He Found My Secret Revenge
Faith Neal had vanished, burying her powerful past under layers of anonymity as an ER doctor. She was secretly dismantling the empire of the man she'd left behind, brick by costly brick, from the shadows. Until he walked into her trauma room, bleeding from a bullet wound, shattering her carefully built world with a single, dangerous glance.
Her heart hammered: Earl Hampton, the ruthless CEO she abandoned, was on the gurney, demanding only "Faith."
His presence shattered her new life. He accused her of running, his touch a possessive reminder. Soon after, old rivals Chad Miller and Tiffany Vance ambushed her, humiliating her, sparking a fight.
Panic and anger flared as Chad mocked her, calling her a "bitch." Shame burned, but a deeper fear gripped her – the architect of her revenge was bleeding in her ER, and he knew.
Before Chad could inflict more harm, Earl reappeared, violently intervening.
"I'm the man who's going to reclaim his assets," he rumbled. "I found you. I'm not losing you again."
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Chapter 2
Faith splashed cold water onto her face, gasping as the liquid hit her skin. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, gripping the porcelain edges of the sink in the staff locker room until her fingers ached.
She could still feel him.
The phantom pressure of Earl's hand on her wrist was heavier than the exhaustion dragging at her eyelids.
I'm not leaving.
"Go away," she whispered to the empty room. She grabbed a rough paper towel and scrubbed her face dry, erasing the water, erasing the memory.
She stripped off her scrubs. The blue cotton landed in the hamper with a soft thud. She pulled on her street clothes-a faded grey hoodie that had seen better days and a pair of jeans that were slightly too loose around the waist. She hadn't had time to grocery shop in three weeks.
She looked in the mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. Her hair was a messy knot on top of her head. She looked like a ghost.
He saw this, she thought. He saw this mess and he still looked at me like I was the only solvency in a bankrupt world.
Her phone buzzed in her locker. Three short pulses. The signal.
She pulled it out. The screen was black, text white. An encrypted notification from the 'Oracle' network.
> LOGISTICS NODE 4: DISRUPTION SUCCESSFUL. HAMPTON HOLDINGS STOCK PREDICTED TO DIP 4% AT OPENING.
Faith stared at the screen. She was the one tearing his empire apart, piece by piece, from the shadows. And he had just been in her trauma room, completely unaware that the architect of his misery was stitching his leg.
Guilt, sharp and familiar, twisted in her gut. She cleared the notification.
She rejected the call from her landlady, shoved the phone into her pocket, and grabbed her keys. She needed to get out of here. She needed to go home, check on the encrypted servers, and sleep for fourteen hours.
The night air in the parking lot was biting. Chicago in November was unforgiving. The wind whipped through her thin hoodie, cutting straight to the bone. Faith hunched her shoulders, walking fast toward the far corner of the lot where employees were forced to park.
Her car sat under a flickering lamppost. A ten-year-old Toyota Corolla, beige, with a dent in the rear door and an engine that sounded like a dying lawnmower. It was ugly, reliable, and entirely hers. It was the perfect camouflage for a woman supposedly worth millions.
She unlocked the door and slid into the freezing seat. The engine sputtered, coughed, and then roared to life with a rattle that shook the dashboard.
"Come on, baby," she muttered, putting it into reverse. "Just get me home."
She checked her mirrors. Clear.
She eased off the brake.
A flash of red. A blur of motion.
SCREECH.
CRUNCH.
The impact threw Faith forward against her seatbelt. The strap locked, digging painfully into her collarbone. Her head snapped back.
"Damn it!"
She slammed the car into park and sat there for a second, her heart hammering.
In her rearview mirror, she saw the other car. A bright, cherry-red Porsche 911. It was angled aggressively across the lane, its front bumper kissed intimately against her rear fender.
The driver's door of the Porsche flew open.
Faith groaned. Please, no.
A woman stepped out. She was wearing red-bottomed heels that clicked sharply on the asphalt. Her blonde hair was perfect, despite the wind.
Tiffany Vance. The daughter of one of Hampton Holdings' board members.
And from the passenger side, a man emerged. He smoothed the lapels of his bespoke navy suit, his face twisted in a sneer that Faith knew better than her own reflection.
Chad Miller.
Faith's blood ran cold. Of all the people in Chicago. Of all the parking lots.
She forced herself to open her door. Her legs felt like jelly, but she stood up straight. She wouldn't let them see her shake.
"You were speeding," Faith called out, her voice steady. "And you didn't use a turn signal."
Tiffany marched over to the Corolla, wrinkling her nose as if the car itself smelled bad. "Are you blind? Do you have any idea what this paint job costs?"
Chad walked around the Porsche, inspecting the damage. He looked up, his eyes landing on Faith. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a smirk.
"Faith," he drawled. "I should have guessed. Only you would be driving a piece of scrap metal like this in a hospital zone."
"Chad," Faith said, crossing her arms. "You hit me."
"I was driving," Tiffany snapped. "And you backed out without looking!"
