His Unwanted Wife Is Madame Lan
Andrea was trapped in a suffocating marriage with billionaire Gregory Morse, forced to live as the pathetic substitute for his dead fiancée.
When armed intruders broke into their estate in the dead of night, she called her husband in pure terror.
"Stop playing these cheap, attention-seeking games," Gregory sneered with disgust, and hung up the phone.
She barely escaped with her life, but the cruelty only escalated. At the family mansion, his dead fiancée's sister deliberately scalded Andrea's hand with boiling tea. Instead of defending his wife, Gregory publicly humiliated her, ordering her to clean up the mess while calling her a stray dog.
That night, hiding in the dark wine cellar, Andrea overheard a chilling confession.
Gregory admitted to his brother that he knew Andrea was completely innocent of the car crash that killed his fiancée. He knew she had been framed.
Why did he marry her? Just to use her as a psychological punching bag to vent his twisted grief. He watched her suffer every single day, treating her like disposable trash, while violently threatening anyone who showed her an ounce of kindness.
He thought she was just a useless, helpless shadow who would quietly endure his torment forever.
He had no idea that behind her submissive facade, she was secretly Madame Lan, the apex predator of the global fashion world. And now, she was ready to burn his empire to the ground.
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Chapter 2
The Maybach glided smoothly down the Long Island Expressway, the morning sun glaring off the tinted windows. Inside the spacious backseat, the air was thick and suffocating.
Low, smooth jazz played from the speakers, a stark contrast to the tension vibrating between the two passengers.
Gregory sat on the right side, one ankle resting casually on his knee. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, the top two buttons undone, reading the Wall Street Journal. He looked like a man without a single care in the world.
Andrea sat as far away from him as the leather seat allowed. Her knees were pressed together, a tablet resting on her lap. She was aggressively scrolling through the morning's fabric supply chain reports, tracking the secret shipments for Dreamscape Atelier. Her neck muscles were so tight they burned.
Gregory lowered the newspaper. His dark eyes slid over to her, taking in her rigid posture, the severe bun at the nape of her neck, and the sharp line of her jaw.
"You look like a soldier bracing for an ambush," Gregory drawled, his voice cutting through the jazz music.
Andrea didn't look up from her screen. "If you could manage to show a shred of basic humanity, Gregory, I wouldn't have almost died in that house."
Gregory let out a low, raspy laugh. He wasn't insulted. He actually sounded amused. "You survived, didn't you? Genevra would have fought them off herself without calling me crying." He folded the newspaper and tossed it aside, leaning his weight toward her. The scent of his cedarwood cologne invaded her space, making her breath catch in her throat.
Just as he shifted closer, Andrea's phone buzzed loudly against the leather armrest.
The screen lit up. A text message from Tessa Bloom.
That new silk supplier is waiting for you at the club. His terms are definitely harder than Gregory's conscience.
Andrea's blood ran cold. Her stomach dropped.
Before she could snatch the phone, Gregory's eyes darted to the glowing screen. He read the words. The silence in the car suddenly became heavy, dangerous.
A slow, wicked smirk spread across Gregory's lips. He reached out, his large hand moving toward the phone. His knuckles deliberately brushed against the sensitive skin of Andrea's hand. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm.
Andrea reacted instantly. She snatched the phone, her thumb slamming the lock button, plunging the screen into darkness. She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
Gregory slowly pulled his hand back, resting it on his thigh. He leaned back into the plush leather, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Well," Gregory said, his voice dropping an octave. "It seems your little side hobbies are distracting you from your duties as my wife."
Andrea's heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her face to remain a blank slate. She adjusted the cuffs of her silk blouse. "Don't forget our arrangement, Gregory. My personal time is my own."
Gregory's eyes darkened. The amusement vanished instantly. He lunged forward, moving faster than she could anticipate. His hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw. His grip was firm, unyielding, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.
"Listen to me," Gregory whispered, his face so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His gaze was a bottomless abyss of control. "In this family, you are a placeholder. And a placeholder does not get to have secrets."
Andrea's breath hitched. Her lungs felt squeezed. She reached up and slapped his hand away. The smack echoed loudly in the quiet car.
She straightened her collar, her fingers trembling slightly, though she prayed he didn't notice. "Keep your hands to yourself."
Gregory didn't respond. He just watched her, a predator studying its prey.
The Maybach slowed down, turning off the main road and crunching onto the private gravel driveway of the Morse family's Hamptons estate. Perfectly manicured hedges lined the path, leading up to a massive, imposing stone mansion that looked more like a fortress than a summer home.
The car stopped. The driver opened the door.
Maria, the head housekeeper, stood rigidly at the top of the stone steps. Her uniform was immaculate, her face pinched tight.
