Jilted Heiress: Seducing My Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle
I stood in the center of the Pierre Hotel’s grand ballroom, a mute, smiling doll in a Dior dress. My job was to signal stability to investors while my fiancé, Clive Fitzpatrick, looked for any excuse to ignore me.
The night of our engagement, the world turned into a different kind of hell. I watched Clive disappear onto the terrace with another woman, his hand possessively on her waist. Distraught and drunk, I stumbled into a dark penthouse suite seeking sanctuary. I woke up the next morning to a gravelly voice and the smell of expensive tobacco. I hadn't slept with my fiancé; I had accidentally spent the night with his uncle, Bruno Fitzpatrick—the man Wall Street called the "executioner."
The humiliation was only the beginning. Clive didn't just cheat; he admitted he was only marrying me to steal my family's voting rights so I could "rot" in an apartment while he lived with his mistress. When I tried to protest, my adoptive mother, Claudia, dragged me into a private room and whipped me with a riding crop to remind me of my place. She held up a video of my frail, sick sister, Lucia, making it clear that my total obedience was the only thing keeping Lucia alive. I was a business asset to be traded, used, and beaten into submission.
I couldn't understand why everyone I was supposed to trust was so eager to destroy me. Was I really just a mannequin to be discarded once the merger papers were signed? The marks on my back burned, but the ice in my veins was colder. I was done being the victim of a mediocre man and a heartless mother.
Then Bruno offered me a way out. At the family dinner, right in front of my cheating fiancé, he proposed a lethal bet: if I could raise the company’s stock by ten percent in thirty days, he would give me his board veto—the ultimate power to crush Clive and Claudia forever. If I failed, I would owe him any favor he asked. I looked at the man who had ruined me and the man who wanted to own me, and I realized I had nothing left to lose. I wasn't going to be a doll anymore; I was going to be the one who burned the house down.
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Chapter 6
Ivy's hands were shaking as she applied her lipstick.
She stared at her reflection. Gaslighting. That's what she had just done. She had taken the truth, twisted it into a pretzel, and shoved it down Clive's throat until he choked on it.
It felt… intoxicating.
She had spent six months being the victim. Taking the insults. Taking the emotional abuse. Agreeing that she was boring, that she was lucky to be a Wallace, lucky to be chosen by a Fitzpatrick.
Today, she had fought back.
She grabbed her purse. She checked the mirror one last time. Ivy had chosen the blue dress deliberately. It was the color of obedience, the dress of a dutiful fiancée. It was a perfect camouflage for the predator she was becoming, a way to lower their guard before she struck.
She walked out of the apartment.
Clive was waiting in the car downstairs. The limo driver held the door open.
Clive didn't look up from his phone when she got in.
"Did you throw it away?" he asked.
"Yes," Ivy lied.
"Good."
He finally looked at her. His eyes swept over the blue dress.
"Better. You look like a lady now. Not like that cheap mess you were last night."
Ivy didn't bite. She just smiled. A small, tight smile.
"Where's Catrina?" Ivy asked.
"She's meeting us there. She took her own car."
Ivy nodded. She turned to look out the window.
The city rolled by. Ivy's mind was racing.
Bruno hadn't just left the jacket to test her. He had left it to arm her. He knew Clive wouldn't recognize the custom tailoring-Clive bought off the rack from Armani, thinking the label meant class. Bruno wore bespoke.
The jacket was a physical object of chaos. And Bruno was the god of chaos.
Her phone buzzed in her purse.
She glanced down. It was a notification from her bank app.
A deposit. $50,000.
The sender was anonymous.
Ivy frowned. She opened the message attached to the transfer.
"Consulting fee. For the entertainment."
Ivy felt her face heat up. He was paying her. The initial sting of shame was sharp, a branding iron of humiliation searing her pride. It felt like being paid for a service, a transaction that reduced her to a commodity. But then, a colder, harder emotion pushed through the shame. Anger. If he saw her as an asset, a consultant in his game of chaos, then she would be the most expensive one he'd ever hired. This wasn't a whore's payment. It was seed money.
She typed a reply to the unknown number.
I don't want your money.
Reply: Then donate it. Or buy a new dress. That blue one is tragic.
Ivy almost laughed. A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in her throat. He was insulting her while paying her while saving her while ruining her.
She looked at Clive. He was texting Catrina. She could see the reflection in the window. "Can't wait for tonight, baby."
Ivy gripped her phone.
She transferred the $50,000 to an anonymous trust she'd established through a series of offshore shell corporations-a ghost in the financial system named after a forgotten childhood street.
It was her escape fund. Her war chest.
She looked back at the window.
Game on, Bruno.
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9.2
I realized my husband did not love me the moment he stepped over my broken heart to answer a text from his mistress.
Caleb was the "Architect," a feared Capo in New York, but he forgot that I was the one who funded his rise from the gutter with my inheritance.
He brought his assistant, Kimberly, into our private penthouse. She wore my silk robe, mocked my past trauma, and snapped my dead mother’s rosary right in front of my eyes.
When I lashed out in grief, Caleb didn't defend me.
He pinned me against the wall, comforting her while calling me "unstable" and "violent."
He gaslighted me, claiming I would be eaten alive without his protection. He thought I was just a fragile princess who would crumble without him.
He truly believed he was the king, forgetting that I was the one who built the castle.
I didn't cry. I simply wiped the blood from my arm and walked out the door.
He didn't know that I owned thirty percent of his laundering front and the land beneath his precious casino.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number of his deadliest rival, the Irish mob.
"The bank is closed, Caleb. I’m selling my shares to the enemy."
7.1
They ruined her face. Stole her child. Now she's back-and nothing will stop her.
