Bound To The Disabled Apocalyptic Tycoon
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Jessie's biological parents brought her back from a Rust Belt wasteland just to force her into marrying a paralyzed heir to save their bankrupt empire.
Three years later, when the global doomsday apocalypse hit, her own family shoved her into a swarm of infected corpses.
As she was being torn apart by mutated hounds, she was stunned by what she saw.
Her fake sister, Harley, was clutching the antique silver necklace she had stolen from Jessie—an heirloom that secretly contained a magical spatial dimension.
When the infected swarmed them, her biological mother didn't even look back.
"Jessie is just white trash, she is perfectly suited to buy us time to run!"
Harley used Jessie's stolen necklace to live in absolute safety and luxury, while Jessie's windpipe was ripped out in the rotting wasteland.
Until she died, Jessie didn't understand. She was their true flesh and blood.
Why did her parents hate her so much? Why was she sacrificed so easily while the fake daughter got everything?
Opening her eyes again, the blinding glare of a crystal chandelier stabbed into her retinas.
She was back in the Manhattan penthouse on the exact day they sold her off.
This time, Jessie calmly signed the marriage contract, demanded a one hundred million dollar buyout, and walked out to prepare for the apocalypse.
Bound To The Disabled Apocalyptic Tycoon Chapter 1
Jessie's eyes snapped open.
The blinding glare of the crystal chandelier stabbed into her retinas like shattered glass. She gasped, a harsh, ragged sound, as her hands instinctively flew to her throat. Her fingers dug into her own skin, frantically searching for the jagged, torn flesh where the mutated hound had ripped out her windpipe just seconds ago.
There was no blood. No rotting stench of the apocalypse. Just the smooth, unblemished skin of her neck and the suffocating scent of expensive vanilla room spray.
A heavy stack of paper slapped against the glass coffee table, the sharp smack vibrating through the velvet sofa where Jessie sat.
"Sign it," Brenda snapped.
Jessie's lungs burned as she sucked in a breath of clean, unpolluted air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, somatic rhythm that told her she was alive. She dragged her gaze away from the ceiling and focused on the woman standing over her. Brenda Aguilar. Her biological mother.
Martin stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting his silk tie with stiff, jerky movements. "You will marry the Ramsey heir. The family needs this capital injection, Jessie. It's the least you can do after we brought you back from that Rust Belt wasteland."
Jessie's stomach plummeted, not from fear, but from the sheer, dizzying reality of the moment. She was back. Back in the Manhattan penthouse. Back to the exact day they sold her off to a paralyzed man to save their own skin.
Across the room, sitting on a single designer chair, Harley dabbed at her perfectly dry eyes with a tissue. "Mom, Dad, please," Harley choked out, her voice trembling with practiced fragility. "I'll do it. I'll marry him. I can't let my sister ruin her life for me."
Brenda rushed over, wrapping her arms protectively around Harley. "Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. You are a delicate girl. Jessie grew up in Pennsylvania, shoveling dirt. She has no manners, no future. She is perfectly suited to take care of a cripple."
Jessie slowly lowered her hands from her neck. Her pulse began to steady, the frantic drumming fading into a cold, heavy beat. She looked at the three of them. Her blood relatives. The same people who, three years from now, would shove her into a swarm of infected corpses just to buy themselves ten seconds to run.
Jessie stood up. Her heels sank into the plush Persian rug, the sound muffled to a dull thud.
Martin's jaw tightened. He took a step forward, his hand hovering near his phone. He thought she was going to scream. He thought she was going to tear the gold-stamped marriage agreement to shreds.
Instead, Jessie picked up the heavy Montblanc pen resting beside the papers.
She pulled the cap off.
Harley's fingers twisted the fabric of her silk dress, her eyes gleaming with a sick, hidden anticipation. She wanted Jessie to throw a tantrum. She wanted Jessie to prove she was white trash.
Jessie didn't even blink. She flipped to the last page of the contract, pressed the nib to the paper, and signed her name.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound of the pen tearing slightly into the thick parchment echoed in the dead silent room.
Brenda's mouth hung open, the insults dying in her throat. She stared at the signature, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Martin turned fully away from the window, his brow furrowing in deep suspicion.
Harley's fake tears instantly dried up. Her hands froze on her ruined silk skirt, her knuckles turning white.
Jessie tossed the pen back onto the glass table. The metal clattered loudly, breaking the spell.
"I signed it," Jessie said, her voice devoid of any human warmth. "Now, since I'm saving this family from bankruptcy, you owe me compensation."
Brenda snapped out of her shock, her face twisting into a sneer. "I knew it. You're just a greedy, ungrateful country rat looking for a payout."