Gregory stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to Andrea. It was a performance for the staff. Andrea ignored his hand entirely. She stepped out of the car on her own, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.
Maria bowed deeply as Gregory approached. "Welcome home, Mr. Morse."
When Andrea walked past, Maria didn't bow. She barely offered a stiff nod, her eyes filled with thinly veiled disdain. Andrea felt the disrespect like a physical slap, but she kept her spine perfectly straight. She was used to this. To them, she was just the cheap imitation who somehow manipulated her way into the family.
Andrea walked into the grand foyer. The air inside was freezing, smelling of lemon polish and old money.
In the center of the massive living room, Genevra's younger sister, Kia Hunt, was standing in front of an antique mirror. She was adjusting a heavy diamond and emerald Van Cleef necklace against her collarbone.
Kia caught Andrea's reflection in the mirror. She let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and turned around.
"Oh, the cheap knockoff is here," Kia sneered, her eyes raking over Andrea's simple outfit. "I thought you only came around to dust my sister's portraits."
Gregory stepped into the room behind Andrea. He opened his mouth, but Andrea beat him to it.
She offered Kia a razor-sharp, perfectly polite smile. "I do handle the dust, Kia. Including the outdated, tacky jewelry you inherited."
Kia's face flushed a violent red. Her hand flew to her necklace. "Excuse me? You little-"
A low, dark chuckle interrupted her.
Gregory walked up beside Andrea. To her absolute shock, he didn't even look at her. He stepped past her, his shoulder brushing hers coldly.
"Don't provoke her, Andrea," Gregory said. His voice was casual, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. "Kia is a guest. You are just here because I allow it. Remember your manners."
Kia smirked triumphantly, shooting Andrea a look of pure venom, and walked up the grand staircase like she owned the place.
Andrea's chest tightened, a sharp pain shooting through her ribs. "You always take her side," she hissed under her breath.
Gregory stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Take her side? You're the substitute I tolerate. I expect you to act like Genevra, not a petulant child."
Before Andrea could formulate a response, a booming, furious voice echoed from the heavy oak doors of the study down the hall.
"Gregory!" Theodore Morse roared. "Bring your wife and get in here. Now."
Andrea's stomach plummeted. The real war was about to begin.
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7.3
I found out my husband of three years had cheated on me and his mistress is the one who told me-because he didn't have the balls to do it himself.
I move out and get a new apartment, a job as a bartender, and try to move on with a broken heart. I wonder where it all went wrong, if I hadn't been enough for him, if I'd been stupid for marrying him in the first place.
I'm at work one night when he walks inside-the most beautiful man I've ever seen. He sits at the bar and a forest fire burns between us. I was depressed the moment before he entered, but the second I look at his blue eyes, I forget the dumpster fire that my life has become. I invite him back to my place and it's the most passionate night of my life. I expect to never see him again.
I just want him as an anti-depressant-but he wants me all to himself. I just got my heart ripped out of my chest so I want something easy and no-strings-attached, but he wants all the strings because he's hooked.
I don't get much of a say in the matter, and that's not surprising when I learn why-because he's the Butcher. The crime lord of all crime lords, the boss that overshadows all of Paris, that makes everyone abide by his rules-or pay.
And now I'm his.
8.0
Elva used a spare key card to quietly enter the hotel penthouse, only to find her boyfriend of two years panting heavily on the king-sized bed with her own cousin.
Instead of showing remorse, her cousin shamelessly mocked her background, while her ex aggressively lunged at her to destroy the photographic evidence she had just captured.
"You think you can just walk away? Warren already made the deal. By next week, you're being shipped off to marry that fifty-two-year-old crippled freak from the Ramirez family!"
Her ex spat the words to threaten her, and the nightmare only escalated when Elva returned to her uncle's estate, where Warren confirmed he was indeed selling her off for a business connection.
Her family eagerly joined the abuse, threatening to permanently freeze her late mother's trust fund and even plotting to secretly drug her morning milk so she couldn't fight back when the groom's family arrived.
They looked at her like a pathetic, orphaned burden they could bleed dry, fully expecting her to drop to her knees, cry, and accept her miserable fate without a single word of defiance.
But they had no idea that just hours ago, Elva had already signed a marriage certificate with Bronson Ramirez, the undisputed billionaire king of the dynasty, and she was stepping into the living room ready to watch their greedy world burn.
8.7
Brought back from a humble life in Montana, Nora found out she was the true biological heiress of the ultra-wealthy Beaumont family.
But her biological parents didn't love her; they loved the fake daughter, Olivia, much more.
The moment she arrived, her father pushed an engagement termination agreement across his massive desk, forcing her to give up her wealthy fiancé so Olivia could have him.
Her mother looked at her with pure disdain.
