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 7
Kaitlyn Barton POV:
I took the file. The paper was thick and heavy, the kind reserved for important, life-altering documents. In the shifting lights of the New York City streets, I read the title printed in stark, block letters on the cover: *Legal Options and Asset Protection Protocols Regarding the Dissolution of the Barton-Brown Engagement.*
My mind went blank. I stared at the words, unable to process them. I lifted my gaze to Everett, my eyes wide with a question I couldn’t form. He was watching me, his expression calm and steady, as if he’d just handed me a dinner menu instead of a meticulously crafted escape plan.
My fingers trembled as I opened the folder. Inside was a summary from one of the most ruthless and respected family law firms in the city. It laid out every possible legal avenue, every strategy, every potential countermove from the Brown family, all in clear, concise language.
It went deeper. There was a detailed analysis of the Barton and Brown corporate holdings, identifying potential points of conflict and outlining a strategy that would allow me to extricate myself with my pre-marital assets not just intact, but shielded from any retaliatory legal action.
The final page contained the personal cell phone numbers of three of the firm's senior partners. A handwritten note at the bottom read: *On 24-hour retainer.*
I ran my fingers over the crisp paper. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment gesture. This was the result of weeks, maybe months, of careful, strategic planning. He had built me a fortress of legal protection before I even knew I needed to go to war. Everett's affection wasn't some fleeting, hormonal impulse; it was a responsibility he had considered from every angle. I knew he'd seen too many disastrous, high-profile marriages implode, driven by greed and ending in mutual destruction.
I looked up, my voice barely a whisper. "When... when did you do this?"
"When I knew you might need a way out," he answered simply.
His words struck me with the force of a physical blow, hitting a place deep inside me that had been starved of care for two decades. Everyone in my life had always pushed me forward, into the engagement, into the role of the perfect society wife. He was the only one who had thought to build me a retreat.
The Bentley glided to a smooth stop in front of my apartment building. Everett didn't rush me, didn't say a word. He just sat beside me in the quiet darkness, giving me the space to breathe.
After a long moment, I heard myself speak. "Can... can you come up? I'd like to talk."
Upstairs, I poured him a glass of water and curled into the corner of my sofa, clutching a throw pillow like a shield. It was the first time I had ever let myself be truly vulnerable with someone outside of my family or Bettie.
I told him everything. I started with the sun-drenched childhood memories, the innocent friendship that had slowly curdled into a suffocating obligation. I spoke of my hopes, and how Edwin had taken them for granted, one by one. I told him about Kacy's arrival, a shadow that had slowly eclipsed what little light was left. I described the three lonely years I’d spent overseas, waiting for a man who was building a new life without me.
Everett was the perfect listener. He didn't interrupt, didn't offer judgment. He just listened, his gaze unwavering, occasionally refilling my glass of water when my throat grew hoarse.
As the story tumbled out of me, a bitter, tear-streaked laugh escaped my lips. "It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. That I let it go on for so long."
He shook his head, his expression serious. "No. It means you were too kind."
---
Miles away, Edwin stumbled into his penthouse apartment. The first thing he saw was Kacy, curled on his cream-colored sofa, her face blotchy and her eyes red from crying.
She leaped up the moment she saw him, throwing herself into his arms. "Edwin! Kaitlyn was horrible! She humiliated you in front of everyone! They're all laughing at us..."
Normally, her tears would have sparked a protective instinct in him. He would have held her, soothed her, promised to make everything right.
But tonight, all he could see was Everett Rowe's look of utter contempt. All he could hear was the finality in Kaitlyn’s silence.
Kacy's sobs were a shrill, grating noise in his ears. For the first time, her tears felt cheap, theatrical, and profoundly irritating.
He shoved her away, not gently. "Enough," he snapped, his voice cold. "Stop crying."
Kacy stumbled back, her eyes wide with disbelief.
He ignored her, striding into his study and slamming the heavy oak door behind him. He leaned against it, the chaos in his mind a roaring storm. And for the first time in twenty years, he began to question if he had made a terrible, irreversible mistake.
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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.