Jessie ignored her. She locked eyes with Martin. "I want you to buy out my inheritance rights. Every single share, every trust fund tied to the Aguilar name. I want it liquidated and handed over to me."
Martin let out a harsh bark of laughter. "You are an idiot. You're giving up billions in future trust funds for what? A quick check?"
Harley immediately chimed in, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Jessie, don't be impulsive. The inheritance is yours by blood. You shouldn't throw it away just because you're angry."
Jessie tilted her head, a cold smile touching her lips. "Really, Harley? Do you want me to keep it? Because if I do, you'll never see a dime of it once they die."
Harley choked on her breath. The color drained from her face, and she looked up at Brenda with wide, victimized eyes.
"Don't you dare speak to your sister like that!" Brenda shrieked, shielding Harley again. "You are pushing your luck, Jessie!"
"Call the lawyers," Jessie interrupted, her tone slicing through Brenda's screaming like a scalpel. "Get them here now to draft the buyout agreement. Or I walk out that door, and the Ramsey family pulls their funding tomorrow."
Martin's eyes narrowed, weighing the options. The Ramsey money was the only thing keeping the Aguilar empire afloat. "Fine," he spat. "I'll call them."
Jessie didn't wait for another word. She turned on her heel and walked toward the guest hallway. Her posture was rigid, her steps measured. She felt nothing for them. Not anger. Not sadness. Just a hollow, clinical detachment.
As she reached the end of the hallway, out of their sight, Jessie stopped. She pressed two fingers against the inside of her left wrist.
The skin there was burning. A small, intricate birthmark, with lines that almost looked like micro-circuitry, pulsed with a faint, invisible heat.
Her chest he heave as a genuine wave of relief washed over her. The Personal Biome. It had come back with her.
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Bound To The Disabled Apocalyptic Tycoon of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.4
I worked three double shifts at the garage just to buy a velvet-boxed cake for my wealthy girlfriend, Arleen.
But when I pushed open the VIP room door, I saw her lover kissing her bare leg.
She didn't push him away. Instead, she laughed and swirled her martini.
"I only forgot Finn because I knew he would stay. He is a poor boy from Queens who follows me around like a loyal dog."
Later that night, her lover intentionally crashed a Porsche to scare me, sending a piece of jagged metal into my skull.
Lying in a growing pool of my own blood, I watched Arleen crawl out of the wreckage.
She didn't even look at me. She threw herself at her uninjured lover, screaming for a medic.
"He just got scraped by a piece of plastic. He is faking it. Deal with Jaquez first!"
When I woke up, I wasn't free. Arleen had locked me in a private hospital wing with 24-hour security, planning to isolate me and keep me as her broken, captive toy forever.
My blind, pathetic devotion finally froze into absolute disgust.
I looked at the heart monitor next to my bed and grabbed an IV needle.
I severed the sensor wire to trigger a flatline, slipped out the fire stairs while the nurses panicked, and burned my identity to ashes.
This time, I was going to disappear to London, build my own empire, and watch hers burn.
9.3
Chandler was the secret wife of Avery Osborn, a powerful media heir who kept their marriage hidden to avoid the scandal of her illegitimate birth.
After catching him openly flirting with a rival at a gala, Avery mocked her low status and told her she was nothing without his money.
Instead of crying, Chandler immediately signed a zero-payout divorce agreement, left her wedding ring on his glass table, and walked out.
To numb the pain of her shattered life, she went to a notorious underground club.
Drugged by a bartender, she lost her mind and ended up having a wild night with a handsome stranger she mistook for a high-end male escort.
Panicking the next morning, Chandler transferred her entire life savings of $50,000 to the man to buy his silence, then fled to her corporate job.
But at the afternoon executive meeting, her blood ran cold.
The man she had paid off was standing at the head of the boardroom table. He wasn't a gigolo. He was Brennan George, the ruthless new COO of her company.
Cornering her in the women's restroom, Brennan held up a printed copy of her $50,000 wire transfer.
"Wiring a massive sum of cash to your direct superior after a night together is classified as commercial bribery and solicitation," he whispered dangerously.
Chandler was terrified, realizing she had handed him the exact evidence needed to destroy her career and sue her into bankruptcy.
"Marry me," Brennan demanded coldly. "It's the only way to make this HR problem disappear."
8.7
For seven years, I was Alpha Zane’s Chosen Mate, suppressing my warrior instincts to be the docile, supportive partner he demanded.
On our seventh anniversary, while I waited by a candlelit table, I accidentally overheard his mind-link with another woman.
"Seven years is a habit, my dear, not love. She's docile, she'll understand."
He told Seraphina, his new political ally, laughing as he dismissed my entire existence.