"You should know your place. Don't reach for things that were never meant for you."
To break her spirit, they moved her into a cramped, dusty servant's room. They even ordered the butler to feed her cold kitchen scraps and gristle.
They wanted to humiliate her, to make her feel like a piece of trash rather than a daughter.
They expected her to cry, to beg, and to be absolutely crushed by the realization that her own flesh and blood saw her only as a liability to their reputation.
They thought the country girl would easily fold under their united front of cruelty.
But Nora felt no sting of betrayal, only the calculating clarity of a chess player.
She calmly signed the paper, pulled out the Beaumont family trust rules, and looked them dead in the eye.
"Since I am the legal heir, I demand what belongs to me. I'm taking the master bedroom."
9.3
Alyssa Gregory slept with Benton Steele, a recently disgraced and bankrupt heir, just to humiliate him.
She threw a massive check at his bare chest, treating the former prince of Wall Street like a cheap escort.
But Benton didn't take the charity.
Instead, he manipulated her anger, tricking her into signing an ironclad contract that surrendered absolute control of her entire trust fund to him.
When her abusive mother found out she had funded a penniless outcast, she slapped Alyssa across the face.
Her mother froze all her bank accounts, locked her inside her bedroom, and arranged to sell her off to a degenerate politician.
Desperate to escape, Alyssa climbed down her balcony, falling fifteen feet and shattering her ankle on the stones below.
Stripped of her money and freedom, she dragged her broken body to a VIP club just to publicly declare that Benton belonged to her.
She thought she was the boss, playing a rebellious game with a broken man.
But when Benton effortlessly carried her away from the club and locked her inside his rundown apartment, the terrifying calculation in his dark eyes shattered her illusion.
How could a man stripped of his entire empire still radiate such suffocating, violent power?
"You bought me," Benton whispered, his massive frame trapping her against the sofa. "That means I have to take care of you."
Physically trapped and completely broke, Alyssa stared into his consuming eyes, her mind racing to find a way to turn the tables.
8.7
Five years ago, I was the invisible scholarship charity case at an elite Manhattan prep school, trying to survive in a sea of trust-fund babies.
Arlo Hammond, the untouchable billionaire heir, made sure to completely dismantle my soul.
When his wealthy friends asked if he noticed me, his mocking laughter echoed down the hallway.
"Are you out of your mind? You seriously think I'd be interested in a boring little nerd like her?"
But the moment we were alone, he would corner me in dark alleys, pinning my wrists against brick walls with terrifying, possessive jealousy if my phone even buzzed. He played his twisted games until I was left standing in the rain with my shattered dignity.
Now, I am an Assistant District Attorney. I spent years burying those memories under mountains of legal files.
But tonight, he returned.
When we crossed paths at an exclusive club, he looked at me with the cool detachment he'd give a piece of furniture. In front of a crowd of elites, he coldly declared:
"We have absolutely nothing to do with each other anymore."
Then he walked away to pick up a supermodel, leaving me trembling from the sheer humiliation.
I didn't understand. If I was so worthless to him, why did he still have my birthday tattooed in dark ink on his wrist? Why did he look at me with such raw, painful vulnerability in the shadows?
I stared at my pale reflection in the mirror and made a silent vow.
I am not that pathetic seventeen-year-old anymore, and I will prove to him that I am completely, entirely over him.
7.2
Elmore Thomas rushed into the emergency room, clutching his feverish seven-year-old son, Buddy, tightly to his chest.
When the privacy curtain was pulled back, the air in Elmore's lungs vanished. The attending physician standing under the harsh lights was his wife, Kendal—the woman everyone believed had burned to death eight years ago.
But there was no tearful reunion. Kendal looked at him, and her eyes froze into impenetrable ice. She treated him like a biohazard, strictly referring to him as the family member.
Worse, she didn't recognize Buddy. She comforted their crying son with the same gentle warmth she used to reserve for Elmore, completely unaware she was soothing the baby she thought had died.
Days later, Elmore watched from the shadows as she picked up another boy outside a prep school, her left hand flashing a massive diamond engagement ring.
When his butler accidentally recognized her, Kendal shielded her new stepson with pure disgust in her eyes.
"Tell that psychopath to sign the divorce papers immediately. I have a new family now."
The words 'new family' echoed in Elmore's skull, tearing him apart. For eight years, he had lived in a hell of guilt and madness, raising their son in the shadow of her ghost. How could she just erase their past? How could she give her tender smiles to a stranger and look at him with absolute revulsion?
Standing in a luxury ballroom, Elmore squeezed his hand until his crystal champagne flute shattered, thick blood dripping onto the rug. The murderous obsession in his dark eyes returned as he called his lawyer.
"Freeze her divorce application. Use every dirty trick in the book. She isn't leaving."