Claimed By My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle
Abigayle was the proud heir to the Pena Group, living a perfect life and engaged to Jeffery Sullivan.
But the morning after a charity gala, she woke up drugged in a hotel room, blinded by paparazzi cameras. Her fiancé and her best friend stood at the foot of the bed, throwing a forged pregnancy report at her face to publicly frame her for cheating.
The betrayal was only the beginning of the slaughter. Before she could even clear her name, the Sullivan family ruthlessly bankrupted her family's company overnight. Her father was rushed to the ICU with a heart attack, her brother was run off the road into a coma, and violent repo men raided her penthouse. Just as she was thrown out into the freezing rain, Jeffery's terrifying uncle, Donovan Sullivan—the very mastermind who engineered her family's ruin—stepped in. He offered to cover the life-saving medical bills, but only if she agreed to become his personal plaything.
Abigayle's blood turned to ice. She couldn't understand how the people she trusted most could plot such a vicious, coordinated destruction just to break an engagement. How dared the man who destroyed her entire family stand there playing the savior, trying to buy her body with her own stolen wealth?
Facing a $100,000 hospital deadline and abandoned by everyone she knew, she didn't shed another tear.
"I will never beg him."
Clutching her last diamond bracelet, she hailed a cab straight to the biggest pawnshop in the Diamond District. The Sullivans thought they had buried her, but her counterattack was just beginning.
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Chapter 2
The rough fibers of the hotel carpet scraped against Abigayle's palms as she pushed herself up.
Her knees shook, but she locked them into place.
She dragged her feet across the room, stopping in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The woman staring back at her looked like a ghost.
Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her lips were swollen, and the oversized men's shirt swallowed her frame, exposing the violent, purple bruises on her neck.
She turned away from the reflection and walked straight into the marble bathroom.
She turned the chrome faucet all the way to the cold side.
Cupping her hands, she splashed the freezing water directly onto her face, letting the icy shock numb the throbbing pain in her temples.
She grabbed a hand towel, dried her face roughly, and marched back into the bedroom to find her clothes.
She spotted her custom silk evening gown crumpled near the armchair.
When she picked it up, the fabric fell apart in her hands. The zipper was completely ripped from the seam, the delicate silk shredded beyond repair.
The electronic lock on the door beeped again.
Abigayle spun around, clutching the ruined dress to her chest.
Jeffery stepped back into the room, alone this time. The cameras were gone. The righteous anger was gone.
He closed the door quietly, leaning against the wood with a smug, negotiating posture.
"If you agree to walk away with nothing," Jeffery said, dropping his voice to a low, business-like murmur. "I can make sure the worst of those photos don't make the front page."
Abigayle stared at his perfectly styled hair and his expensive shoes.
The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place inside her brain.
A cold, bitter laugh ripped from her throat.
She dropped the shredded dress and walked over to the velvet sofa.
She snatched her limited-edition clutch from the cushions, snapped it open, and pulled out her phone.
Her thumb quickly swiped the screen, hitting the bright red record button on her voice memo app.
She placed the phone face-up on the glass coffee table.
"How much did you pay for that fake lab report on the black market, Jeffery?" she asked, her voice steady and lethal.
Jeffery's posture stiffened.
His eyes darted to the recording phone, his fingers immediately reaching up to adjust his cuffs.
"You're out of your mind," he snapped, his voice rising defensively. "The evidence is right there. You're a whore."
Abigayle took a step toward him, closing the distance.
"The report says I'm eight weeks pregnant," she said, enunciating every syllable. "Eight weeks ago, I was in Paris for Fashion Week. I was surrounded by fifty people every day, and you were in New York."
Jeffery's jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek as the glaring hole in his plan was exposed.
He lunged forward, his hand swiping toward the glass table to grab the phone.
Abigayle was faster.
She snatched the device, taking three quick steps backward to keep it out of his reach.
"Your IQ is as pathetic as your performance in bed," she sneered, holding the phone tightly against her chest. "You couldn't even forge a document right."
Seeing that physical force wouldn't work, Jeffery's face morphed into a mask of victimhood.
He let out a heavy, exaggerated sigh.
"Abby, be reasonable," he pleaded, his tone shifting to a pathetic whine. "I'm a victim here too. My father... the family forced my hand. I had to find a way out."
Hearing him blame his family extinguished the very last ember of affection she had ever held for him.
He wasn't just a traitor; he was a coward.
Abigayle raised her left hand.
The three-carat diamond engagement ring caught the dull morning light streaming through the window, flashing brilliantly.
It was the symbol of the Sullivan family's promise. Now, it just looked like a shackle.
She grabbed the diamond with her right hand and yanked it off.
The metal scraped harshly against her knuckle, leaving a bright red friction burn on her skin.
She walked right up to Jeffery.
Before he could react, she slammed the heavy platinum ring directly into the center of his chest.
The diamond hit his breastbone with a dull thud, bounced off his expensive suit, and hit the carpet, rolling away into a dark corner.
"You didn't dump me," Abigayle stated, her chin tilted up, her eyes burning with absolute disgust. "I, Abigayle Pena, am dumping you. You spineless coward."
Jeffery stood frozen for two seconds.
Then, his face twisted into an ugly, furious snarl.
"You shameless bitch!" he roared, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
The sound of clicking heels echoed from the hallway.
The door pushed open, and Kim poked her head in, her eyes darting between them.
"Jeffery, honey? Is everything handled?" Kim asked, her voice dripping with fake concern.
Abigayle turned her head slowly, her gaze locking onto Kim like a sniper finding a target.
"A piece of advice, Kim," Abigayle said, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. "When you pick up someone else's trash, make sure you don't catch an infection."
