Divorced Wife's Secret Twins: Billionaire's Regret
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I discovered I was pregnant with twins from my marriage to Ell Steele, the ruthless CEO of the Steele Group. But he saw me as a gold-digging nobody, unworthy of his heir.
He stormed into our penthouse with his lawyer, slamming down abortion consent forms and a divorce NDA, offering five million to terminate and vanish. "You're not fit to carry my child," he spat, gripping my jaw.
I refused the abortion, signed the zero-payout divorce to keep my company insurance for my dying mom's ICU bills, but stayed on as an admin assistant. Brittany, his mistress, spilled coffee on my reports, got me demoted to the dusty sub-basement sorting old files.
She framed me for attacking her, security dragged me out, slamming me into doorframes that cramped my belly. Trapped in a sabotaged freight elevator, I nearly miscarried in the dark, gasping for air while Ell rescued me—only to find my prenatal pills and rage.
At the gala, I warned Brittany the Angel's Tears necklace—Georgina's flawed design—was cracking. She accused me of theft; Ell ordered me stripped and searched publicly. It snapped anyway, shattering the diamond, but he blamed me, firing and blacklisting me on the spot.
Beaten down, humiliated, body aching from their cruelty—how could my husband, who I once loved, destroy me without a shred of doubt? What made him so blind to my pain?
Dragged from our home in the rain, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up. The butler bowed: "Madame Aura, your suite awaits." As Ell watched from his Maybach, I initiated the hostile takeover—time to bankrupt them all.
Divorced Wife's Secret Twins: Billionaire's Regret Chapter 1
Aubree's fingers shook so violently that the crisp edges of the ultrasound paper sliced the pad of her index finger.
She didn't feel the sting. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, bruising rhythm. She shoved the paper-the one clearly stamped with the words Twin Gestation-deep into the hidden lining of her cheap canvas tote bag.
The electronic lock on the heavy oak door emitted a sharp, ice-cold beep.
The door of the Manhattan penthouse was shoved open. A bitter gust of late autumn wind swept into the entryway, carrying the scent of rain and expensive cologne.
Ell Steele stepped inside. His dark gray bespoke suit clung to his broad shoulders, making his sharp, unforgiving jawline look even more brutal. His eyes, dark and heavy with authority, pinned her to the spot.
Aubree's stomach twisted. Out of pure, pathetic habit, she forced a welcoming smile and stepped forward, reaching out to take his damp suit jacket.
Ell shifted his weight, dodging her hands with a look of pure disgust.
Mr. Vance, Ell's gold-tier corporate lawyer, stepped out from behind him. The man marched straight to the black marble kitchen island and slammed two thick stacks of legal documents onto the surface. The loud smack echoed off the high ceilings.
Aubree's gaze dropped to the top page.
Pregnancy Termination Consent Form.
The bold black letters punched the air out of her lungs. The blood in her veins turned to ice.
Ell yanked at his silk tie, loosening it with a harsh tug. He towered over her, his voice devoid of a single ounce of human warmth.
"You stopped taking the pills on purpose. Did you really think you could use a parasite to extort a share of the Steele family trust?"
"No," Aubree choked out, shaking her head frantically. "Ell, it was an accident. I swear-"
Tears burned the backs of her eyes, but she dug her nails into her palms, refusing to let them fall.
Ell let out a low, scraping laugh. He lunged forward, his large hand clamping around her jaw. His grip was a vise, forcing her to look up into eyes that held nothing but absolute loathing.
"A nobody like you," he spat, the words hitting her face like physical blows. "You aren't even fit to carry Georgina's shoes. What makes you think you are fit to carry my heir?"
Georgina.
The name ripped through Aubree's chest like a serrated blade. The last flicker of hope in her eyes died, replaced by a hollow, agonizing ache.
Mr. Vance stepped forward, holding out a heavy Montblanc pen. His voice was entirely mechanical. "Sign the medical consent form and the non-disclosure divorce agreement, Ms. Daniels. You will receive a compensation check for five million dollars."
A violent wave of nausea crashed into Aubree's stomach.
She shoved Ell's chest with both hands, breaking his grip. She stumbled backward, slapping a hand over her mouth as her stomach violently contracted. She swallowed down the bile, her throat burning.
Ell watched her heave. His upper lip curled in a sneer. "Save the acting. It won't get you a higher payout."
Aubree sucked in a ragged breath of air. She forced her spine straight, her muscles trembling under the effort. She stared at the termination paper.
She made her choice.
She snatched the pen from Vance's hand. Without a single second of hesitation, she flipped to the signature page of the divorce NDA and signed her name. She pressed down so hard the gold nib tore through the thick parchment.
Ell's eyes widened a fraction. His brow furrowed in sudden, jarring confusion.
