Flash Marriage To The Vengeful CEO
Debora went to prison to protect the man she loved, only to end up a paroled convict living under the roof of her abusive foster parents.
When they found her positive pregnancy test from a one-night stand, they threatened to kick her out and send her straight back to a cell.
Just as they were about to report her, the stranger from that dark hotel room suddenly appeared.
He paid her foster parents one million dollars to marry her and take her away.
Debora thought she was finally safe.
But the moment they were alone, he looked at her with pure, venomous hatred.
He didn't want a wife; he wanted a prisoner.
He believed Debora was the ruthless murderer who had destroyed his life in a car crash, and he planned to make her suffocate in her own despair.
He didn't know she was just a scapegoat.
To survive and protect her baby, Debora found a job at a bridal shop, only to run into the real culprit—the man who actually drove the car and framed her.
He was now happily engaged to a wealthy heiress.
They deliberately ruined a priceless wedding gown and blamed it on her.
"Kneel on this floor and apologize, or I'm calling the police to revoke your parole!"
Why did she have to rot in hell for his sins, while the man she married wanted to destroy her?
Just as her trembling knees were about to touch the cold marble floor, the heavy glass doors were violently shoved open.
Her billionaire husband strode in like a force of nature, his eyes locked onto the wealthy couple with a terrifying, destructive rage.
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Chapter 4
The morning sun sliced through the cheap plastic blinds, hitting Debora directly in the eyes. She gasped, waking up with a start, her hand immediately flying to her stomach.
She pushed the blankets off, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. She washed her face and pulled her hair back into a tight, neat ponytail. She put on her only clean professional outfit-a navy skirt suit that was two seasons out of date. However, using her meticulous skills, she had altered the seams so that the waistline and shoulders perfectly hugged her slender frame. Only the slight fraying of the cheap fabric betrayed its true age and her current poverty.
She walked out into the living room. The blanket on the sofa was folded with military precision. Jameson was already gone.
Debora took a deep breath, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door. The loud, chaotic energy of Brooklyn swallowed her as she descended into the subway, riding the train all the way to Manhattan.
An hour and a half later, Debora stood on the sidewalk of the Upper East Side. In front of her was a high-end bridal boutique, its large glass windows displaying gowns that cost more than she had made in a year.
Before prison, she had been a top student at Parsons. Even with a felony on her record, she hoped her skills with a needle could land her a job doing alterations in the back room.
She pushed the heavy glass door open. A silver bell chimed. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive roses and vanilla.
The boutique manager, a woman with sharp features and a tight bun, looked over Debora's resume. When her eyes hit the parole status, her lips thinned into a hard line. She handed the paper back. "We don't hire criminals."
"Please," Debora said, her voice steady but desperate. "I'll take minimum wage. I'll stay in the back. Just give me a chance to show you my stitching."
Before the manager could reply, a loud, artificial laugh echoed from the front entrance. Several sales associates rushed forward, fawning over a couple walking through the door.
Debora glanced over her shoulder. Her blood turned to ice. Her lungs stopped working.
Walking in the center of the room, wearing a custom-tailored suit and gold-rimmed glasses, was Darrell Poole. The man who had been driving the car that night. The man she had gone to prison for.
Clinging to his arm was a stunning woman dripping in diamonds, her chin tilted up in pure arrogance. Paige Lennox.
Bile rose in Debora's throat. She immediately ducked her head, stepping behind a massive rack of tulle gowns to hide.
Her hands were shaking so badly that as she backed up, her elbow clipped a silver tray resting on a side table. A roll of exquisite, hand-beaded lace tumbled off the tray and hit the floor.
The lace rolled right into the center aisle. A sparkling Jimmy Choo stiletto stepped directly onto the delicate fabric.
Paige gasped dramatically, looking down at the lace under her heel with utter disgust. "God, the staff here is so clumsy!"
Darrell immediately wrapped his arm around Paige's waist, playing the perfect, protective fiancé. He followed Paige's annoyed glare toward the rack of dresses.
Debora was kneeling on the floor, her fingers reaching for the lace. She froze. Slowly, she lifted her head.
