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 8
Faith sat at the kitchen island, picking at her scrambled eggs. They were perfect-fluffy, buttery, seasoned with chives. It was annoying how good he was at everything.
Earl was standing by the sink, rinsing a pan. As he moved, Faith noticed something.
On his right thigh, just below the hem of his shorts, a white bandage was peeling at the corner. A dark stain of red was seeping through.
The shrapnel wound. The landing from the pull-up bar had torn something.
"Your leg," Faith said, her doctor instinct overriding her awkwardness. She put down her fork and stood up. "You're bleeding. You pushed it too hard with the workout."
She walked toward him, reaching out. "Let me see. I need to change the dressing."
Earl stiffened. He sidestepped her hand, turning his body away.
"It's fine," he said, his voice tight. "Just a scratch."
Faith froze, her hand suspended in mid-air. "Earl, I'm a doctor. I stitched that wound myself. If it gets infected..."
"I have a medical officer," Earl said, grabbing a kitchen towel and pressing it against his leg. "I don't need you to do it."
"A medical officer?" Faith scoffed. "You mean a private doctor on payroll? Why wait? I'm right here."
"I said no."
He turned to face her. His expression was closed off, a wall of stone. But beneath the stone, Faith saw a flicker of something else. Shame? He looked down at his leg, at the ugly, mangled flesh that the war had left behind.
"It's... messy," Earl muttered, his voice losing its edge. "You don't need to see it in the light of day. It's not... aesthetic."
Faith felt a sting of rejection turn into a pang of sympathy. He wasn't rejecting her help; he was hiding his damage. "Earl," she said softly. "I've seen inside your chest cavity. A bleeding stitch isn't going to scare me off."
She stepped closer, invading his space until her back hit the counter. She reached out and gently moved the towel away from his hand.
"Let me fix it," she whispered. "Please."
Earl hesitated. The muscles in his jaw worked. Finally, he let out a long sigh and dropped his hand.
"Fine," he gritted out. "But be quick."
Faith grabbed the first aid kit from the counter-another item Alfred had likely delivered. She knelt before him, her fingers nimble and professional as she cleaned the wound and applied a fresh butterfly closure. The intimacy of it was suffocating. Her face was inches from his bare thigh. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the musk of his skin.
When she finished, she looked up. Earl was watching her, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
He reached out and tilted her chin up with his finger.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
It was chaste. Dry. But it burned like a brand.
"Eat," he whispered against her skin. "Then we go."
Twenty minutes later, they were in the underground garage.
Earl walked toward the Escalade, but Faith's eyes were drawn to the corner. Under a dust sheet, the unmistakable silhouette of a low-slung sports car crouched.
"Is that a..."
"Don't ask," Earl said, opening the passenger door of the truck for her. "It's not for today."
They drove out into the morning traffic. The city was grey and busy. Earl drove with one hand, the other resting on the gear shift.
He pulled over two blocks away from St. Luke's Hospital.
"Why here?" Faith asked, unbuckling her seatbelt.
"Optics," Earl said. "You don't want to be seen getting out of a tank like this. Not yet. And I need to make a call."
"I'll be fast," Faith said. "Just grabbing the... personal items from my locker. Resigning. Then I'm out." She touched the pocket of her jeans, checking for the small RFID blocking pouch she'd need for the hardware key.
"Twenty minutes," Earl repeated. "Alfred is in the lobby. If you aren't out, he's coming in to get you."
Faith nodded. She needed to get that key. It was the only leverage she had left if this marriage turned into a prison.
"Okay."
Faith opened the door. She paused. "Earl?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to rip any more stitches."
She hopped out and slammed the door.
Earl watched her walk away until her grey coat disappeared into the crowd.
As soon as she was gone, he pulled his phone out.
"Alfred. Bring the Phantom around to the alley. I need to change."
Ten minutes later, in a quiet alleyway, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up behind the Escalade.
Earl got out. He winced as his leg took his weight, but he ignored it. He opened the back door of the Rolls.
Hanging there was a charcoal grey Tom Ford suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie.
He stripped off the athletic shorts and t-shirt right there in the car. He pulled on the suit. It was armor. It transformed him.
When he stepped out, the rough, sweaty ex-soldier was gone. In his place stood Earl Hampton, CEO, billionaire, and predator.
Alfred handed him a tablet. "Mr. Sterling is waiting at HQ. He's... displeased."
Earl buttoned his jacket. He checked his reflection in the tinted window. Cold. Perfect.
"Let him be displeased," Earl said. He climbed into the back of the Phantom. "Drive. I have a wedding to defend."
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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.