Discarded Fiancée: The Tech King's True Queen
I returned to New York for my welcome-home party, expecting a warm embrace from Edwin, my devoted fiancé of twenty years.
Instead, his first words to me were a cold, public warning to stay away from his new girlfriend, Kacy.
He stood in my family's hotel, shielding a girl I had never even met, and painted me as a vicious, jealous bully.
"She is very sensitive, Kaitlyn. Her background is tough. Please, be gentle with her. Don't upset her."
He humiliated me in front of our entire elite circle, allowing them to mock me as the aggressive, discarded ex while he carried her away like a fragile princess.
For twenty years, I had been his loyal shadow, fixing his mistakes and loving him unconditionally.
I couldn't understand how decades of deep devotion could be instantly erased by a few crocodile tears and a manipulative damsel act.
He was absolutely certain I would throw a tantrum, cry, and eventually crawl back to beg for his attention.
But he was wrong.
He didn't know that Everett Rowe, a billionaire tech mogul, had been patiently waiting five years to marry me.
He also didn't know that during my three years abroad, I wasn't just studying art—I became "K.B.", the ruthless Wall Street predator who could swallow his family's empire whole.
I calmly pulled out my phone, ignored the mocking whispers around me, and typed a single message to Everett.
"Yes. I'll marry you."
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Chapter 3
Kaitlyn Barton POV:
"Kaitlyn!" Bettie exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine surprise and relief. She had been right to call me back. A few other friends echoed her sentiment, their faces lighting up with a mixture of welcome and eager anticipation. I nodded, a small, tight smile on my face, acknowledging their greetings. My gaze swept across the room, past the familiar faces, and landed directly on Kacy Munoz.
She sat in the center of the plush, U-shaped sofa, surrounded by people, a picture of demure fragility. She looked young, perhaps in her early twenties, with delicate features and wide, innocent eyes. She was certainly not a "copy" of me. There was no physical resemblance, no shared style. The rumors of Edwin seeking a physical stand-in for me were clearly false. He had found something else entirely.
My eyes narrowed imperceptibly. She sat in my spot. The central position, directly across from the large fireplace, was the seat I always occupied in this lounge. This entire hotel, including this private lounge, was part of the Barton family legacy. I owned a significant share. This wasn't just a seat; it was my seat, a symbolic claim of belonging and authority. Kacy, perched there, half-leaning into Edwin, who sat beside her, looked entirely too comfortable, too possessive. Her posture, a subtle clinginess, spoke volumes about their relationship, and Edwin's indulgent air confirmed it.
I stood by the door, unmoving, my gaze fixed on her. The air in the room grew thick with unspoken tension. Some of the more observant guests exchanged nervous glances, subtly nudging Edwin, trying to signal the inappropriateness of the situation. Edwin, however, seemed oblivious, or perhaps unwilling to acknowledge the obvious social faux pas. He noticed my unwavering stare, a slight frown creasing his brow. He instinctively shifted, subtly wrapping an arm around Kacy, pulling her closer, a clear gesture of protection.
"Kaitlyn," Edwin said, his voice softer than when he'd warned me earlier, but still carrying a defensive edge. "Kacy just naturally gravitated to that spot. There's no need to make a fuss about a chair." He sounded dismissive, as if my concern over a seat was petty, inconsequential. My blood simmered.
I cut him off, my voice sharp and clear, echoing through the now silent room. "A fuss about a chair, Edwin? Or a fuss about respect?" I asked, my voice laced with steel. "Perhaps you should have informed your guest about the customs of this place, or at least, who actually owns it." My words were a direct challenge, not just to Kacy, but to Edwin's blatant disrespect. "I expect an apology, Edwin. From both of you."
The entire lounge fell into an immediate, suffocating silence. You could hear a pin drop. Edwin's eyes, which had held a flicker of defensiveness, now hardened. His gaze became icy, devoid of any warmth. He no longer looked at me with even a hint of our shared past, only cold disdain.
"Kaitlyn, don't make a scene," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "This is not the time or place." His words hit me like a physical blow. Don't make a scene?
I remembered a time, years ago, when a jealous rival had spread nasty rumors about me in college. Edwin had stood up for me, a fierce protector, his voice booming across the cafeteria, silencing the gossip. "Don't you dare speak of Kaitlyn like that! You know nothing about her, and you have no right to question her character!" he had declared, his eyes blazing with protective fury. I had thought then, This man will always have my back. He will always defend me. I had believed he would be my unwavering guardian, my champion against any injustice.
Now, the roles were completely reversed. He was the one accusing me, silencing me, just as those college rivals had tried to do. His words, his protective stance over Kacy, felt exactly like the betrayal of that old rival, only infinitely more painful. He was doing to me what he had once sworn to protect me from.
I met his cold gaze head-on, refusing to back down. My voice was steady, unwavering. "Tell me, Edwin, what would you consider a 'scene'?" The silence stretched, even more suffocating than before.