Debora's eyes locked with Darrell's.
The gentle, loving smile on Darrell's face shattered. His eyes widened in sheer panic, the color draining from his face.
Paige was still complaining to the manager. Darrell quickly leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Go to the VIP fitting room, babe. I'll handle this."
The second Paige disappeared behind the velvet curtains, the panic in Darrell's eyes morphed into pure, vicious malice.
He closed the distance between them in seconds. He grabbed Debora's upper arm, his fingers digging into her flesh like iron claws.
"Get off me," Debora hissed, trying to pull away.
Darrell ignored her. He dragged her roughly through a side door and shoved her into the dark, narrow alley behind the boutique.
He slammed her back against the rough brick wall. The impact knocked the breath out of her, a sharp pain shooting up her spine.
Darrell planted his hands on the bricks on either side of her head, trapping her. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled, his spit hitting her cheek. "Are you stalking me? Trying to ruin my life?"
Debora glared at him, her chest heaving as she fought through the pain in her back. "You don't own New York, Darrell."
Darrell let out a dark, mocking laugh. He reached out and slapped her cheek lightly-a degrading, dismissive gesture. "Did you forget the NDA you signed? You're a piece of trash with a felony record. You breathe a word of this to Paige, and I will have my lawyers bury you so deep you'll die in a cell."
Debora's hands curled into tight fists at her sides. Her fingernails bit into her palms until the skin broke. She stared at the man who had destroyed her life, a burning, violent rage igniting in her chest.
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8.0
When gifted cellist Vivienne Aurel inherits her late father's catastrophic $4.2 million debt, she expects to lose everything. She doesn't expect the debt to be bought by Caspian Vane, the most feared private equity magnate in New York. Caspian doesn't want to ruin her; he wants her to work exclusively for him as the artistic director of his new cultural foundation for eighteen months. Forced into his world under a binding agreement, Vivienne prepares to fight against a cold, transactional cage. But as the intense, quiet proximity between them begins to blur the lines of their contract, she discovers a terrifying truth: the man who now owns her future has been watching her from the shadows long before she ever knew his name.
9.2
Averie spent hours preparing a perfect third-anniversary dinner for her billionaire husband, Jarett Sharp.
Instead of celebrating, she received an anonymous photo of him intimately holding another woman.
When Jarett finally arrived, he didn't even look guilty.
"Candida. It's okay. Don't be scared. I'm on my way."
He simply took a call from his mistress, shoved Averie aside, and walked right back out the door.
That same night, Averie's father suffered a massive heart attack.
The hospital demanded a half-million-dollar deposit before they would operate.
But when Averie frantically tried to use the emergency medical trust card Jarett had given her, it was declined.
Jarett had deliberately frozen her access to the funds just hours earlier.
While she begged his assistant on the phone, Jarett refused to be disturbed, busy wrapping his expensive coat around his mistress in the hospital garden.
Averie collapsed in the hallway, realizing the man she loved was deliberately letting her father die.
In the end, a childhood friend stepped in to pay the bill and save her father's life, while her billionaire husband later pinned her to their bed, throwing a check at her and reminding her he had bought her for three million dollars.
Averie didn't shed a single tear.
She slowly ripped his check into pieces, left her massive diamond ring on the dresser, and walked out into the cold New York night with nothing but her old suitcase.
She pulled out her phone and dialed her old ballet professor.
She wasn't just going to leave Jarett Sharp. She was going to destroy him.
8.9
For three years, Alana acted as the sole tactical brain for the Dawnbreaker squad, keeping them alive despite being labeled a useless "Dud" Conduit.
But right before the crucial Ascension Trials, squad leader Cash handed her a corporate sponsorship contract. The condition? She had to become the "private companion" to a greasy corporate heir just so the squad could get high-tier gear.
When she refused, the teammates she had bled for unanimously voted to kick her out.
"You're just window dressing, a liability."
They revoked her safehouse access, burned her belongings, and the academy advisor even tried to force her into a state-sanctioned breeding program. They left her to freeze in the slums, betting she would desperately crawl into the rich man's bed.