I didn't scream or cry. I scraped the anniversary cake into the trash, drafted a formal rejection letter, and walked out of the packhouse.
But Zane didn't even notice my departure. He was so consumed by his new lover that my rejection letter was treated as garbage and tossed into the incinerator.
He paraded Seraphina around the pack, even handing my hard-earned strategic command over to her—a woman who knew absolutely nothing about war.
When my loyal subordinates protested, he violently suppressed them, declaring my absence a "childish tantrum" and framing me as the bitter obstacle to his destined romance.
He honestly thought I was just hiding in my room, waiting to beg for his charity and accept a humiliating demotion.
He had no idea that I had already crossed the border into enemy territory.
Tonight, I am attending his grand celebration.
Not as the heartbroken mate he discarded, but as the newly appointed Gamma of his deadliest rival, the Sterling Pack.
7.4
I was only fifteen when my venomous family orchestrated my doom by forcing me into an arranged marriage with mafia heir Javier Velasquez.
On our wedding night, Javier paraded strippers into our suite to show his absolute contempt, turning me into the ultimate joke of the underworld overnight.
But being a joke was a luxury compared to what came next.
Three years later, Javier needed to be a widower to marry into a heavily armed family and secure their backing for a coup.
He didn't grant me the mercy of a bullet.
Instead, he dragged me to an abandoned underground safehouse, locked me in the damp, rotting dark, and told the world I had been assassinated.
For six months, I starved in that dungeon, surviving only on the desperate hope that my family was safe.
Then, on the day of his lavish new wedding, a cruel maid kicked a plate of spoiled food onto my floor and delivered the final, fatal blow.
"Annabel is dead. Pined away and died of a broken heart two weeks ago."
My gentle mother was dead, all because she actually believed his lie about my tragic murder.
Driven by pure agony and an all-consuming hatred, I shattered crates of smuggled chemical solvents and struck a match, letting the roaring inferno turn their bloody wedding into my funeral pyre.
I thought the fire was the end.
But when I opened my eyes, the suffocating smoke vanished, replaced by the biting chill of a Long Island winter.
I was standing in the snow, back on the exact day my descent into hell began.
This time, the terrified girl was dead, and I would use their own ruthless rules to tear their empire apart.
9.0
I spent a year scrubbing floors in my fiancé’s club, hiding my identity as the daughter of the Capo dei Capi.
I needed to know if Connor Bishop was a King worth merging empires with, or just a puppet.
The answer came walking in wearing a neon pink dress.
Jaden Juarez, a civilian he was infatuated with, didn't just treat me like a servant; she deliberately poured scalding espresso over my hand because I refused to be her valet.
The pain was blinding, my skin blistering instantly.
I video-called Connor, showing him the burn, expecting him to enforce the code of our world.
Instead, seeing his investors watching, he panicked.
He chose to sacrifice me to save face.
"Get on your knees," he roared through the speaker. "Beg her pardon. Show her the respect she deserves."
He wanted the daughter of the most dangerous man on the East Coast to kneel to his mistress.
He thought he was showing strength.
He didn't realize he was looking at a woman who could burn his entire world to ash with a single phone call.
I didn't cry. I didn't beg.
I simply hung up the phone and locked the kitchen doors.
Then, I dialed the one number everyone in the underworld feared.
"Dad," I said, my voice cold as steel. "Code Black. Bring the papers."
"And send the wolves."
7.8
For five years, I was the flawless wife to the heir of the De Luca empire, securing billion-dollar acquisitions to prove my worth.
But my husband, Alessandro, still paraded his mistress in our home, publicly humiliating me as a "cold spreadsheet" while she sneered in triumph.
It didn't stop at infidelity. When I dared to cut off her credit cards, Alessandro decided to teach me a lesson.
He allowed his mistress to secretly file down the metal clasp on my horse's saddle right before a massive public equestrian event.
My leg was completely shattered in a horrific, agonizing fall in front of hundreds of elite guests.
While I lay bleeding in the dirt, my husband didn't even glance my way. Instead, he rushed to hold his mistress, shielding her eyes from the gruesome sight.
Later, pretending to be unconscious in the infirmary, I overheard him ordering his guards.
"Get rid of the saddle. It was just a lesson to remind her who's in charge."
He didn't just want me humiliated; he wanted me crippled and broken.
As the sterile smell of the hospital hit me, a horrifying realization set in—I was two weeks late. I was pregnant with his child.
The thought of my baby growing up in this ruthless, toxic family made my blood run cold, and the last spark of my love turned into absolute hatred.
The obedient wife died on that dirt track.
I quietly contacted his family's biggest rival and activated my secret scorched-earth protocol. It was time to burn his empire to the ground.
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