Then, Kacy, perched delicately beside Edwin, broke the tension. Her voice was soft, tremulous, laced with feigned distress. "Oh, no, Edwin, please don't be angry with Kaitlyn." She spoke my name with a saccharine sweetness that grated on my nerves. "It's all my fault. I didn't know. I'm so sorry, Kaitlyn. I'll just go. I wouldn't want to ruin your party any further." She pushed herself up from the sofa, her movements deliberately clumsy, already playing her part.
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9.5
The disgraced daughter of the Patton family is back from the countryside.At the news, everyone spurned her with contempt!
A good-for-nothing young lady, a crude village wench, a vicious devil...
Until one day--The world-famous life-saving medical sovereign is her.The enigmatic top forensic specialist is her.The grandmaster hacker hunted across the globe is also her.
One hidden identity of the young miss came to light after another.Shocked and dumbfounded, the crowd fell to their knees to beg for forgiveness.
In an instant, Evie was cornered by the mysterious powerhouse.Hartwell's voice lured and mesmerized:"Darling, you have countless secret identities. Would you mind taking on one more, being my wife!"
7.9
I woke up in a sterile hospital room, my head split open from a horrific car crash.
But the pain in my skull was nothing compared to the memory burned into my retinas just before the impact: my billionaire husband, Dawson, walking into a luxury hotel with a woman who looked exactly like his dead first love.
When Dawson finally arrived at the ward, there was no panic or relief in his eyes. He just coldly looked at my bloody bandages.
"Your reckless driving just forced me to postpone the quarterly board meeting."
Even our seven-year-old son, who I almost died giving birth to, didn't spare me a single glance. He kicked my hospital bed in annoyance.
"The Wi-Fi here is garbage. You're a bad mom! Dad said Aunt Angelita should be the one living with us!"
My blood turned to ice. For five years, I had bent over backward, wearing the hideous pale dresses he picked, starving myself to maintain a fragile figure, all to be a perfect, obedient substitute for a ghost.
And this was what I got. An unfaithful husband who would rather bury me in debt than grant me a divorce, and a son who wished I was dead.
The weak, subservient Charlene died on that wet asphalt.
When the doctor pointed to Dawson and asked for his name, I looked at my husband with a hollow, defensive stare.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
Using retrograde amnesia as my shield, I was going to tear their perfect world apart.
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.
7.5
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
7.1
For six years, I played the pathetic, wolfless Omega to honor the dying wish of the late Alpha who protected me.
But on our sixth anniversary, my fated mate, Alpha Kian, was photographed looking tenderly at his mistress.
When he finally stormed into our penthouse, he didn't apologize. Instead, he threw a fifty-million-dollar check onto the bed.
"Take the money and accept my rejection obediently, or I'll show you what happens when you defy an Alpha."
To force my compliance, he terminated all trade agreements with my best friend's pack, pushing them to the brink of bankruptcy. He accused me of blackmailing his grandfather into our marriage, entirely blind to the fact that his beloved mistress was actually a banished, feral Rogue.
I had spent six years swallowing my pride, drinking toxic herbs to suppress my true White Wolf scent, and enduring his absolute disgust just to keep his pack safe.
Why did I bleed for a man who despised my very existence?
I looked at the blood money, and the suffocating sorrow in my chest was instantly replaced by white-hot fury.
I didn't take a single cent. Instead, I submitted the rejection papers myself, dropped my pathetic disguise, and walked out into the freezing rain.
A towering warrior with a black umbrella dropped to one knee before me in the mud.
It was time to stop hiding and return home as the billionaire heir of the legendary Silvermoon Pack.
9.2
I was a broke freelance copywriter, tortured for three sleepless nights by an impossible corporate client.
Needing to vent, I typed out a wild, highly inappropriate rant mocking the brand's stiff heritage.
But in my exhausted, sleep-deprived blur, I accidentally sent the massive block of text to the wrong chat.
The recipient wasn't my friend. It was Emerson Beard, the elite, ruthless brand consultant I was supposed to desperately network with.
I waited for the professional execution, terrified of the massive five-figure penalty fee hanging over my head.
Instead, he didn't block me. He critiqued my unhinged draft.
He saved my career through late-night, encrypted phone calls, his deep, commanding voice becoming my only lifeline.
But when I heard a woman with a sultry French accent knocking on his hotel door during our call, my ugly jealousy flared.
I yelled at him and hung up, completely humiliating myself.
I thought I was just a pathetic, annoying workaholic interrupting his romantic getaway.
But he texted back to clarify he was entirely single, and in the process, realized I was actually twenty-five, not a fresh-out-of-school teenager like he had assumed.
The cold, distant mentor instantly vanished.
In his place was a man radiating a raw, aggressive, and predatory energy that bled right through the screen.
"Texting is too inefficient. The full integration requires face-to-face communication."
He dropped a location pin for an ultra-exclusive Manhattan club, demanding I meet him to save my contract.
Wearing a desperately bought emerald silk dress, I pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping right into the trap of a man who had just taken off his leash.