Kim's face drained of color. The sweet, innocent mask cracked, revealing the ugly jealousy underneath.
Desperate to regain his pride, Jeffery walked over and wrapped his arm tightly around Kim's waist.
"We love each other," Jeffery declared, lifting his chin. "Something you wouldn't understand."
Abigayle looked at the two of them standing there.
The air in the room suddenly felt thick, suffocating, and utterly toxic.
She turned around, grabbed a thick, heavy white towel from the bathroom door, and wrapped it tightly over the men's shirt.
She pulled the terrycloth fabric securely around her waist, covering every inch of her exposed skin.
She walked straight toward the door, her spine perfectly straight, her shoulders pulled back.
She didn't step aside. She forced Jeffery and Kim to step back to let her pass.
As her bare feet crossed the threshold into the hallway, Abigayle stopped.
She didn't turn around.
"Every ounce of humiliation you gave me today," she said to the wall in front of her. "I will return to you tenfold."
She stepped out into the corridor, leaving the two of them standing in the wreckage, and walked toward the storm waiting outside.
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8.7
Brought back from a humble life in Montana, Nora found out she was the true biological heiress of the ultra-wealthy Beaumont family.
But her biological parents didn't love her; they loved the fake daughter, Olivia, much more.
The moment she arrived, her father pushed an engagement termination agreement across his massive desk, forcing her to give up her wealthy fiancé so Olivia could have him.
Her mother looked at her with pure disdain.
"You should know your place. Don't reach for things that were never meant for you."
To break her spirit, they moved her into a cramped, dusty servant's room. They even ordered the butler to feed her cold kitchen scraps and gristle.
They wanted to humiliate her, to make her feel like a piece of trash rather than a daughter.
They expected her to cry, to beg, and to be absolutely crushed by the realization that her own flesh and blood saw her only as a liability to their reputation.
They thought the country girl would easily fold under their united front of cruelty.
But Nora felt no sting of betrayal, only the calculating clarity of a chess player.
She calmly signed the paper, pulled out the Beaumont family trust rules, and looked them dead in the eye.
"Since I am the legal heir, I demand what belongs to me. I'm taking the master bedroom."
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."
9.3
He was supposed to be my brother. The cold CEO everyone feared. The man who controlled the entire country's business world.
But one night, he looked at me and calmly destroyed everything I thought I knew.
"We're getting married."
I laughed, but he didn't.
Now every door in my life is closing, every choice is disappearing, and the one man I'm not supposed to love refuses to let me go.
Because to Lucien Hale, this was never forbidden. It was inevitable.
And the most terrifying part? The closer I get to him, the harder it becomes to run.
9.2
Arla was supposed to marry Clinton Freeman, the perfect fiancé who had promised to love her and protect her five-year-old son.
But instead, the cold steel of a dagger pierced her chest.
As she collapsed onto the freezing basement floor, she watched her adoptive sister Blair laugh.
"Look at her," Blair sneered, kicking her son's small, blue, lifeless body.
Clinton stood there, calmly wiping the bloody blade on a pristine handkerchief.
In her dying moments, the horrifying truth became clear. Her fiancé and her adoptive family had been plotting all along to steal her massive trust fund.
To break her, they had secretly tortured her child. Clinton had watched Blair pierce the little boy's arms with sewing needles, rewarding him with candy to keep him silent.
Arla's lungs burned with the taste of copper and ash.
She couldn't understand why the family she trusted could be so monstrous, or why they had to brutally murder an innocent child just for money.
The darkness swallowed her whole, drowning her in suffocating hatred and absolute despair.
Then, she gasped for air.
The concrete floor was gone, replaced by the silk sheets of a hotel penthouse suite.
Arla had been reborn to the exact night six years ago—the very day Blair first dragged her son into the dark attic.
This time, she picked up a solid silver letter opener, ready to burn them all to the ground.
9.2
Lainey spent her last life destroying herself for Larry, only to become the woman he discarded most cruelly. He never loved her, never wanted her, and made no secret that his first love still owned his heart.
On their wedding day, he abandoned Lainey at the altar for that woman, then later used Lainey as nothing more than a stepping stone for his company's rise. In the end, he even had her kidney ripped from her.
Reborn at the very moment everything began, Lainey called off the wedding without hesitation. But after losing her, Larry begged desperately.
Lainey shot him a cold look, then turned and walked straight into the arms of a powerful, aloof man, who stared down at Larry with pure contempt. "She's my wife now."
8.9
My family's company went bankrupt, and my biological father was lying in the ICU, kept alive by machines that cost tens of thousands a day.
I thought it was just a tragic business failure, until I caught my mother in bed with my stepfather.
They had secretly transferred all our assets months ago, deliberately bankrupting the company and leaving my father to die.
To pay the hospital bills, my stepfather forced me to a private club, trying to sell me to a sleazy investor.
When I refused, he slapped me across the face, and my mother just looked at me with cold, dead eyes.
"Be realistic, Jaelynn. A woman's body is a tool. Use it to get what you need."
Later, right before my father's emergency surgery, my stepfather signed a Do Not Resuscitate order and froze the medical accounts.
"If you don't get on your knees and spread your legs for him, I will tell the hospital to pull your father's plug."
Standing in the freezing rain, covered in mud and blood, I stared at the astronomical hospital bill in my hand.
My own family had plotted to murder my father and sell me to the highest bidder. The betrayal shattered every ounce of sanity I had left.
I didn't cry or beg them anymore.
Instead, I pulled out a water-stained, gold-embossed business card.
It belonged to Dolph Valentine, the most ruthless billionaire in New York and my ex-fiancé's uncle.
If they wanted to destroy my life, I was going to sell my soul to the biggest monster of them all and drag them straight to hell.