Bred by My Ex's Boss
I married an S-class Alpha to save my family's bankrupt company.
But my husband, Braydon, treated me worse than a stray dog.
When my heat cycle triggered early, the fever was agonizing. I crawled to our master bedroom, crying and begging him for just one temporary bite to save my life.
Instead, he locked the door from the inside.
"Go back to your room. I told you I didn't want to deal with you this weekend."
Through the crack under the door, I smelled the cheap perfume of his mistress. While I was dying in the hallway, forced to inject a toxic black-market suppressant that made me vomit blood, he was sleeping with her in our bed.
Days later, a drunk Braydon pinned me to the floor, trying to violently force a permanent mark on my neck just to assert his dominance.
When I fought him off, he blamed me for provoking him and casually tossed a credit card at me to buy my silence.
"Go buy whatever you want. Just tell the clinic you slipped in the shower."
Staring at the man who was supposed to protect me, my heart went completely cold. Why did I ever think this monster would change? This wasn't a marriage anymore; it was a cage, and the animal inside it was trying to kill me.
I quietly pressed the record button on my phone, capturing every single word of his twisted bribe.
Then, I pulled out a matte black business card and called the terrifying Enigma CEO who had been waiting for me in the shadows.
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Chapter 6
Two days later. The midday sun beat down on the busy streets of Manhattan.
Inside the hushed, opulent dining room of Le Bernardin, Easton Marks sat perfectly still.
He was seated at a private corner table, wearing a bespoke navy suit. His face was an emotionless mask, carved from stone.
Sitting across from him was Peregrine Thorne, a top-tier Alpha from a prominent political dynasty. Peregrine was elegantly slicing into a piece of bluefin tuna, talking endlessly about a recent corporate merger.
Easton wasn't listening.
His mother, Lorraine, had threatened to freeze his proxy votes in the family trust if he didn't attend this arranged blind date. Easton had agreed only to get her off his back.
He picked up his crystal glass of sparkling water and took a slow sip.
His mind was stuck on the report his assistant had given him that morning. Alston had never called an ambulance during the storm. He had survived the heat cycle completely unanchored.
Easton's jaw tightened. He twisted the platinum watch band on his left wrist, the metal biting into his skin. The thought of Alston enduring that agony alone made a dark, possessive rage coil in his gut.
He was about to stand up and walk out of the restaurant when the heavy mahogany doors at the entrance swung open.
A woman walked in.
She was dressed in a tight, crimson designer dress, her heels clicking loudly against the marble floor.
Before Easton even fully looked at her, his Enigma senses caught the scent.
It was the cheap, artificial rose perfume. The exact same scent that had been clinging to Braydon's clothes.
Easton's eyes narrowed. He recognized her from the background files. Emelia. Braydon's mistress.
Emelia didn't wait for the hostess. She marched past the front desk, her chin held high in an arrogant tilt. She walked straight toward a secluded booth in the far back corner of the restaurant.
Easton's gaze followed her.
When he saw who was sitting in the booth, his blood turned to ice.
Alston was sitting there.
He looked like a ghost. His skin was translucent, devoid of any color. He was wearing a thick, cream-colored turtleneck sweater, pulled up high under his chin.
Easton knew exactly why. Alston was hiding the ugly, bruised puncture marks on his neck from injecting black-market suppressants.
Alston was staring down at the table, his hands wrapped tightly around a cup of black coffee. His knuckles were bone-white.
Emelia slid into the booth across from him.
She didn't say hello. She unclasped her limited-edition Hermes Birkin bag and slammed it down onto the polished wood table.
The heavy thud echoed through the quiet restaurant.
Several wealthy patrons at nearby tables turned their heads, frowning at the disruption.
Easton's hand tightened around his water glass. He shifted slightly in his chair, using the large floral centerpiece on his table to obscure his face while keeping a direct line of sight to the corner booth.
Peregrine noticed Easton's distraction. He followed Easton's gaze and chuckled softly.
"Ah," Peregrine said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "The classic Upper East Side tragedy. The mistress confronting the discarded wife. It's almost too cliché to watch."
Easton slowly turned his head.
He locked eyes with Peregrine. He didn't say a word, but he let a fraction of his Enigma aura slip out. The heavy, suffocating pressure of a true apex predator slammed into Peregrine.
Peregrine choked on his breath. The smug smile vanished from his face. He shrank back into his chair, suddenly terrified to make another sound.