"I checked. You were doing forty in a parking lot." Faith looked at the Porsche's bumper. It was barely scratched. Her Corolla, on the other hand, had a new, deep crater in the plastic. "We can exchange insurance and let them handle it."
Chad laughed. It was a dry, condescending sound. He walked toward her, invading her personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne and arrogance.
"Insurance?" He shook his head. "Faith, look at your car. Your deductible is probably more than the vehicle's value. And my premium? I'm not having it spike because you can't drive."
"Then pay for it yourself," Faith said. "It's your girlfriend's fault."
Tiffany bristled. She looped her arm through Chad's, staking her claim. She looked Faith up and down, taking in the baggy hoodie, the tired eyes. "Is this her? The one you told me about? The 'consultant' who vanished?"
Faith felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Shame, hot and prickly, crawled up her neck.
"She used to have potential," Chad said, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. "But some people just... peak in the negotiation room."
"I'm a doctor, Chad," Faith said through gritted teeth. "I save lives. What do you do? Move numbers around on a spreadsheet for Hampton Holdings?"
Chad's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, towering over her. "I'm a Vice President at Hampton Holdings now, Faith. I make more in a bonus check than you make in a decade."
"Good for you. Move your car."
"Not until you apologize to Tiffany."
"What?"
"Apologize," Chad said. "Admit you were wrong. Admit you're a screw-up. Just like you were in your tenure at the company."
Faith's hands balled into fists. "Go to hell."
She turned to get back in her car.
Chad grabbed her arm.
His grip was hard, painful. He yanked her back.
"I'm talking to you," he snarled. The mask of civility slipped. This was the Chad she remembered. The one who threw wine glasses when he didn't get a promotion. "You always were a bitch, Faith. Maybe if you'd been a little more like Tiffany and less like a nun, Mr. Hampton wouldn't have let you go."
The insult was so vile, so public, that Faith gasped.
"Let go of me!" She tried to wrench her arm free.
"Chad, call security!" Tiffany screeched, pulling out her phone. "She's assaulting you!"
"I said let go!" Faith swung her other hand, trying to push him away.
Chad laughed, tightening his grip. "Or what? You going to cry?"
Suddenly, the light from the streetlamp seemed to vanish.
A shadow fell over them. Massive. heavy.
The air temperature dropped ten degrees.
A hand-large, scarred, and terrifyingly strong-clamped down on Chad's wrist.
Chad yelped. It wasn't a manly sound. It was a high-pitched squeak of pain.
"She said," a voice rumbled from the darkness, low and lethal, "let go."
Chad's fingers sprang open. Faith stumbled back, losing her balance.
She hit a wall. But the wall was warm. It was solid muscle wrapped in a cashmere overcoat.
She looked up.
Earl stood there.
He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Chad. And the look in his eyes wasn't human. It was the look of a Chairman deciding which division to liquidate.
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8.1
"I don't share my women, Adele. Breeder or not. Go on your knees." He instructed, his hands going to unbuckle his trousers.
My heart burned with hatred as I clutched the knife behind me. "Of course, Alpha Loic. I was wondering... If you were to choose between a quick death and a slow one, which would you choose?"
I smiled brightly. He was taken aback for a moment. Then his face twisted in anger. "Have you forgotten your place so soon, Omega? Go down on your fucking knees."
"Omega? Aww. Adele would be so hurt. Tonight, I'll pronounce your death. The Alpha of the Vanguard pack, killed by fire. Touchè." I snapped my hands, and fire sprang up from all corners, encircling the room, with us in it.
"Y-you are not Adele. Who are you?" His eyes widened.
...
The Demon Queen, a name that struck terror in the minds of mortals and werewolves alike. Who'd have thought she'd meet her end during one of her adventures at a nightclub?
After being struck dead by the Alpha of her most hated race, Ophelie returns in the body of a wolf-less girl with only one mission in mind. To kill her murderer.
But sometimes, things never go as planned. When love is thrown in the mix, Ophelie finds herself and her previous plans swaying.
Refusing to kill Loic is to lose herself and her powers. What would she choose?
7.7
Not only was I drugged, blinded and assaulted. I was deceived into carrying a baby by a stranger I never knew. Then he appeared and took my child away.
I was sent to a militia by the father of my child. I thought I was rescued but I was recruited to be a weapon for killing. Who was manipulating me, I didn't know. The answers were far from what I knew.
Forced to blend into the world that I could never believe I would be to, a place where brutality reigned, kill or be killed was the only language. I have survived but he has to pay for everything he did to me, because I believed every phase of my life was set by him and him alone. Have I really survived?
Who would have thought, he existed twice in the same world? Do I really know who I should take revenge on? Him or the person I would sacrifice everything for?
Was my mother the one who orchestrated everything? What kind of pawn am I?
7.7
I was suffocating in a borrowed Valentino gown at the Met Gala, but it wasn't the corset that was killing me. It was the debt collector, Vargo, stalking me through the crowd like a wolf.
