Divorced Wife's Secret Twins: Billionaire's Regret
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.
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Chapter 4
The rusted iron door of the sub-basement slammed shut. The heavy deadbolt slid into place with a loud, final clack.
The air down here was thick, smelling of rotting paper and damp concrete. The single fluorescent tube overhead flickered, casting sickly yellow shadows across the mountains of cardboard boxes.
Aubree collapsed onto a filthy, torn leather sofa in the corner.
She pressed both hands hard against her lower belly. The dull, throbbing ache from the doorframe collision was spreading. Her forehead was slick with a layer of cold sweat.
Her hands shook as she unzipped her bag. She dug out a small blister pack of prescription anti-miscarriage pills.
There was no water down here.
She popped a thick white pill out of the foil, tossed it into her mouth, and swallowed hard. The dry chalk scraped down her esophagus, making her gag, but she forced it down.
Suddenly, the massive industrial exhaust fan in the ceiling kicked on. The deafening roar shook the walls, kicking up a thick cloud of gray dust.
Aubree choked. A violent coughing fit tore through her chest. She curled into a tight ball on the sofa, wrapping her arms protectively around her womb.
Hold on, she prayed silently, her nails digging into her own arms. Please, just hold on.
Ten minutes passed. The medication finally kicked in. The cramping in her stomach slowly eased into a dull numbness.
Aubree let her head fall back against the sofa, her chest heaving.
Deep inside her bag, the encrypted burner phone began to vibrate frantically.
Aubree's eyes snapped open. She glanced up at the security camera in the corner. The red light was dead; the lens was covered in thick spiderwebs.
She pulled the phone out and hit the green button.
"Aura," Lucas's panicked voice blasted through the speaker in rapid, fluent French. "We have a massive problem. The Atelier has been hit with a catastrophic plagiarism lawsuit."
Aubree sat up straight. The weak, exhausted woman vanished. Her spine locked into place.
"Who?" she asked, her French accent flawless, her tone dripping with ice.
"A European oligarch," Lucas replied, his voice shaking. "They bought the judge. All of our offshore accounts are frozen."
Aubree's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "What is their demand?"
"They want you to unmask. They want Aura to step into the public light and hand over the core design patents, or they will bankrupt the studio by Friday."
Aubree let out a low, dark laugh. It was the laugh of an apex predator.
"I don't bow to capital," she said coldly.
Her brain worked at lightning speed. She needed untraceable liquid cash, and she needed it now. She had to fund the counter-lawsuit and keep her mother's ICU machines running.
"Lucas, initiate Plan B," she ordered. "Liquidate my hidden bonds in the Swiss accounts. Prepare for a full-scale counterattack."
Directly above the archive room, Ell walked through the underground parking garage. Mr. Vance trailed behind him, holding an iPad.
They were inspecting the new security gates. Ell stopped walking. He stood right over the metal grate of the sub-basement ventilation shaft.
The French words were lost in the noise, and the deafening roar of the fan made it impossible to make out any specific vocabulary.
But he clearly heard the tone. It was a cold, commanding, and utterly ruthless cadence-so entirely different from the meek, submissive assistant he knew. It was the voice of someone giving a high-stakes order.
Ell's blood ran cold. His eyes darkened to pitch black. A sharp spike of suspicion pierced through his chest.
He thought about Aubree's sudden defiance. The way she didn't care about the five million dollars. The way she sneered at him.
He turned his head slowly to look at Vance. "Pull Aubree Daniels' communication logs and bank statements. Every single one."
His voice was laced with venom. "She's not just a gold digger. She's selling our voided corporate secrets to our competitors."
Down in the basement, Aubree ended the call. She slipped the phone back into the hidden lining of her bag.
She stood up and dusted off her skirt. The fear was gone. Only war remained.
The heavy iron door suddenly groaned. It swung open violently, hitting the concrete wall.
Ell stood in the doorway. The dim hallway light backlit his massive frame, making him look like a demon stepping out of the dark.
He marched straight toward her, his eyes scanning the dusty room, looking for a laptop, a phone, any piece of espionage equipment.
Aubree's heart gave a hard thump, but her face remained a mask of absolute calm.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. President?" she asked, her voice flat.
Ell stopped inches from her. He found nothing in the room. He looked down at her, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.
"If you think you can play corporate spy in my building, you are dead wrong. I will bury you in Manhattan."
Aubree looked right into his murderous eyes. She let out a soft, mocking chuckle.
"I'm just a useless assistant about to be fired, Ell. I don't have that kind of power."
Ell stared at her, trying to peel back her skin to see her secrets. He found nothing but dead, cold eyes.
He turned and walked out.
Aubree stood in the dark, her hands curling into tight fists.
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7.6
The heavy prison gates clanged shut, ending three years. I scanned the empty lot for Julian, my fiancé. Deserted.
Biting December wind my only welcome. Calls to Julian, father, mother: unanswered/disconnected.
Shivering, Julian's tracker showed an unfamiliar Long Island estate. A freezing cab left me penniless; I walked through the blizzard. Through a mansion window, I saw Julian, my stepsister Clara, a small boy—a perfect family. Julian, who hated children, doted on him, and Clara wore *my* engagement ring.
I overheard Julian's call: he, my father, conspired to frame me for Clara’s medical error, saving their company and future. My family hadn't just abandoned me; they plotted my destruction.