Easton looked back at the corner booth.
Emelia reached into her designer bag. She pulled out a thick stack of legal papers and shoved them roughly across the table. The papers hit Alston's coffee cup, spilling dark liquid onto the white tablecloth.
Alston flinched. He slowly lowered his eyes to read the bold print on the first page.
Even from across the room, Easton could see Alston's thin shoulders tremble.
It was a divorce agreement.
Emelia leaned forward, a vicious smirk on her red lips. She reached up and casually brushed her hair over her shoulder, exposing the side of her neck.
Right over her scent gland was a fresh, dark purple bite mark. An Alpha's claim.
It was a deliberate, sickening display of dominance. She was showing Alston exactly what Braydon had been doing while Alston was dying in the hallway.
Alston stared at the bite mark. His eyes filled with tears, but he bit his lower lip so hard a drop of blood welled up. He reached out with shaking fingers and pushed the divorce papers back toward Emelia.
He was refusing to sign.
Emelia's face twisted in fury. She stood up abruptly. She grabbed her glass of ice water from the table and pulled her arm back, preparing to throw the freezing water directly into Alston's face.
The last thread of Easton's control snapped.
Easton stood up.
He pushed his chair back with such explosive force that it tipped over and crashed onto the marble floor. The loud bang silenced the entire restaurant.
Easton didn't look at Peregrine. He didn't look at the shocked waiters.
He stepped out from behind his table. His face was a mask of lethal, terrifying calm, but his eyes were burning gold.
He walked straight toward the corner booth.
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9.0
Adaline Poole thought she had escaped her family's toxic corporate grip by moving to London and adopting a stray cat named Monty.
But when she returns to her empty apartment, her father delivers a chilling ultimatum: he has kidnapped the cat and will euthanize it by morning unless she accepts an arranged marriage with Barron Cooke, a notoriously elusive billionaire.
Her entire family becomes complicit in her sale. Her mother demands she secure their elite status, and her brother secretly spies on her social media to feed Barron her every move. Horrified to discover Barron is a thirty-three-year-old "fossil" twelve years her senior, Adaline resorts to sabotage. She goes to a Soho club, takes a scandalous photo with a frat boy, and sends it to the old billionaire to disgust him into canceling their upcoming dinner.
But her rebellion backfires horribly when the frat boy spikes her drink with a powerful narcotic. As her body burns with a terrifying, feverish heat, she collapses in a dark corridor. Stripped of her phone and betrayed by her bloodline, she is left utterly defenseless as a predator approaches to drag her away.
Suddenly, the heavy fire door is kicked open by a towering, terrifyingly handsome stranger who effortlessly neutralizes her attacker.
"Please... help me," Adaline begs, deliriously throwing her burning body into his arms.
She has absolutely no idea that the handsome savior she is clinging to is Barron Cooke himself.
7.9
For ten years, I was the invisible backbone of the Silver Creek Pack.
I cooked the books to hide Alpha Ethan's gambling debts. I ghostwrote the peace treaties that kept our borders safe. I warmed his bed every night, waiting for the bite that would mark me as his Luna.
On the night of our tenth anniversary, I didn't get a ring.
I got replaced.
Ethan walked into the gala with Ashley, a wealthy heiress dripping in gold, clinging to his arm.
When I tried to speak to him, he didn't just ignore me. He used an Alpha Command—a biological weapon that hijacked my free will.
"Go to the kitchen," he ordered, forcing my knees to hit the floor in front of the entire pack. "Ashley is sensitive to the smell of stress. You're ruining her night."
He humiliated me in the house I helped build. He wore the crown I polished for him, thinking I was nothing more than a glorified housekeeper he could discard at will.
He forgot that while he held the title, I held the passwords.
I didn't go to the kitchen. I went to the office.
I initiated a permanent wipe of the cloud backups, reformatted the local servers, and deleted ten years of financial strategies.
Then, I snapped the mate bond and walked out into the rain.
Three days later, I walked back into the conference room.
Ethan laughed, thinking I was there to beg for my job back.
I threw a foreclosure contract onto the table.
"I'm not here to serve drinks, Ethan. I'm the new owner of your debt. Get out of my chair."
7.2
Leila never believed in fairy tales - especially not the kind sealed with signatures instead of kisses.
When a carefully structured contract binds her to billionaire Damian Black, it's supposed to be simple: public appearances, flawless smiles, and zero emotional attachment. A calculated arrangement designed to protect reputations and secure power.
