His Placeholder Bride, My Bitter Revenge
On the eve of my wedding to Grant Sutton, the heir to a vast real estate empire, I discovered the devastating truth. I wasn't his great love; I was just a convenient replacement for his wild, untamable ex, Ivory.
He didn't love me. He loved that I was a polished, "suitable" version of the woman he truly wanted.
When I walked away, he didn't just let me go. He destroyed me. After I published an exposé on his company's shady dealings, he had me fired and systematically ruined my reputation, painting me as a vengeful liar in the press.
My own family turned on me, furious.
"Think about us, Avery! You owe us this!" my sister shrieked, caring only about the fortune I'd lost them.
I was left with nothing-no career, no family, no future. All because I was a placeholder in a love story that was never mine.
Three years later, I came back. Not as the broken fiancée, but as A. Trevino, the anonymous journalist whose latest investigation targeted an elite institution.
An institution with deep ties to the Sutton family. And this time, I wouldn't be the one who was destroyed.
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Chapter 2
Avery Trevino POV:
I had rationalized every red flag, every moment of doubt, pouring my love into a sieve, hoping it would somehow fill the emptiness. Now, standing on that street, the bitter frost of dawn biting at my cheeks, I realized how foolish I had been. My self-deception had been a thick, suffocating blanket.
I turned on my heel and walked straight to my office. The familiar scent of old paper and stale coffee was a welcome antidote to the cloying sweetness of betrayal. This was my sanctuary, my truth.
"Rebecca," I stated, walking into her office without knocking, my voice firm despite the tremor deep inside. "I'm submitting a request for a transfer. International bureau, London. Effective immediately."
Rebecca looked up, her glasses perched on her nose. She blinked, then her gaze sharpened, falling to my left hand. The diamond engagement ring, a symbol of my shattered future, was gone. Her eyes softened with understanding. "Oh, Avery, dear."
"It's just work, Rebecca," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "I need a change of scenery. A bigger challenge."
Her sigh was gentle. "You always did chase the biggest stories. Even when everyone else was too afraid to touch them. A change of scenery, huh? Well, you'll certainly find a challenge in London. A. Trevino, breaking headlines globally, I can see it already."
I nodded, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "Thank you, Rebecca."
She smiled back, a warmth in her eyes that offered a momentary comfort. "Go. Go make a name for yourself, Avery. You were always too big for this city anyway."
I didn't waste another second. I buried myself in my work, in the intricate dance of facts and investigations, for days, weeks even. It was a brutal form of self-medication, a way to numb the searing pain that threatened to consume me. My eyes burned, my head throbbed, and my body ached from lack of sleep and proper food.
My phone, a vibrating alarm bell of the world I was trying to escape, lay forgotten on my desk. Hundreds of missed calls and texts from Clara, from Grant, from people who didn't understand, or didn't want to. I scrolled past them all, a cold detachment settling over me. They were ghosts, fading into the rearview mirror.
One evening, driven by a strange, melancholic impulse, I found myself walking towards the familiar red awning of "Mama Lu's Noodle House." It was a small, unassuming place, tucked away on a side street, but it held a thousand memories.
Mama Lu, a woman with a booming laugh and a heart of gold, greeted me with a wide smile. "Avery, darling! Long time no see! Where's your handsome man tonight? Grant, isn't it?"
My smile flickered, a faint, fragile thing. "He's... busy, Mama Lu. Just me tonight."
"Ah, a shame," she clucked, but her eyes held a knowing sadness. "The usual, then? The spicy beef ramen you both love?"
"Please," I whispered, settling into our usual booth by the window.
The steaming bowl was placed before me, its rich aroma filling the air. For a fleeting moment, I saw him across from me, a phantom image of Grant, smiling, urging me to eat. The memory was a fresh wound.
Our first date. I' d been late, stuck on a breaking story, frantic with apologies. He' d waited, patiently, for two hours, a book open on the table, a gentle smile on his face when I finally rushed in. He'd insisted on taking me here, to "his secret spot," a place he said made him feel grounded, away from the glitz of his world.
It wasn't perfect, that first date. He was a little guarded, a little distant, even then. But I'd been so charmed, so eager to see the good in him. This noodle house quickly became "our" spot, a quiet haven where we could pretend to be just two ordinary people in love.
I had thought, then, that this place was special to him because of us. Because of me. But now, it was sickeningly clear. This wasn't our spot. This was his spot. A place he' d likely shared with Ivory, a place where he could escape to his true self, the self I was never truly meant to see. I was merely a convenient echo, a pale imitation of the woman who had truly captured his soul.
My stomach churned. The spicy beef, once a comfort, now tasted like ashes. I pushed the bowl away, the hunger replaced by a profound nausea.
Suddenly, the door burst open with a crash, shattering the quiet warmth of the noodle house. Three burly men, their faces hard and grim, stormed in. One of them, a bulky man with a cruel smirk, pointed a finger at Mama Lu. "You! You're still selling your garbage? We told you to close this dump!"
Mama Lu, usually so fearless, cowered behind the counter. Other diners, startled, scrambled for the exit, their faces pale with fear.
