Divorced And Penniless: The Billionaire's Secret Heir
On their seventh wedding anniversary, Kiley's billionaire husband, Aden, slid a thick stack of papers across the restaurant table.
It was a petition for divorce.
He was leaving her for his college sweetheart. Thanks to a ruthless prenup, Kiley was being thrown out with absolutely nothing.
That very night, their young son Jules was rushed to the ER, bleeding profusely. The doctor's diagnosis was a death sentence: acute leukemia.
When Kiley frantically called Aden for help, he dismissed the emergency as a simple nosebleed.
"I'm not paying for this. Deal with it," Aden sneered, the sound of his mistress giggling in the background.
To force Kiley to sign the divorce papers, Aden froze all her credit cards and canceled their son's health insurance. He refused to pay a single cent for the chemotherapy.
Even Kiley's adoptive parents sided with the wealthy Aden, calling her a burden and telling her to stop fighting him.
Driven to the brink of despair, with a dying child and no money, Kiley didn't understand how a father could be so monstrous to his own flesh and blood.
Until a news article on a friend's phone caught her eye.
It featured a fallen 9/11 firefighter hero from the ultra-wealthy Whitfield family. The man in the photo looked exactly like Jules, down to the very bone structure.
Kiley's mind raced back to the fertility clinic and the anonymous sperm donor.
Could this dead billionaire hero be her son's biological father?
Looking at her sleeping, fragile boy, Kiley wiped her tears and crushed the divorce papers in her hand.
She was going to find the Whitfield family, save her son, and make Aden lose everything he held dear.
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Chapter 3
The waiting room outside the surgical suite was freezing. Kiley sat with her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white and her fingernails left crescent moons in her skin. Jules had been taken in for the bone marrow biopsy twenty minutes ago. Every second felt like an hour.
She unclenched her tightly clasped hands and wiped her already sweaty palms on her pants. She looked like a ghost.
A few miles away, in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, Aden Frost woke up. The sheets were expensive Egyptian cotton. The room smelled of expensive perfume and sex.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. He wanted to check if Kiley had caved. He expected a string of texts, begging him to come, apologizing for the wine. He opened his messages.
Nothing.
He sent a quick, dismissive text: "How's Jules? Don't overreact to a simple nosebleed." He waited a minute. No reply. His irritation grew. He typed out another message, the words sharp and commanding: "Since you have time to play games, sign the papers, Kiley. Don't drag this out."
He hit send. The message turned from blue to green. Not delivered. He frowned, trying again. Green again. She had blocked him.
He scoffed, tossing the phone onto the mattress. "Unbelievable."
Beside him, Seraphina Vance stretched, the silk sheet slipping down her torso. She rolled over, tracing a finger down his chest. "What's wrong, baby?"
"My wife is playing games," Aden said, his jaw tight. "She thinks ignoring me will make me change my mind."
Seraphina pouted, her lower lip jutting out. "When is Jules coming to live with us? I can't wait to be a stepmom."
Aden's frown deepened. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Jules is a Frost. He stays with me. Kiley isn't taking my heir."
"Of course not," Seraphina said smoothly, masking the flash of annoyance in her eyes. She sat up, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I'll love him like my own. You'll get full custody. I'll make sure of it."
Aden patted her hand. "I'll have my lawyer add a clause. She thinks she can fight me? She'll learn."
Back at the hospital, the door to the surgical suite opened. The doctor walked out, holding a manila folder. He didn't smile.
"Mrs. Frost," he said. "The preliminary results from the aspirate are back."
Kiley stood up, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Tell me."
"We found a high concentration of blast cells in the marrow," the doctor said, his voice heavy. "It's preliminary, but it's consistent with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia."
Kiley's knees buckled. The floor seemed to tilt. A nurse grabbed her arm, steadying her, but Kiley felt like she was falling into a bottomless pit.
"Leukemia," she repeated, the word tasting like poison.
"We need to run more tests to confirm the subtype, but we should prepare for an aggressive treatment protocol," the doctor continued. "Chemotherapy, possibly radiation. It's going to be a long fight."
"How much?" Kiley asked, her voice hollow. "How much is it going to cost?"
The doctor gave her a sympathetic look. "I'll have financial counseling speak with you. But you need to focus on Jules right now."
Kiley nodded, stumbling back to Jules's room. He was still groggy from the anesthesia, his face pale against the pillow. She sat beside him, pulling out her phone. She scrolled to Aden's name again. Aden Frost. She had changed the contact name earlier. Now it just said Scum.
Her thumb hovered over the unblock button. She needed money. She needed help. But then she heard it again-that laugh. She saw the blood on the towel. She put the phone down.
She wouldn't beg. Not him. Not ever.
She walked down to the financial office. The counselor was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes. She handed Kiley a printout of the estimated costs for the first round of chemo.
The number on the page made Kiley's stomach drop. It was more money than she had seen in her entire life. More than the house, more than the car. It was astronomical.
"I don't have this," Kiley whispered.
"We can set up a payment plan," the counselor said. "But we need a deposit to begin treatment."
Kiley nodded, walking out in a daze. She went back to Jules's room. She opened the small jewelry box she had grabbed from the house. The diamond earrings. The sapphire bracelet. The gold watch. It was all she had left of her marriage. It was blood money, but it would pay for Jules's blood.
She was pulling out the earrings when the door burst open.
"Kiley!"
Camila Sharpe rushed in, her red hair flying. She dropped her purse on the chair and wrapped Kiley in a tight hug. Kiley stiffened for a second, then collapsed into her friend's arms, sobbing.
"I thought you were in Boston," Kiley cried.