Aubree grabbed the unsigned abortion consent form and the five-million-dollar check. She threw them directly at Mr. Vance's chest. The papers fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.
She met Ell's shocked stare. Her voice was raw, scraped hollow by the acid in her throat, but it did not shake.
"I will roll out of your life exactly as you wish. But I will handle the baby myself. Keep your filthy money."
Ell's jaw clenched. The veins in his neck bulged. He closed the distance between them in one stride and grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her fragile bones.
"What kind of game are you playing?" he snarled.
Aubree gasped at the sharp pain, but she didn't pull away. She tilted her chin up, a cold, mocking smile touching her pale lips.
"You're a coward who can't even let go of a dead woman. You don't deserve to be a father."
The words hit his deepest, rawest nerve.
Ell's face darkened to a thunderous storm. He violently shoved her arm away.
Aubree lost her footing. She fell backward, her lower back slamming hard against the sharp edge of the marble island.
A blinding flash of pain shot through her spine. She gasped, her hands instinctively flying to cover her flat stomach, curling her body inward to absorb the shock.
Ell didn't even blink. He stood over her, his voice a lethal whisper.
"Pack your trash and get out of my apartment tonight. And tomorrow at the office, do not cross the line."
He turned on his heel and walked out. The heavy front door slammed shut behind him, the force of it making the crystal chandelier above vibrate.
The silence in the apartment was deafening.
Aubree's knees gave out. She slid down the cold marble cabinets, collapsing onto the hardwood floor. The tears finally broke free, hot and silent, tracking down her cheeks.
Her trembling hands reached into her bag. She pulled out the crumpled ultrasound paper. She buried her face in her knees, wrapping her arms tightly around her stomach.
I will protect you both. I swear it.
Her phone screen lit up on the floor. A text message from the hospital billing department flashed. It was a massive, six-figure overdue notice for her adoptive mother's ICU life support.
The red numbers burned her retinas.
Aubree wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. The tears stopped. The warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by a layer of frost.
She couldn't quit the company. She needed the Steele Group's executive health insurance to keep her mother breathing.
She pushed herself off the floor. She picked up her copy of the signed divorce agreement, shoved it into her bag, and walked toward the walk-in closet.
Tomorrow, she would walk into hell.
Continue Reading
Divorced Wife's Secret Twins: Billionaire's Regret of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5
Chapter 6 Ch. 6
Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.2
Ten years as childhood friends and three as husband and wife ended in her husband's betrayal, and her brothers' indifference. Diagnosed with mid-stage stomach cancer, Roselyn saw the truth of her life.
She walked away from everything, rising from an overlooked office worker to a leading figure in the tech world.
She outplayed her husband into signing divorce papers. When they met again, he begged, "I was wrong... take me back. I'd give you my stomach if I could."
Her once arrogant brothers pleaded too, but she felt nothing. After all, love that arrived too late meant nothing to her now-she simply didn't care anymore.
As they stood desperate, a man stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms. "Why waste time on them? Look at me instead."
7.8
Alexis signed the divorce papers, leaving her with no assets, no alimony, and just the clothes on her back.
To forget her abusive husband Carlos, she got drunk and bought a high-end gigolo for the night with her last 800 dollars.
But the man she slept with wasn't an escort. He was Jarrett Hughes, a ruthless billionaire CEO.
And while she was gone, her ex-husband was busy destroying her entire life.
Carlos framed her with fake photos of her cheating to justify the penniless divorce.
Then came the real nightmare.
Carlos and her own aunt secretly drained her family's corporate accounts, driving her father to jump off a building.
At the hospital, her grieving mother blamed her for the tragedy, violently attacking her in the ER.
To top it off, her cousin Josie—who was secretly sleeping with Carlos—held her father's ashes hostage.
"Crawl on your knees and pick it up, or the ashes go in the river," Josie sneered, throwing cash into the freezing slush.
Stripped of her marriage, her father, and her dignity, Alexis sat bleeding in the snow.
She couldn't understand why the people she loved most had coordinated such a brutal slaughter against her.
But Carlos and Josie made one fatal mistake.
They didn't know the "gigolo" Alexis had accidentally bought was the most powerful man in New York.
Alexis looked at the towering billionaire standing behind her, a vengeful fire burning in her eyes.
"I need you to get my father's ashes back," she said, pulling him into a kiss right in front of her ex-husband. "I don't care what it takes."
7.6
When the Pollard family kicked Alyssa out into the freezing rain, Walter threw a ten-thousand-dollar check into a dirty puddle.
"Take it and get out. Don't ever come back," he sneered.
Her adoptive mother and stepsister stood on the mansion's porch, mocking her as a worthless country girl who tarnished their wealthy name. They laughed, claiming she wouldn't even be able to afford community college and would be begging on the streets in a week.
They looked at her cheap clothes and worn backpack with absolute disgust.
