Fake Marriage Ruined, She Married The Tycoon
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.
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Chapter 6
Christi didn't go back to her apartment. She walked three blocks, slipping into a dingy, underground cybercafe in the basement of a strip mall. No ID required.
She pulled a black baseball cap low over her face and sat at a computer in the darkest corner. Her fingers flew across the sticky keyboard, routing her connection through three different VPNs to mask her IP address.
She logged into an anonymous proton mail account. She attached the high-resolution photos of Jensen and Fallon kissing. Then, she attached the audio file she had paid a hacker ten grand to extract from the Maybach's dashcam cloud backup.
In the audio, Jensen's voice was crystal clear: "Just endure it a little longer, Fallon. Once we secure the family trust by having a baby, I'm kicking that bitch to the curb."
Christi hit 'Send'. The recipients were Page Six, TMZ, and the top three financial news outlets in New York.
She pulled the USB drive out, ran a military-grade wipe on the computer's hard drive, and walked out into the Manhattan night.
Two hours later, the internet caught fire.
Page Six pushed a breaking news notification to millions of phones: WALL STREET GOLDEN BOY'S FAKE MARRIAGE: Rivera Heir Caught in Steamy Affair with Socialite Fallon Ratcliff.
Twitter exploded. The hashtag #RiveraScandal hit number one in ten minutes.
Inside the top-floor boardroom of the Rivera Conglomerate, Jensen hurled his crystal whiskey glass at the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces.
His PR director ran into the room, sweating profusely. "Sir, we can't get the posts taken down. The platforms are refusing our cease-and-desist letters. There's massive capital backing the spread of this story."
Jensen's eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed his phone and dialed Christi's number. It went straight to a busy signal. She had blocked him.
He turned slowly to his private assistant, Ethan Cole. Ethan was shaking.
Jensen walked over, his face twisted into a mask of pure cruelty. He threw a stack of papers and a blank check onto the conference table. "Sign the NDA, Ethan. You're going to tell the press you borrowed my car and my jacket. You're the one in the photos."
Ethan stared at the papers. "Sir, my career will be over. I can't-"
Jensen leaned in close, adjusting his tie. "Sign it, or I cut off the medical funding for your mother's dialysis by midnight."
Ethan choked back a sob. His hands shook violently as he picked up the pen and signed his life away.
At 11 PM, the Rivera Conglomerate released a desperate, legally dubious statement claiming mistaken identity, attaching Ethan's forced confession.
Sitting on her sofa, Christi read the statement on her phone. A cold smile spread across her face.
She dialed Arthur Finch. "Why hasn't Vogue Business published the dashcam audio?"
Arthur stammered on the other end. "Christi, Rivera just bought out our entire ad space for the next quarter. We can't run it."
Christi bit her lower lip, tasting copper. "Arthur, I have the audio. If you don't publish it as your morning headline, I'm giving it to Vanity Fair. They will ruin you."
Arthur, driven purely by greed and traffic metrics, caved instantly. "Fine. 6 AM. It goes live."
Christi hung up. She poured herself a glass of cheap red wine and raised it to the empty room.
Across the city, in the penthouse study of the Apex building, Leo Vance stood before Cornelius.
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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.
9.0
Once a pampered princess, Alaina now clutched a deactivated American Express card, staring out at Central Park. Her family’s fortune was gone, her life, over.
Her family's Hamptons estate, a four-generation legacy, was seized by Dyer Capital. The name hit her: Hardin Dyer, the poor boy she’d once scorned, had returned.
Hardin marched in, serving a divorce agreement. He'd orchestrated her family's downfall for revenge, giving her 24 hours to vacate his property. Penniless, her father faced prison, needing $50 million. Her mother forced her to beg Hardin, who sneered, offering the money for her body. Alaina ripped up the contract.
Hours later, her father had a heart attack. Desperate, she became "Lexi," a club girl enduring humiliation. In the Viper Room, Hardin's lackeys demanded she lick whiskey off his shoe for $10,000. Hardin watched. Outside, her brother Ashton's hand was threatened for a $3 million debt. Spirit shattered, Alaina returned, knelt on broken glass, offering to sign. But Hardin declared her family "dead," offering $10 million for her body, commanding her to use her mouth.
In a furious act of defiance, Alaina threw whiskey in his face, snatched the check, and fled. Yet, when he finally took her, a searing, foreign pain and blood on the sheets revealed a shocking truth: he had never touched her three years ago. Why had he let her believe such a monstrous lie?
8.0
My wedding was tomorrow. I was a crisis counselor who had finally found peace with my loving fiancé, Dexter, and my best friend, Barbara.
A late-night call about a forced marriage led me to a hotel penthouse, where I found them naked in bed together.
