for another confrontation with one of Ellsworth's minions.
She pulled the door open.
"Chloe?" she blurted out, her eyes wide.
Her best friend, Chloe Mercer, stood in the hallway. She was dressed to kill in a leopard-print coat, holding two cups of coffee. Her usual bright smile froze on her face as she looked past Ashlie.
Chloe's eyes locked onto the small boy sitting on the floor. Her jaw dropped.
"Ashlie," Chloe said, her voice high with shock. "Who's kid is this? Since when do you babysit?"
Ashlie let out a bitter laugh. She grabbed Chloe's arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Keep your voice down," Ashlie hissed, gesturing toward Keenen. "This is Keenen."
Chloe's eyes were sparkling with gossip. She lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. "Is he a secret love child? Faye's? No, I would know. Is he... yours?"
Ashlie couldn't help but smile at her friend's wild imagination. She shook her head and pointed toward the small kitchenette in the back.
"Let's talk in there," Ashlie said.
She went over to Keenen and handed him her tablet, played the cartoons that most ordinary children like. He took it without a word, his eyes glazing over.
In the kitchen, Chloe immediately launched into interrogation mode.
"Spill it," Chloe demanded, leaning against the counter. "You look like hell. What's going on?"
Ashlie took a deep breath. She couldn't lie to Chloe. She needed someone to talk to, someone who wasn't part of this nightmare.
"I'm married," Ashlie said slowly.
Chloe choked on her coffee. " You... you got married? When? To who? Why wasn't I invited?"
The questions came rapid-fire, each one hitting Ashlie like a pellet.
"This morning," Ashlie said, her voice tired. "I got married to save the Bradford Group."
Chloe's face went pale. She knew about the company's troubles, but she hadn't realized how desperate things had gotten.
She reached out and pulled Ashlie into a tight hug. "Oh my god, Ash. Why didn't you tell me? Who is he? Is he good to you?"
Ashlie pulled back, her eyes filling with tears she had been holding back all day. She looked at her friend, her expression a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.
"It's Ellsworth Marshall," she whispered.
Chloe frowned, the name ringing a distant bell. "Ellsworth Marshall? Wait... you don't mean the Ellsworth Marshall? The phantom of Wall Street who came out of nowhere last year? No, that's impossible. It has to be a different guy."
"No," Ashlie prompted, her voice hollow. "From school. The boy we called the 'Glass Prince'?"
Chloe's mouth fell open in a perfect 'O'. She looked like she had been slapped.
"Wait," Chloe stammered, her voice a squeak. "Our 'Glass Prince'? The one who fell over if you breathed on him? He's the billionaire who saved your company? And you married him?"
Ashlie nodded, a tear finally slipping down her cheek. She told Chloe everything-the contract, the revenge, Keenen being his nephew, the move to Long Island.
When she finished, Chloe was silent for a long moment. She just stared at Ashlie, her expression a mix of horror and awe.
"This is insane," Chloe finally said, her voice hollow. "This is like a plot from a crazy movie."
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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.