They were completely unaware that for the past five years, Alyssa was the secret mastermind who had built their failing gallery into a multi-million-dollar investment empire.
Every key investment, every fortune they made, came from the anonymous notes she had slipped into their unread books. They genuinely believed they were business geniuses, while treating the true architect of their wealth like a stray dog.
Looking at their smug, arrogant faces, Alyssa didn't feel a shred of sadness, only a cold, sharp irony.
They actually believed they had raised her.
She stepped close, whispered the master code to Walter's most secret offshore account, and watched the blood completely drain from his face.
"I raised you," she said, turning her back on the mansion without hesitation.
Walking into the storm, she pulled out a heavily encrypted phone and gave a single, cold order.
"Initiate a full hostile takeover of the Pollard Group."
It was time to end this little game and step into her true life—as the world's most elusive medical genius, and the long-lost billionaire heiress of the Summers dynasty.
9.2
I woke up suffocating in the dark, only to find my mind trapped inside a tiny, plump, and entirely uncoordinated body.
A cold, mechanical voice echoed in my brain, announcing that I was dead in my original world and had transmigrated into a corporate revenge novel as the six-month-old illegitimate daughter of Edward McClure, the story's ruthless villain.
The system mercilessly outlined my doomed fate. Tonight, my cold-blooded father would abandon me to a state orphanage. By age two, he would officially sign my rights away, leaving me to die miserably at the hands of human traffickers. Outside my nursery, I could hear his terrifying footsteps approaching, his voice devoid of any human warmth as he debated throwing me out like garbage. I was completely helpless, trapped in a baby's body, staring up at a man who looked at me with pure, visceral disgust.
Why did I have to be reborn as the tragic cannon fodder of a tyrant destined to put a bullet in his own head? How was I supposed to win over a severe germaphobe when my unequipped infant reflexes made me literally pee and vomit all over his pristine Tom Ford suits?
"Your ultimate mission is to prevent Edward McClure's self-destruction. Step one: Survive tonight's abandonment crisis."
Hearing the system's terrifying ultimatum, I swallowed my adult panic, forced a pool of pitiful tears into my large eyes, and reached my chubby little hands toward the monster.
9.5
Frances survived a horrific car crash, only to return to a suffocating life. Her wealthy husband, Baron, and his domineering mother were now relentlessly pressuring her to adopt a "poor, distant relative" named Jagger as the heir to their billionaire empire.
But on her way to sign the adoption papers, a violent vision flashed in her mind. The crash wasn't an accident. She saw her car in flames, while Baron watched with cold, calculating eyes. Beside him stood an older Jagger, who calmly muttered the chilling truth.
"The problem is solved."
A private investigator soon confirmed her worst nightmares. Jagger wasn't a charity case; he was Baron's illegitimate son. The family had been illegally funneling offshore money to fund his elite lifestyle. Worse, Baron's ultimate plan was to label Frances mentally unstable, lock her away in a Swiss sanatorium for life, and bring in Jagger's biological mother to take her place.
For years, Frances had played the perfect, obedient wife in their corporate marriage contract. How could they be so ruthlessly evil, plotting her agonizing death just to legitimize their dirty bloodline and steal her trust fund?
But she was no longer the fragile puppet they thought she was. At the high-stakes board meeting, with all eyes expecting her to submit, she put the expensive pen down.
"I refuse."
Instead of adopting their bastard son, she slammed down an SEC whistleblower threat, forced a new will, and introduced her own handpicked heir. The war had just begun.
9.0
I died on the cold delivery table, bleeding out while the heart monitor flatlined.
Through the blinding surgical lights, I heard my husband Damon's cold, final order to the doctors.
"The child is the priority."
He didn't care about my life. To him, I was just a vessel to produce an heir, a tool to fulfill his prenuptial clause and secure his billionaire empire.
While I took my last agonizing breath, he was already planning his future with his fragile, theatrical mistress, Jasmin.
In my past life, when he first brought her into our home claiming she was a helpless victim, I shattered.
I screamed, threw vases, and played the hysterical wife perfectly.
My desperate pleas for his affection only gave him the exact weapons he needed to ruin my reputation, isolate me, and ultimately force me onto that fatal delivery bed.
Until my very last moment, the suffocating pain in my chest wasn't just physical.
I couldn't understand how the man I loved could treat my death like a simple business transaction.
Why was my absolute devotion rewarded with a carefully calculated execution?
But then, my eyes snapped open.
I was sitting on the edge of my king-sized bed, exactly three years before my death.
From downstairs, I heard Damon's voice echoing in the foyer, bringing Jasmin into our home for the very first time.
This time, the scream building in my chest turned to ice.
I didn't cry or throw a fit.
Instead, I calmly swallowed a secret birth control pill, smiled at his mistress, and dialed the most ruthless divorce lawyer in Manhattan.