What they didn't know was that her inability to summon an Eidolon wasn't a lack of talent. Her teammate Dallin had been secretly sabotaging her rituals for years, crippling her potential just to keep her chained as their free tactician.
Stripped of everything and pushed to the absolute brink, Alana's despair morphed into a deadly resolve.
Using a million-credit black market loan and a forbidden blood matrix, she forcibly anchored an Apex-Tier cosmic wolf disguised as a harmless silver pup.
When her ex-squad tried to publicly humiliate her and burn her new "pet" alive in the cafeteria, a flash of silver light severed Dallin's hand instantly.
Looking at her screaming former teammates, Alana finally smiled.
7.1
I waited a year for my mate, Alpha Justin, to return from the border war. While he was gone, I used my ten-million-dollar dowry to keep his crumbling pack afloat and buy life-saving elixirs for his mother.
But when he finally walked through the door, he reeked of another female's scent.
He brought back Gamma Brenna and a Royal Decree, coldly announcing she would be his "Co-Luna."
His family, who survived entirely on my wealth, immediately turned on me. They mocked me for being a wolfless orphan since my father and brothers were slaughtered defending the kingdom.
"You're just a fragile woman who belongs hidden away," Justin told me.
They demanded I accept this humiliation, step aside for his new warrior mate, and continue funding their luxurious lifestyle. Justin even arrogantly offered to sleep with me just once to give me a pup as a "consolation prize," declaring his heart and body belonged entirely to Brenna.
They thought my ruined pack meant I had no backing. They thought I was a pathetic victim who would cling to their scraps and accept a polluted mate-bond just to avoid being cast out into the woods as a Rogue.
They had no idea I had already visited the Alpha King.
I wasn't going to cry, and I certainly wasn't going to share my mate. I packed up every last cent of my ten million dollars, secured a Royal Severance Decree, and prepared to watch their arrogant pack starve to death.
9.0
Eileen woke up in a trashed hotel room, her head pounding with the pathetic memories of a despised Hollywood actress.
Outside the window, paparazzi were already screaming about her manufactured cheating scandal, but the real nightmare was waiting at her door.
Her paralyzed, billionaire husband, Carlisle Vinson, looked at her with pure disgust while his butler shoved a divorce settlement at her chest.
"Mr. Vinson is offering a severance package of fifty million dollars, provided you sign immediately and vacate the premises."
The original owner had left her an absolute mess.
Her trusted assistant had sold her room number to the press to frame her, and a playboy had scammed her out of her entire two million dollar life savings.
If she signed those papers and lost the Vinson family's protection, the breach of contract fees and her enemies in the industry would swallow her alive in days.
Eileen felt a cold fury override the original owner's lingering panic.
Why should she take the fall and be thrown out on the streets while the parasites who set her up lived out their wealthy fantasies?
She had died once, and she wasn't about to waste her second chance playing the victim.
Eileen slammed the heavy divorce folder shut right against the butler's chest.
"I'm not signing," she said with a terrifying, absolute calm.
She stepped behind her husband's wheelchair, ready to shield him from the cameras, secretly cure his dead legs, and make everyone who betrayed her bleed.
7.5
When Alessia Romano's ex-husband destroys her family's company to drag her back to him, she refuses to beg. But refusing comes at a cost she never expected.
Billionaire Adrian Virelli pays off every debt and saves Romano Industries from ruin. The price is simple. Three years of her life, living under his roof as his daughter's nanny.
Adrian is cold, controlled, and completely off limits. Alessia tells herself she feels nothing.
But when she discovers a hidden room filled with portraits of a woman wearing her face, the truth hits harder than any betrayal she has ever known
She was never the woman he wanted. She was only a replacement.
She walks away. Then his ex-wife returns, and the danger that follows is nothing like Alessia expected. Someone wants her dead, Adrian nearly dies saving her life, and when he finally opens his eyes again, he remembers nothing.
His ex-wife is standing at his bedside, ready to rewrite every memory he has left.
And Alessia is running out of time to make the man she loves remember that he loved her too.