Jilted By Prince, Claimed By King
It was the night of the Winter Chalet Gala, the most prestigious event of the year and the night my life was officially supposed to begin. I was the perfect socialite, a Senator’s golden daughter, and the fiancée of Prince Clement.
Then my sister, Bailee, handed me a glass of champagne with a sweet, innocent smile.
"Just a sip for luck, big sister."
Within minutes, my blood turned into liquid fire. In my past life, I didn't realize that "luck" was a drug designed to strip me of my dignity. I had stumbled into a hallway where a planted stranger waited for the paparazzi to catch us. The scandal was the first nail in my coffin. My family disowned me, my fiancé abandoned me for my sister, and I eventually ended the nightmare by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge.
I died in the freezing bay, realizing too late that my sister’s love was a death sentence and my parents had already replaced me. The betrayal felt like swallowing broken glass, a pain more suffocating than the salt water that eventually claimed my lungs.
Why did the people I loved want me dismantled? Why was my suicide their only version of mercy?
Opening my eyes again, I was back on that snowy balcony three years ago. The iridescent pearl manicure was back on my fingers, and the drug was already screaming in my veins. But I won't be the carcass for the vultures this time. I kicked off my heels and climbed the stone railing, looking toward the forbidden Royal Wing.
I’m not going back to the trap. I’m going to the only man powerful enough to burn them all: King Ignatius Fisher.
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Chapter 2
The impact jarred her teeth.
Edris landed on the Royal Wing's terrace, her knees hitting the stone hard. Pain shot up her shins, sharp and bright, momentarily cutting through the chemical haze of the drug. She bit back a cry, forcing the sound into a shallow whimper.
She rolled instantly, pressing her body into the shadows cast by a large stone planter. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, the rhythm frantic and uneven.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Boots on stone. Heavy. Disciplined.
Through the gaps in the decorative railing, she saw the silhouette of a Royal Guard passing the interior window. He paused, adjusting his rifle, his gaze sweeping the snowy expanse of the garden below. He didn't look at the terrace floor.
Edris held her breath until her lungs burned. The guard moved on.
She tried to stand, but her legs were water. The heat in her body was intensifying, turning her blood into molten lead. The snow beneath her bare feet was melting, creating a puddle of freezing slush, but she barely felt the cold anymore. All she felt was the agonizing, clawing need to peel off her skin.
She dragged herself toward the French doors. The handle was cold brass. Locked? No. It turned with a silent, well-oiled glide.
She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her and engaging the lock.
The silence of the room was heavy, smelling of cedarwood, expensive scotch, and the distinct, metallic scent of ozone. It was a masculine scent, overpowering and intoxicating.
Edris leaned back against the door, her legs finally giving out. She slid down to the floor, the silk of her dress pooling around her. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in a massive stone fireplace across the vast living area.
She needed water. She needed ice. She needed to stop the fire consuming her from the inside out.
Her fingers fumbled with the neckline of her dress. The fabric felt abrasive, like sandpaper against raw nerves. She tugged at it, a small sob escaping her throat.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your head."
The voice came from the shadows-low, textured like gravel grinding over velvet. It wasn't a question; it was a death sentence delivered with bored indifference.
Edris froze. She felt the cold circle of steel press against the base of her skull before she even processed the movement.
She knew that voice. It was the voice that commanded armies. The voice that had declared war and signed peace treaties with the same impassive tone.
King Ignatius Fisher.
In her past life, she had only seen him from afar-a distant, terrifying figure of absolute authority. Now, he was inches away, holding her life in his hands.
Fear should have paralyzed her. But the drug twisted the fear, braiding it with the frantic, chemical need for touch. The cold metal of the gun barrel wasn't a threat; it was a sensation. And right now, sensation was the only thing keeping her anchored.
She didn't beg. She didn't freeze.
Edris turned.
It was a reckless, insane move. The gun barrel skidded off her skull as she spun around, throwing her weight forward. She collided with a wall of solid muscle.
Ignatius didn't stumble. He was like a statue, immovable and hard.
Edris's hands flew up, seeking purchase, landing on the crisp cotton of a dress shirt. Beneath it, she felt the heat of his body, the steady, slow beat of his heart. It was a stark contrast to her own frantic pulse.
She buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him. It was overwhelming. It was safety.