I remained rooted in my seat, a strange, defiant calm settling over me. My journalistic instincts, honed over years, flared to life. This was an injustice. This was a story.
"Get out!" The man bellowed, gesturing to his companions. "Smash this place up! Teach her a lesson!"
They began to wreak havoc, overturning tables, smashing crockery. A young waiter was roughly shoved, falling backwards into a pile of broken dishes.
"Stop!" My voice, sharp and clear, cut through the din. I stood up, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Who sent you? What gives you the right to do this?"
The leader turned, his cruel eyes narrowing on me. "Oh, a little hero, huh? Just like that nosy reporter who wrote about Sutton Holdings. You got something to say, sweetheart?"
"I'm A. Trevino," I stated, my chin lifted, "and if you don't stop this, your faces will be all over the morning news. Along with whoever hired you."
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "A reporter, eh? Think you're a big shot now? We don't care about your pretty little words. Sutton Holdings owns this city. And they want this place gone."
He lunged forward, grabbing my arm, his grip bruising. "Maybe we should teach you a lesson too, Miss A. Trevino."
A surge of adrenaline coursed through me. I twisted, pulling my arm free, and brought my knee up hard, connecting with his groin. He gasped, releasing me, clutching himself. The air left the room in a shared gasp.
The noodle house fell silent. The leader, his face contorted in pain and fury, stared at me, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "You bitch! You'll regret that!" He lunged again, but before he could reach me, a commanding voice cut through the air.
"Enough."
The word was quiet, yet it resonated with an undeniable authority. All eyes turned to the doorway.
Grant Sutton stood there, his presence filling the space. Behind him, two hulking figures in dark suits, his personal security, swiftly moved in, disarming the thugs with ruthless efficiency. They were like shadows, silent and deadly.
Grant's gaze swept over the wrecked noodle house, then landed on me, his eyes cold and unreadable. He looked completely different from the panicked man who had chased after Ivory earlier. This was the cold, calculating businessman. The ruthless heir.
"Avery," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. His gaze lingered on my bruised wrist, then flickered to the thug writhing on the floor.
"Mr. Sutton, thank goodness you're here!" Mama Lu exclaimed, rushing out from behind the counter. "They were destroying my shop! And trying to hurt Avery!"
Grant merely nodded, his eyes still fixed on me. "Get her checked out," he ordered his security, his voice flat. "And call the police. Make sure these men are dealt with properly."
The police arrived quickly, taking statements while Grant's men efficiently cleaned up the mess. Mama Lu, still trembling, came over to me. "Thank you, Avery. And thank you, Mr. Sutton, for coming."
Grant simply gave a curt nod. He then turned to me, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Are you alright?"
I shivered, a sudden chill running through me. His coat, warm and heavy, was draped over my shoulders.
"Let me take you home," he said, his voice softer now, a hint of the familiar Grant resurfacing.
My eyes fell on a shattered piece of porcelain, a fragment of Mama Lu's favorite tea set, lying on the floor. It perfectly mirrored my broken self. I couldn't go back, not with him.
"Avery?" His voice was a gentle probe. "Are you angry?"
He stepped closer, his hand reaching for mine. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his gaze earnest. "About the rehearsal, about everything. I should have told you about Ivory. I should have-"
"No, Grant," I interrupted, pulling my hand away. My voice was tight, a thin wire stretched to its breaking point. "I'm not angry." My throat constricted, the truth a bitter lump I couldn't swallow.
Just as the words trembled on my lips, a voice, sharp and elegant, cut through the tense silence. "Grant? What in hell are you doing here?"
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9.7
I was an intern nurse working exhausting shifts, yet my mother constantly forced me into blind dates with wealthy, arrogant men to secure our family's social standing.
During a terrifying hospital lockdown, an assassin disguised as a doctor held a scalpel to my throat. I was almost killed, but a high-ranking military colonel threw his own body down a flight of concrete stairs to shield me.
I survived with cuts and bruises, but when I went home, my mother didn't care about my near-death experience. She was only furious that I had rushed out on my blind date with Preston, a rich financial analyst.
She forced me to meet him to apologize. When Preston grabbed my arm, bruised me, and mocked my attack as a pathetic lie, my mother still took his side.
"Men get angry," she told me coldly. "It's your job not to provoke them. You will beg for his forgiveness, or you are no longer welcome in this house."
I had narrowly escaped an assassin, yet my own family was willing to feed me to a monster just for a fat paycheck and neighborhood gossip.
My heart went completely dead.
So, when the intimidating Colonel appeared, offering me maximum military protection through a sudden marriage, I didn't hesitate.
I walked back into my parents' house and calmly slapped a crisp marriage certificate onto the coffee table.
"I won't be apologizing to Preston. I got married today."
9.2
He married her to control her.
To break her.
To own her.
Seraphina let him believe it.
She plays the quiet wife-
soft voice, lowered eyes, perfect obedience.
But behind every smile...
is a plan he was never meant to survive.
Because this marriage was never about love.
Not even power.
It was revenge.