It was all a cruel, three-year "savior game." They were bored heirs, and I was their project. They destroyed my career, caused me to lose our baby, and put my mother in the hospital.
They forced me to be a bridesmaid at their wedding-the one that should have been mine.
In front of hundreds of guests, they exposed my traumatic past and then tried to marry me off to a drunken stranger as a joke.
As I stood there, broken, a text from Barbara arrived.
"Your mother saw the livestream. She had a heart attack. She's not going to make it."
With nothing left, I ran to the 20th-floor window and jumped. They thought they had erased me. But my death was just the beginning.
7.4
Alaya woke up in the sterile hospital room to a devastating reality: her six-month-old baby was gone, lost in a horrific car crash.
But as the memories crashed into her, she realized she had been reborn. She was back three years before her ultimate death, back to the moment she remembered lying bleeding on the asphalt while her husband, Hardy, shielded his mistress from the freezing rain.
When Hardy finally showed up at the ward, he coldly dismissed the crash as a mere accident and immediately left to comfort his young lover. To make matters worse, Alaya secretly checked her medical files and found a terrifying detail: someone had intentionally slipped beta-blockers into her system, a lethal drug for her transplanted heart. And Hardy didn't care about her dead baby or her irreversible infertility. He only coldly confirmed with the doctor that her heart was still viable.
A horrifying suspicion made Alaya's blood run cold. Why was her husband so obsessed with protecting her transplanted heart while treating her like garbage? And why was his perfectly healthy mistress secretly racking up massive bills at an advanced cardiac hospital?
Realizing she was nothing but a vessel in a twisted, deadly game, Alaya didn't shed another tear.
She packed her belongings, left her flawless diamond wedding ring on the cold marble table, and vanished from their penthouse.
When Hardy finally tracked her down, she threw a thick stack of documents onto the table.
"Sign the divorce papers," she said, her eyes completely dead.
7.0
Elliana and her six-year-old daughter Clara were trapped in a horrific, bloody car crash.
A private medical helicopter bearing her husband's family crest touched down on the wet asphalt, but the paramedics ran straight past her crushed SUV.
They rushed to the sleek sports car that had rear-ended them.
Sitting inside were her husband Devontae's mistress and her daughter, suffering from nothing more than a minor scratch and a panic attack.
Trapped under twisted metal, Elliana dialed her husband's number with bloody fingers, begging him to save their dying child.
"Stop being so dramatic, Elliana," Devontae snapped impatiently over the phone. "I am sick of you using Clara to play the victim. Kyle needs to get to the hospital immediately."
He hung up, and the helicopter lifted off into the night sky, leaving Elliana and Clara in the absolute dark.
Elliana watched her daughter's tiny hand drop lifelessly.
In absolute despair and suffocating hatred, she dropped a lighter into the pooled gasoline, letting a wall of fire consume them both.
As the flames blistered her skin, she felt a profound, agonizing injustice.
She had hidden her brilliant talents and played the submissive, perfect wife just to protect his fragile ego, but her endless sacrifices had only bought them a fiery grave.
Why did her devotion end with her child bleeding to death in the cold rain while the mistress flew away to safety?
Opening her eyes, Elliana violently gasped for air in her massive velvet bed.
She stared at the glowing date on her phone screen.
It was exactly six months before the crash.
The phantom pain in her crushed legs reminded her of the hell she had just crawled back from.
She got out of bed, her eyes as cold and sharp as broken glass.
This time, she would send them all to hell first.
8.1
For three years, I swallowed every humiliation to warm my billionaire husband's frozen heart.
But at his birthday banquet, the obsidian cufflinks I spent three sleepless nights carving were crushed into worthless powder.
Carly, the woman he truly loved, had intentionally tripped and slammed into my arm.
When the velvet box fell, I dropped to my knees on pure instinct. My bare hands were deeply sliced by the jagged shards, warm blood dripping onto the pristine marble floor.
But Dominic didn't even spare a single glance at his bleeding wife.
He protectively cradled Carly, his voice thick with concern as he asked if she was hurt.
He let the entire ballroom laugh at me, calling me a piece of trash that wasn't even fit to touch the hotel carpet.
When I later confronted him about the secret estate where he hid her, he nearly broke my jaw.
"A toxic bitch like you deserves to rot in a loveless marriage."
I finally understood. My marriage was just a cruel prison designed to torture me for a debt I supposedly owed.
I didn't shed a single tear. I went back to the penthouse, signed the divorce papers waiving all my assets, and walked barefoot into the freezing New York storm.
To survive, I took a job as the personal executive assistant to his biggest enemy on Wall Street.
But when I showed up at an industry dinner wearing a stunning designer suit next to another man, the cold tyrant who had thrown me away completely lost his mind.