A delayed text from Julian popped up, lying about a "cross-border meeting," promising to pick me up tomorrow. Despair vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying smile. Typing "Understood," I turned from their stolen life, walking into the blizzard, fueled by burning rage.
7.5
Five years of a fake marriage to a billionaire.
Christi thought she was a wealthy wife-until City Hall told her the truth.
No marriage license. No legal rights. Nothing but a lie.
Her husband cheated on her for four years.
His entire family mocked her, used her, and planned to trap her with a baby.
She was ready to ruin them all.
Then a secret changed everything:
Her late parents were DARPA elites. She is the sole heir to $50 billion.
There's only one catch-marry Cornelius Gregory, Wall Street's ruthless paralyzed tycoon.
She signs the contract in an instant.
Freeze their accounts. Destroy the Rivera family.
The game is over for them.
And the queen has just arrived.
9.3
Elara Voss never imagined that a single mistake could turn her life upside down. A brilliant marketing strategist with ambition as sharp as her wit, she thrives on control, until the day she crashes her rival's luxurious wedding, causing a scandal that will haunt her in high society.
Enter Dante Cross: the notorious billionaire, charmingly arrogant, and impossibly handsome, the bride's brother. In a moment of impulsive defiance, he proposes an outrageous solution to save face: a marriage neither of them wants... but both are forced to accept.
Thrown together in a world of glitz, power, and unspoken secrets, Elara and Dante clash at every turn. Sparks ignite as pride battles attraction, and the closer they get, the more dangerous their connection becomes. With hidden rivalries, family secrets, and unexpected betrayals swirling around them, Elara must navigate a game of social intrigue and decide if love is worth risking everything.
Will their forced union survive the chaos, or will the very secrets that brought them together tear them apart forever?
9.7
Giana woke up drugged and burning with fever in a luxurious hotel suite. Standing before her was Cornel Stark, the most ruthless billionaire in New York.
Memories of her past life stabbed into her brain. In that life, her adoptive family and her fiancé Gary had stolen her inheritance and left her to die a brutal, agonizing death.
She also remembered how fighting Cornel only made him more violent. So this time, she didn't scream.
She endured his brutal punishment, escaped the moment he let his guard down, and swallowed a Plan B pill on the freezing streets.
Returning to her adoptive family's mansion, she faced the people who had destroyed her. Her fiancé and her stepsister put on masks of fake concern, secretly mocking her.
Instead of throwing a useless tantrum like before, Giana deliberately threw herself down the steep wooden stairs.
She smashed her head against the marble floor, using her own blood to shatter their plans and win back her mother's trust.
She thought she had finally taken control. She was ready to crush the people who had betrayed her and live for herself.
But she didn't understand why the billionaire she had just escaped was suddenly turning her life upside down.
When she woke up in the hospital, her room wasn't filled with her family's fake tears, but an ocean of blood-red roses.
The heavy door swung open, and Cornel Stark walked in, his gray eyes locking onto her with a dark, predatory hunger.
"Remember this feeling, Giana. Every breath you take belongs to me now."
9.1
I was supposed to be celebrating my twenty-first birthday and my engagement to the man I loved.
Instead, I was bleeding out in a crushed car, listening to my fiancé Greggory and my stepsister Alta laughing over the car's Bluetooth.
They had cut my brakes.
As the steering wheel crushed my shattered ribs, they cheerfully clinked their champagne glasses, celebrating their hostile takeover of my family's media empire.
I tried to scream for help, but my lungs wouldn't work.
Then, Alta's sweet voice delivered the final, fatal blow over the speaker.
"Your mother? I took care of her too."
I died in the freezing rain, my heart frozen with absolute hatred as I realized every touch and whispered promise was just a calculated step toward my murder.
I gave them everything, treating them like my closest family.
Why did they have to kill my innocent mother? Why did I blindly trust two vipers who only wanted to drain my blood?
Opening my eyes again, the smell of gasoline was gone.
I was back in my bedroom, safe and unharmed, on the exact day of my twenty-first birthday party.
The day the tragedy began.
Downstairs, my murderers were waiting to spring their trap, expecting me to blindly accept Greggory's proposal.
But this time, I put on a blood-red dress, grabbed the photo of their secret affair, and walked down the stairs to choose a new fiancé—the most ruthless billionaire in the room.
9.6
I was only three and a half years old, living in a damp basement and beaten daily by Enoch Pruitt with a heavy leather whip.
"Get up, you useless waste of space!"
He always told me I was a stray he had picked out of the garbage.
But during one brutal beating that nearly stopped my heart, time froze, and a glowing figure called The Chronicler appeared.
"You are not an abandoned orphan, Clare. You carry the blood of the highest gods."
He revealed that I was the stolen daughter of the ultra-wealthy Barrett family.
Then, he showed me the horrific ending of my previous life.
I had died right here on this bloody dirt floor.
My real parents and three brothers went completely insane with grief, turning into ruthless monsters who destroyed themselves and the entire world to avenge me.
Meanwhile, the Pruitt family kept torturing me, locking me in a woodshed and feeding me moldy bread.
The memory of my bones breaking and my real mother's agonizing screams crushed my chest.
Why did I have to suffer like an animal while my true family tore the world apart looking for me?
This time, I refused to die in the mud.
I accepted my divine blood, my eyes glowing gold as I summoned a bolt of purple lightning to strike my abuser.
I just needed to survive the night.
Because my real father's heavily armed convoy was already tearing up the mountain, ready to burn this hell to the ground.