And when Lucien finally uncovers the truth-
when he realizes who she really is...
he won't be fighting to keep her.
He'll be begging to escape her.
9.8
When Dawn Collins agrees to marry a stranger, love is the last thing on her mind.
All she wants is to protect her siblings and give them a better life. But fate leads her into the arms of Adam Manchester-a man whose heart belongs to a wife lying in a coma.
As Dawn slowly melts the ice around Adam's heart, she begins to believe that maybe, just maybe, love can bloom from sacrifice.
But on the night she's ready to claim her happiness, Adam's wife wakes up.
Now, caught between guilt, love, and heartbreak, Dawn must decide whether to fight for the man she's grown to love... or walk away from the life she risked everything to build.
Because some hearts never let go-and some love stories were never meant to have an easy ending.
7.3
I was the daughter of a loyal Mafia Capo, arranged to marry the Underboss of the Moretti family. But I gave my heart to his brother, Marco, who promised to break the betrothal and protect me.
When I went into premature labor in a freezing, abandoned warehouse, Marco didn't come to save me. He sent my cousin, Caitlin.
With a mocking smile, she told me Marco despised my "filthy Irish blood" and that my pregnancy was just a temporary amusement.
Then, she pulled out a hunting knife.
She pinned me down, sliced my abdomen open, and smothered my newborn baby right in front of my eyes.
"He agreed that this inconvenience needs to be removed," she whispered.
She revealed that she and Marco had orchestrated my father's murder to secure Mafia shipping routes. Then, she casually knocked over a kerosene lantern, locking the heavy metal door to let me and my dead child burn to ash.
While they headed to a high-society gala to celebrate my "accidental" death and their new power, I lay in the roaring flames.
As the fire blistered my skin and I held my baby's lifeless body, my suffocating despair froze into a razor-sharp rage. My entire life, my family, and my love had been built on their calculated lies.
But they made one fatal mistake. I didn't die in that inferno.
I dragged my ruined body out of the ashes, wrapped myself in a blood-soaked coat, and walked straight into their celebration banquet to become their goddamn reckoning.
8.2
The sensation of falling wasn't like flying; it was heavy, violent, and smelled of burning flesh. Above us, on the crumbling balcony of the Sears manor, Duke Cato Sears turned his back, shielding his cousin Bianca from the smoke as he walked away, leaving my sister Blossom and me to drop into the abyss.
As the darkness slammed shut like an iron door, I realized my entire life had been a cruel script written by the people I called family.
In my first life, I was the sacrificial lamb of the Dawson manor, sold to a man who eventually watched me die without blinking. My sister Blossom had pushed me into Cato's arms to avoid his rumors, only to laugh when the fire finally consumed us both. My father had measured my value like a piece of livestock, and my step-grandmother didn't even acknowledge my existence while I was being led to the slaughter.
I died in that fire, feeling the heat scorch my skin and the weight of a hatred so potent it tasted like bile. I spent twenty years being the weak, manipulated shadow of a girl, only to end up as nothing more than a phantom scorch mark on a "hero's" estate.
I couldn't understand why my own blood treated my life like a game they could discard. The injustice of it all burned hotter than the flames that took my last breath.
Then, I sat up, sucking in air that tasted of lavender and air conditioning, not smoke. I was back in my bedroom, three days before the engagement ball that ruined my life. Blossom stood at the door, her "sweet" mask slipping as she tried to manipulate me into the Duke's path again.
She thought she was the only one who had come back, but she didn't realize that this time, I was going to let her have exactly what she wanted: the Duke, the bankruptcy, and the living hell that awaited her in that house.
9.4
I stood before the double doors of the master suite, my hand hovering inches from the polished brass. As a surgeon, I was trained to steady my heart before a cut, but the silence in the Alexander estate felt like the heavy, oppressive pause that always preceded a scream.
I pushed the mahogany door open to find my fiancé, Authur, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets with a woman named Jasmine. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and a floral perfume that wasn't mine—a brutal reality check just twenty-four hours before the merger meant to save my family from total ruin.
Authur didn't look guilty; he looked amused, coldly telling me to close the door because I was letting in a draft. When his parents unexpectedly arrived, I was forced to hide his mistress and pretend our "intensity" had ruined the room, donning his discarded shirt to look disheveled just to protect the Lawrence family stock price.
The humiliation only deepened on our wedding morning when Authur issued a sadistic ultimatum over the phone. "Wear your scrubs to the altar—the ones covered in blood—or I'll watch your father's company go belly up by lunch." He wanted to turn our wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral into a public execution of my dignity.
I walked down the aisle in shapeless navy cotton and crimson stains, enduring the horrified gasps of the elite who labeled me an "insane gold digger." Authur stood at the altar, reeking of whiskey and malice, certain he had finally broken me and turned my professional oath into a circus act.
But as the priest began the vows, I looked at the man who thought he owned me and realized I wasn't his victim—I was his surgeon. I had the footage of his debauchery ready to play for the world, and as we shared a punishing, hateful kiss for the cameras, I knew the real war had only just begun.