"I drove back the second I got your text," Camila said, holding her tight. "What happened? Why are you selling your jewelry?"
Kiley pulled back, wiping her face. "He left me, Cam. He wants a divorce. And Jules... they think it's leukemia."
Camila's face went pale. "That bastard. I'll kill him."
"Don't," Kiley said, her voice hardening. "He's with her. He doesn't care. I'm not asking him for anything."
"You aren't asking, but you aren't doing this alone," Camila said firmly. "I'll cover the deposit. I know people. We'll get the best doctor in the city."
"Camila, I can't let you-"
"You can, and you will," Camila interrupted. "We are going to beat this. And we are going to take Aden for everything he's worth."
Kiley looked at her son, sleeping in the bed. Then she looked at her friend. The panic was still there, but it was fading, replaced by a cold, hard determination.
"I'm going to divorce him," Kiley said. "And I'm going to make sure he never gets near Jules again."
Across town, Aden was getting dressed. He tried calling the house phone. No answer. He tried calling Brenda.
"Hello?" Brenda's voice was shaky.
"Where is she?" Aden demanded.
"She's at the hospital, Mr. Frost," Brenda said. "She told me not to answer your calls."
Aden's grip on the phone tightened. "She thinks she can cut me out? Fine. Let her see how she likes living without my money."
He hung up and called the bank. "Freeze the supplementary cards. All of them. Effective immediately."
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7.6
Jocelyn Yang lived in the grand Turner Mansion, not as a guest, but as a prisoner. Ever since her father's death, the ruthless billionaire Elam Turner forced her to atone for sins her father never committed.
On her nineteenth birthday, a male classmate secretly sent her a diamond necklace. Elam, who had flown back from London overnight, flew into a psychotic, jealous rage at the sight of another man's gift.
He mercilessly crushed the delicate necklace into the marble floor with his custom leather shoe.
"Did you forget what you are?" Elam hissed, dragging her into a pitch-black storage room. "You take gifts from other men behind my back?"
He pinned her to the dusty floorboards and violently assaulted her. The next morning, a wire transfer of $500,000 hit her bank account. He had humiliated her, broken her spirit, and was now casually trying to buy her silence. Later, when a broken bike left her walking miles through a freezing rainstorm, he just shoved scalding tea into her bleeding hands.
"Look at you," he sneered. "You look like a stray dog ruining my floors."
Jocelyn curled up in the cold, her lips bleeding and her heart shattered. She couldn't understand his terrifying obsession. If he hated her so much, why did he refuse to let her go? Why did he look at her with such manic hunger while systematically destroying her life?
Staring at the massive sum of hush money on her phone, a desperate spark of vengeance flared in her chest. Jocelyn wired every single cent back to Elam's account. She picked up her charcoal pencil, vowing to win the upcoming art competition and buy her escape from this monster forever.
8.1
Terminally ill.
Betrayed by her husband.
Abandoned by the only family she had.
Ariel died with nothing... and no one.
But fate gives her a second chance.
Reborn three years before her death, she walks away from the man who ruined her life-and takes back everything they stole.
Her love.
Her identity.
Her power.
Now, the cold billionaire who once ignored her can't take his eyes off her.
The brother who abandoned her starts to regret.
Too late.
Because this time, Ariel isn't the woman who begs.
She's the one who makes them kneel.
9.6
For five years, I was Barron Santana's elite bodyguard and loyal shadow. I stood between him and bullets, giving him my youth and my entire heart.
But last night, the CEO announced his engagement to a flawless socialite on national television.
Heartbroken, I got blackout drunk and ended up crashing on the couch of Cassidy Gross, a billionaire tech CEO who saved me from a bar creep.
When I showed up late to work, Barron locked me in his freezing office. He pinned me against the glass, smelling Cassidy's cologne on my clothes.
"Are you already looking for your next meal ticket?"
He snarled the words, treating me like a cheap whore. When I defended myself, he pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped his fingers, acting as if my very touch contaminated him.
Then, he coldly ordered his assistant to draft my termination papers.
Five years of risking my life for him, thrown away like garbage just because of his twisted ego.
Devastated, I ran out and collapsed in the hallway, sobbing uncontrollably until a kind coworker gently pulled me into his arms to comfort me.
I didn't know Barron had followed me out.
Seeing me clinging to another man, his legendary control completely shattered, replaced by a dark, violent possessiveness.
But it was too late. I was done playing his obedient dog, and it was time to take Cassidy up on his offer.
8.7
For three years, I played the perfect, submissive housewife to billionaire Julian Harrison.
But right after an intimate night together, he coldly threw a divorce agreement onto the bed.
"Scarlett landed an hour ago. I need my single status restored to welcome her back."
That same night, I ended up in the emergency room and discovered I was pregnant with twins.
When Julian found out, he didn't show a shred of joy. Instead, he stormed into my hospital room, threw a blank check directly at my face, and ordered me to get rid of them.
He accused me of using the babies as a sick game to trap his assets.
Then, his ruthless lawyer kicked me out of our penthouse, confiscating the jewelry he gifted me and tossing my worn-out notebook onto the floor like garbage.
Standing in the freezing rain, my heart completely died.
I had swallowed my pride, managed his life, and cooked his meals to his exact standards for three years, only to be thrown away the second his first love returned.
But he didn't know that the notebook his lawyer discarded contained the secret formulas of Aura Beauty, a billion-dollar empire I built in the shadows.
I tore his check into pieces, blocked his number, and left in a Maybach sent by my associate.
Logging into my global CEO database, I looked at his company's fragile stock chart with a predatory smile.
The docile Mrs. Harrison died in the rain. It was time to crush his empire.
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.