But high society is watching.
Whispers follow her into every ballroom. Rumors trail behind every step she takes beside him. They call her an outsider. A contract wife. Temporary.
What they don't see is the silent tension unfolding beneath polished smiles.
Damian Black is controlled, strategic, unreadable - a man who doesn't allow weakness. Yet Leila begins to notice the subtle shifts. The possessive glances. The quiet approval in his voice. The rare moments when his composure falters... just for her.
And Leila is far from fragile.
As jealousy simmers, rivals test boundaries, and past secrets threaten to surface, the line between pretense and reality begins to blur.
What happens when a marriage built on conditions starts to demand something real?
In a world where power is currency and vulnerability is dangerous, can a contract survive the slow burn of genuine emotion?
A billionaire romance filled with tension, rumors, emotional push-and-pull, and undeniable chemistry.
8.2
For two years, I was the Alpha's secret wife, a duty he resented. But the positive pregnancy test in my hand was a miracle, a blessing from the Moon Goddess. This baby, our heir, was supposed to be the bridge that finally mended our broken mate bond.
That night, he left without a word. I saw on a gossip site that he'd gone to pick up his ex-lover, Isadora. Reaching for him through our bond, I wasn't met with his usual coldness, but with her emotions bleeding through him-triumph and smug possession.
The next morning, I went to his office, ready to tell him about our baby, believing our child could fix us. But I stopped when I heard him talking to our Pack Healer about me.
The healer said I looked fragile, that he should care for his mate. My husband laughed.
"You seem to care for her more than I do," Demetri said, his voice dripping with ice. "Do you want me to give her to you? Take her. She's of no use to me."
My world shattered. I wasn't just unloved; I was a thing to be discarded. I looked down at the pregnancy report, the proof of the life inside me, and made a vow. He would never know about our child, and I would sever our bond myself.
8.0
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, mine didn't.
I came back with a marriage certificate bearing a stranger's name, a ring worth more than my parents' love ever was, and a son whose father I've never seen, never known, never remembered.
I went to Vegas for a racing competition. I won. I celebrated. And somewhere between the victory and the sunrise, my life changed forever.
For six years, I've lived with the consequences of one reckless night. I built an empire. I raised my son. And I searched for the man who changed my life without even knowing it.
Then fate laughed in my face.
My sister married my ex-fiancé-the man I was promised to since childhood. The man I was supposed to become Mrs. Windsor for. The man who now wears my family name... and looks far too much like my child.
Every time I'm near him, the past presses closer. Every glance feels like a question I'm terrified to ask. I shouldn't notice him. I shouldn't feel anything. He is my sister's husband.
But some secrets refuse to stay buried.
Because the truth about Vegas isn't just in the ring on my finger or the child in my arms.
It's standing right in front of me.
And when it finally comes out, it won't just destroy a marriage, it will burn an empire to the ground.
7.5
Daisy spent her birthday cooking a perfect dinner, waiting in their massive penthouse for her billionaire husband, Emmett.
Instead of coming home, a breaking news alert flashed on her screen: Emmett was at the hospital, protectively shielding his old flame, Eryn. When Daisy rushed to the VIP ward, Emmett physically blocked her to comfort a crying Eryn, completely forgetting it was his wife's birthday.
Heartbroken, Daisy demanded a divorce and fled. In response, Emmett ruthlessly froze all her bank accounts and trust funds, leaving her penniless in the freezing Manhattan rain. When she cornered him with divorce papers at a public funeral, a heavy metal cart slammed into her, tearing her calf wide open. Bleeding onto the marble floor, she begged him to sign. Instead, Emmett violently ripped the bloody papers to shreds.
"Unless I am dead, you are my wife," he snarled, locking her inside a room.
Daisy risked her life to escape through a window, dragging her bleeding leg to a dingy motel. But the real nightmare began when Eryn called. The tragic car crash that killed Daisy's adoptive parents ten years ago wasn't an accident—the brake lines were cut. And Emmett, the man she loved, had been using his vast corporate empire to protect the murderers all along.
Why did Emmett bury the police report? What was the deadly secret behind her true identity and the antique "Venus" necklace? Staring at her blood-stained hands in the cracked mirror, the terrified wife died. Daisy grabbed her coat and limped out into the dark, heading straight for the Navy Yard to burn his empire to the ground.