Five years ago, Raina Carrington lost everything: her beauty, her family, and her newborn baby.
Now she's returned-unrecognizable, unbreakable, and with one goal in mind: to find her son and make them pay. But revenge is never simple, especially when it draws the attention of Leif Vexley-the most powerful and dangerous man in the city-who just might hold the key to her child's past.
Yet she's not the victim anymore.
She's the storm-and she's ready to strike.
7.8
She lost everything that day;
Her three years of marriage,
Her best friend's trust,
And her two weeks old baby.
...
"I want a divorce. I'm not in this marriage anymore." His voice dropped, as he moved closer.
'Divorce?' My world tilted.
"Yes, my lawyer will send you the papers to sign."
"No," I whispered, broken. "You can't be serious. Don't tell me you believed that lying bitch? This can't be happening. Not now. How could you bring this up today? We just buried my Papa a few hours ago, Lucian!" My voice was barely a whisper, alien even to my own ears, like my whole world was just, falling apart right there and then.
...
The price of Lyra Jones's love was everything.
She sacrificed her burgeoning career to become a devoted full-time housewife, only for her three-years marriage to Lucian White Jr. to explode in spectacular fashion.
On the very day of her father's funeral, a betrayal of shattering cruelty occurred: her childhood best friend, Aryan, delivered a fatal lie that cost Lyra her husband, her reputation, and tragically, her week-old pregnancy. Abandoned and utterly broken, Lyra fled.
Now she is back. Five years have passed, and Lyra has claimed her crown as the multibillion dollar CEO and Heiress of the Jones corporation.
She didn't return for closure; she returned for retribution. And she will not rest until Lucian is stripped of his empire and Aryan is exposed to the world.
They thought they buried the wife. Now, can they survive the CEO?
Start reading now to witness the most ruthless corporate revenge of the year.
8.8
I spent three years hating Damien Castillo, the ruthless mafia Don who kidnapped me from my engagement party and ruined my reputation.
But in the end, it was my perfect fiancé, Julian, and my sweet half-sister, Sophia, who slipped the deadly poison into my wine.
As the venom burned through my veins in that freezing cellar, I watched Julian smile. He and Sophia had orchestrated my brutal death. She had been sleeping in his bed all along, intentionally miscarrying his bastard child just to frame me as 'impure' and strip me of my family's protection. My own father used me as a political pawn, letting them throw me away like garbage.
And Damien? The monster I had fought and despised for years marched straight into a suicide ambush for me. He was riddled with bullets, turning his body into a human shield just to buy me a few more seconds of life.
"Touch her and you die."
I died in that blood-soaked basement, clutching his lifeless body, suffocating on my own blind trust. Why did I ever believe the golden boy who betrayed me? Why did I fight the only man who truly loved me?
Opening my eyes again, the stench of copper and mold was gone, replaced by the scent of Cuban cigars and black silk.
I was back in 1928, on the exact night Damien stormed my engagement party and locked me in his penthouse.
This time, when the ruthless Don approached me, I didn't scream or run back to my killers. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him.
9.0
I died on the cold delivery table, bleeding out while the heart monitor flatlined.
Through the blinding surgical lights, I heard my husband Damon's cold, final order to the doctors.
"The child is the priority."
He didn't care about my life. To him, I was just a vessel to produce an heir, a tool to fulfill his prenuptial clause and secure his billionaire empire.
While I took my last agonizing breath, he was already planning his future with his fragile, theatrical mistress, Jasmin.
In my past life, when he first brought her into our home claiming she was a helpless victim, I shattered.
I screamed, threw vases, and played the hysterical wife perfectly.
My desperate pleas for his affection only gave him the exact weapons he needed to ruin my reputation, isolate me, and ultimately force me onto that fatal delivery bed.
Until my very last moment, the suffocating pain in my chest wasn't just physical.
I couldn't understand how the man I loved could treat my death like a simple business transaction.
Why was my absolute devotion rewarded with a carefully calculated execution?
But then, my eyes snapped open.
I was sitting on the edge of my king-sized bed, exactly three years before my death.
From downstairs, I heard Damon's voice echoing in the foyer, bringing Jasmin into our home for the very first time.
This time, the scream building in my chest turned to ice.
I didn't cry or throw a fit.
Instead, I calmly swallowed a secret birth control pill, smiled at his mistress, and dialed the most ruthless divorce lawyer in Manhattan.
7.1
To survive a forced one-year marriage contract with the ultra-wealthy Chavez family, Averi Marsh disguised herself as a pathetic, ugly duckling.
She caked her flawless skin in muddy yellow foundation, wore thick glasses, and played the part of a trembling, uneducated orphan.
The entire family treated her like literal garbage.
The youngest brother publicly swore he would rather cut off his own hand than marry a piece of trailer park trash.
Her nominal fiancé, Clarke, looked at her with cold disdain, allowing his glamorous companion to humiliate Averi by forcing her into a neon pink clown dress.
At a high-society party, a socialite shoved her into an infinity pool, laughing as the heavy fabric dragged her to the bottom.
They all wanted to see the poor girl broken, humiliated, and driven out of their pristine world.
What they didn't know was that beneath the hideous sweaters was a breathtaking, lethal predator.
They had no idea she was 'Spectre', the undefeated underground racing god who had just humiliated the arrogant Clarke on the track.
They didn't know she could shatter a bully's wrist in seconds or bankrupt their wealthy friends with a single text message.
But when the chlorinated pool water washed away her ugly makeup, the family's ambitious second son caught a glimpse of her true, flawless face.
The game of hide-and-seek was officially over.
The Chavez family thought they were torturing a helpless sheep, but they were about to realize they had locked themselves in a cage with a wolf.