"Get off," he growled, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into her cheek. His hand came up, gripping her shoulder with bruising force, preparing to shove her away.
Edris looked up. Her hair was a wild curtain around her face, her lipstick smudged, her eyes swimming with a desperate, drugged haze.
"Help me," she whispered. Her voice was wrecked, a rasp of sandpaper.
The grip on her shoulder tightened, but he didn't push. Not yet.
In the dim light of the fireplace, she saw his eyes. They were gold-predatory, cold, and utterly devoid of mercy. But as they locked onto hers, something flickered in their depths. Not pity. Recognition.
He recognized the look of a trapped animal.
"You're drugged," he stated, his tone clinical. He didn't lower the gun, but he shifted his stance, his body tense, ready to snap her neck or catch her, she couldn't tell which.
Edris stood on her tiptoes, her bare feet numb on the plush carpet. She pressed closer, seeking the friction, seeking the coldness of him to douse her heat.
"Please," she breathed, her lips brushing the rough stubble of his jaw. "I'm burning."
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8.4
To keep her grandmother on life support, Aracely was blackmailed into taking Evelyn's place in the pitch-black bedroom of the ruthless billionaire, Brennen Levine.
After that night, Evelyn tossed a hideous silicone scar at her feet, forcing Aracely to glue it to her face and work as a bottom-tier maid in his estate so he would never recognize her.
Brennen, suffering from chronic insomnia, was completely addicted to the sweet gardenia scent of the woman from the dark. But when he saw the "disfigured" Aracely scrubbing floors, he was physically repulsed, publicly humiliating her and calling her a monster.
Meanwhile, Evelyn paraded around as his soon-to-be wife. Terrified of her lies unraveling, Evelyn constantly abused Aracely, throwing scalding coffee at her face and threatening to pull the plug on her grandmother if Aracely didn't sneak back into Brennen's room to act as his human sleeping pill.
Aracely endured the suffocating fake scar, the insults, and the freezing servant quarters. She ground her teeth, swallowing the bitter injustice just to keep her only family alive, wondering when this torturous hell would ever end.
But Evelyn's malice knew no bounds. When Evelyn raised her hand to strike again, threatening to rip off the very disguise she forced Aracely to wear, something inside Aracely finally snapped.
"Do not push me."
Aracely locked her hand around Evelyn's wrist in a bone-crushing grip, completely unaware that Brennen was watching from the balcony above, his dark eyes narrowing as a dangerous realization hit him.
7.8
I was three million dollars in debt, forced by my agent to star in a reality show as the brainless gold-digger who married a decrepit billionaire.
But right before the live broadcast, as I touched the tacky neon dress I was supposed to wear, a violent vision struck my brain.
I realized my entire life was a script, and I was just a villainous side character designed to make America's Sweetheart look like a saint.
My agent was secretly taking payouts from her PR firm to deliberately ruin my reputation with endless hate traffic.
If I followed his orders today, I would be torn apart by the internet, lose every contract, and eventually die alone in a cheap motel.
I couldn't accept that my every fake smile and stupid decision had been manipulated to destroy me just to elevate someone else.
Why should I let them sell me out and turn my life into a complete joke?
Looking at the ugly pink dress, I threw it straight into the trash.
"You are fired, and my lawyers will be in touch about your offshore accounts."
I poured a glass of freezing water over my head to wash away the heavy makeup and the helpless persona I had worn for years.
I kicked out my backstabbing agent, put on a pair of plain black leggings, and walked out to face the live cameras.
To hell with the script. Today, I was going to expose this fake PR marriage myself.
9.1
He postponed putting my name on the deed 18 times.
Each time, his mentee Ciera had an “emergency.” Each time, he ran to her.
I watched him give her his prized Montblanc pen—the one he wouldn’t even let me borrow. I saw her post their late nights on Instagram. I ate anniversary dinners alone while he “mentored” her.
Then he bought me a necklace—identical to the one she just flaunted online.
That was when I stopped feeling anything.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight. I simply packed two suitcases, resigned from our firm, and booked a one-way ticket to London.
He thinks I’m coming back in a week.
He has no idea I’m gone for good.
Nineteen broken promises. One silent goodbye. And a new life waiting across the ocean.
7.3
The sound of loud slapping windows jolted her from her sleep. She carefully got down from the bed, walking towards the window to shut it closed.
