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 4
Kaitlyn Barton POV:
Kacy's eyes welled up, her lower lip trembling just so, a perfect picture of fragile innocence. She dabbed at her eyes with a delicate, embroidered handkerchief, then let out a soft, theatrical sob.
"I must leave," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper. With an exaggerated gasp, she spun around and started to rush towards the door, her steps purposefully unsteady. As she passed a low-lying coffee table, her foot "tripped" on its leg. It was a practiced, utterly unconvincing stumble.
She let out a sharp cry, a little too loud, and then dramatically crumpled to the floor. The sound of her fall, emphasized by a sharp intake of breath, echoed in the stunned silence of the room. She landed with a theatrical thud, clutching her ankle, her face contorted in a grimace of pain.
The sudden, staged collapse immediately jolted Edwin. His composure, already frayed, snapped. Panic flashed in his eyes. He lunged from the sofa, his chair scraping loudly across the polished floor. He rushed to Kacy's side, his movements frantic and clumsy.
"Kacy! My love! Are you alright?" he cried, his voice thick with genuine alarm. He knelt beside her, his hands hovering, unsure how to help. Then, with a sudden, decisive movement, he scooped her up into his arms, carrying her like a fragile princess. Her head rested against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek.
Edwin rose, his gaze landing on me. His face was a mask of furious, icy disdain. It was etched with a cold anger, a furious condemnation I had never seen directed at me, not in all our years. His jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed into slits.
"Happy now, Kaitlyn?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous, dripping with venom. He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm taking Kacy out of here. We won't bother you anymore. You can have your precious party all to yourself." He turned, carrying Kacy towards the exit, leaving me standing alone, the silent accusation hanging heavy in the air.
A profound sadness settled over me, a pain that went deeper than anger or humiliation. Edwin, my Edwin, the boy who was once my shadow, my confidant, my first love, had just publicly humiliated me. He had chosen Kacy, her engineered fragility, over our entire shared history. He had stripped away my dignity, casting me as the villain, and then banished me from my own welcome-home party. After twenty years of shared life, of growing up together, of promises whispered under starlit skies, I was discarded, replaced, and then condemned. This agonizing feeling, this public dismissal, was a bitter pill to swallow. It hurt more than I could have imagined. To be so blatantly overlooked, so maliciously misrepresented, by the one person I thought would never betray me, was an unbearable weight.
My phone vibrated again, a sudden, insistent buzz against my thigh. I pulled it out, almost automatically. Several messages, urgent and bright, illuminated the screen. They were from Everett Rowe.
"Kaitlyn, have you landed in A City?" the first message read.
A second followed quickly: "Have you considered my offer? My commitment is serious."
Then, a third: "I can give you everything you want, everything you deserve. Five years, Kaitlyn. Five years I have waited. My intentions are genuine."
The next message was a bold declaration, a lifeline in the wreckage of my emotional landscape. "If you are truly ready, I will marry you. Right now. Just say the word."
Everett Rowe. Everett, the brilliant tech CEO, the man who had patiently, respectfully, pursued me for five long years. He had begun his pursuit back in college, a quiet, steadfast presence who never pushed, never demanded. He had continued his unwavering courtship even when I moved to London, visiting regularly, always available, always supportive, never once overstepping his bounds. His messages were always carefully worded, laced with respect and genuine affection, never a hint of the entitled possessiveness Edwin had just displayed. If Edwin hadn't been in my life, I likely would have accepted Everett's proposal years ago.
A sudden, fierce surge of clarity, of self-preservation, washed over me. What was I doing, clinging to a ghost of a past, to a man who had so clearly destroyed all that we once were? Everett represented a different future, a future built on respect, on genuine adoration, on a love that was given freely, not taken for granted.
"Yes," I typed, my fingers moving quickly, decisively. "I'll marry you." I hit send. It wasn't too late. It was exactly the right time.
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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.