Desperate to hide, I ducked into a private lounge and threw myself at the silhouette of a man sitting in the shadows, pressing my lips to his in a frantic plea for cover. When I pulled back, the air turned to ice; I was staring into the ocean-blue eyes of Kingsley Osborn, the billionaire who believed I’d sold his company secrets six years ago.
Kingsley didn’t save me; he trapped me. The next morning, he slid a "Marriage Service Agreement" across his desk, revealing he knew everything about my father’s illegal Ponzi scheme and the quarter-million dollars I owed to loan sharks. He offered to pay my debts and protect my father, but only if I signed over two years of my life to be his trophy wife.
"I don't want your money, Cassidy. I want your life."
The marriage was a cold, calculated war. He forced me into his glass fortress, banned me from contacting my friends, and treated me with a distilled hatred that felt like a physical weight. When I accidentally broke his grandfather’s vintage watch during a nightmare, he didn't see an accident—he saw a crime, threatening to destroy my father if I didn't "charm" his board of directors into submission.
I was a prisoner in a three-piece suit, until I found a mislabeled file buried in his company’s server. It contained evidence of a massive, illegal hostile takeover that would ruin Kingsley if the Feds ever saw it.
I held the gun that could destroy the man who had cornered me. But as I looked at the champagne roses he’d secretly kept from my "peace offering," I realized I didn't want to pull the trigger. I wanted to see how far he’d go to keep me from leaving.
8.1
Iverson played the role of a rebellious, useless loser to survive in his mother's new wealthy family. He deliberately tanked his grades and hid his genius so his perfect stepbrother wouldn't feel threatened.
But when a violent gang extorted Brenda, the only woman who actually acted like a real mother to him, Iverson dropped the act. He brutally dismantled four armed thugs with a broken aluminum pole to save her life.
At the police station, he faked being a terrified victim to avoid jail. But when his biological mother arrived, she didn't even ask if he was hurt. Instead, she glared at him with pure disgust.
"How much more humiliation are you going to put me through?"
She threw a tutoring folder at his chest, praising his stepbrother's Ivy League prospects while threatening to cut off Iverson's trust fund for fighting over slum trash.
Iverson clenched his fists in silence. He had deliberately played the idiot and ruined his own reputation just to keep her safe in that toxic mansion. Yet, she looked at him like he was absolute garbage. She truly believed he was just a brainless thug holding her back.
Back in his room, Iverson locked the heavy oak door and booted up his highly encrypted laptop. The screen loaded into the world's most elite underground academic network.
"Welcome back, Rank 1."
He stared at the glowing screen with a cold, dangerous smile. He was done playing the fool.
8.6
The Maybach glided through rain, Dante's cold cedar cologne a familiar comfort. Seven years, my life revolved around him, my fingers on his suit cuff, a silent promise. But tonight, our normal shattered with a single phone call.
He answered, speaking rapid Italian – a language he thought I didn't understand. Every word: a death knell. Confirming his engagement to Sofia Moretti, dismissing me as a 'consolation prize.'
Seven years of loyalty vanished. His loving mask back, he left for his fiancée. I stumbled into freezing rain, recalling my foster past. My numb fingers dialed his mother, Isabella, demanding fifty million for my silence. Her insults didn't sting.
The true gut punch: Sofia's Instagram, a prenup on Dante's desk, proudly showing *my* watch, captioned: 'Fourteen days left.' This wasn't their celebration; it was my death sentence.
I wouldn't stay another day in this gilded cage. My old duffel bag, packed, waited. The Australia brochure, a childhood dream, in my pocket. This time, I would live for myself, and they would all pay.
8.7
I died in a mangled wreck of metal and fire, abandoned by the man I thought was my soulmate. But instead of the void, I woke up pinned against a cold marble wall, staring into the turbulent, storm-gray eyes of Damian Vincent.
This was the night I destroyed my life. In my past world, I spat in Damian's face and ran into the arms of Eddie, a parasitic loser who was secretly plotting with my cousin Jill to strip me of my inheritance.
My "escape" turned into a slow-motion suicide. My brother Donavan died in a horrific car crash while racing to save me from another one of my messes. Damian, consumed by a toxic mix of grief and vengeance, crushed the Nelson family empire until my father was a broken man. I spent years as a drugged-up social pariah, finally dying alone while the people I trusted laughed at my funeral.
The most bitter realization didn't hit me until the end. The "controlling monster" I spent years fighting was the only person who ever truly protected me. I had traded a man who would burn the world for me for a man who would burn me for the world.
Opening my eyes three years in the past, I find myself back at the airport, the rain lashing against the windows. My brother is pleading with me to run, and Damian is standing there, braced for the slap he thinks is coming.
But I don't strike him. I press my palm to his burning cheek and give him the only piece of my soul he couldn't buy.
"I'm not going anywhere, Dami. Keep this as my collateral."
The game has changed. This time, I'm not the victim-I'm the one holding the match.