She froze instantly, turning cold with fear at the familiar figure standing right outside her window.
She staggered backwards. "No," she shook her head in disbelief, but that didn't stop him from jumping through her window.
She ran for the door, desperately trying to unlock it, but it wasn't even budging. Her heart raced in her chest, her palms clammy, and then she felt his large presence behind her, slamming his hand on the door right beside her head.
She slowly turned to find those cold gray eyes staring at her.
She trembled. "H-how did you f-find me?"
A sinister smirk suddenly appeared on his lips, his eyes shining with an evil glint.
"Didn't I tell you, Lilian? You run, I chase."
His hand shot to her throat, his thumb caressing it gently, and then he covered the distance between them, leaning in for his hot breath to fan her neck.
His hand held her small waist, pulling her impossibly closer to himself.
"Now you must be punished, princess."
In a bid to escape her cold husband and her cruel family, Lilian finds herself in an even more dangerous situation that either mends or breaks her.
7.6
I was the ultimate trophy wife, a polished ornament in Francisco Zimmerman’s billionaire empire. For three years, I perfected the "Zimmerman Wife Smile," playing the role of the devoted partner while smoothing the Egyptian cotton of his shirts.
The illusion shattered when I stood outside his study and heard him laughing with his mistress, Annalise.
"She’s just a vase that only knows how to smile," Francisco’s voice was cold, devoid of any warmth. "As long as I pay the maintenance fees on time, she stays obedient."
I walked out that night with nothing but a canvas bag and the clothes on my back. But Francisco wasn't finished with his "asset." He froze my bank accounts and used his massive influence to blacklist me from every interior design firm in New York. He tracked my phone, watching me struggle from the shadows, waiting for me to starve so I would crawl back to his mansion.
He even showed up at the dive bar where I was playing piano for rent money, mocking my desperation.
"You have technique, but no heart," he sneered, tossing a silver coin into my tip jar as if I were a beggar. "You're hollow, Iris. Just like your pride."
I couldn't believe this was the same man whose life I had saved during a bloody night in Macau. To him, I wasn't a wife; I was a stock price that needed stabilizing. The more I fought for my independence, the tighter he pulled the net, determined to break my spirit until I had no choice but to return to his gilded cage.
Then, the morning sickness hit. I realized I wasn't just carrying my own life anymore—I was carrying his heir. If Francisco found out, he would never let us go; he would turn my child into another "performance bonus" for his brand.
Looking at the sonogram, I knew a divorce would never be enough to escape a man who thought he owned the world.
"I'm not going back," I whispered, staring at his yacht moored in the harbor. "To save this baby, Iris Potter has to die."
7.3
Tonight was supposed to be the night I became the happiest woman in D.C., celebrating my engagement at the legendary Bolton Manor gala. I wore emerald silk and a diamond that cost more than most mansions, convinced that Hank Bolton was my soulmate and the key to my family's future.
But behind the heavy oak doors of the guest wing, the dream died. I found my fiancé tangled with another woman, laughing about how I was nothing more than a "clueless cash cow" whose inheritance would fund his run for the Senate.
In my first life, I reacted with tears and screams, which only allowed his family to paint me as an unstable lunatic. They stripped me of my dignity, bankrupted the Adams estate, and watched coldly as my brother, Lucas, died in a ditch trying to save me. I ended up gasping for air in a burning building, realizing too late that my perfect engagement was actually my execution.
I died in the soot and the shadows, feeling the searing heat of a betrayal that burned worse than the fire. I lost everything because I was too blind to see the monsters hiding behind expensive smiles.
But then, I suddenly gasped for air and realized the smoke was gone. I was standing in front of a vanity, the calendar mocking me: October 14th. The night of the gala. I had been given a second chance, and this time, I wasn't going to be the victim.
I recorded the betrayal on my phone and walked into the library with a heart made of ice. I didn't just blow up the engagement; I demanded a new groom—Hank’s "invalid" older brother, Dereck, a man the world had written off as a dying recluse.
"I'll take him," I told the stunned family. I wanted a husband who couldn't cheat, a puppet who would leave me a wealthy widow within a year.
I thought I was choosing a safe, broken man to shield me from my enemies. I didn't know that under his blanket, Dereck was hiding a holster, or that the "dying" man was actually a predator who had been waiting for someone exactly like me to walk into his trap.