Married To My Toxic Ex-Boyfriend's Brother
Eleanore thought her fiancé, Johan, was her only salvation after her family went bankrupt.
But at a high-society gala, he handed her a drugged glass of water. As the unnatural heat burned through her veins, the horrific truth hit her. Johan had isolated her and controlled her finances, all while secretly getting engaged to a wealthy heiress. He drugged Eleanore to ruin her completely, planning to lock her away as his helpless, secret mistress.
Desperate and losing her mind to the drug, Eleanore fled down the hallway. With Johan and his bodyguards hunting her, she stumbled into the dark presidential suite.
But she wasn't alone. Sitting on the leather sofa was Alexander Briggs—the most feared corporate raider on Wall Street, and Johan's exiled brother.
Outside the door, Johan was screaming, ready to drag her back to hell.
"I can be your antidote. But it's going to cost you."
The ruthless billionaire looked at her trembling body with cold calculation. He offered her a staggering deal: a three-month fake marriage to destroy Johan's empire, and in return, absolute protection and her father's massive debts paid in full.
She couldn't understand why the most powerful predator in New York would use a ruined girl as his weapon, but she knew she would rather die than let Johan touch her again.
When Johan finally broke down the door to claim his prey, Alexander calmly pulled Eleanore into his arms.
"Watch your mouth. You are speaking to my future wife."
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Chapter 6
The sound of shattering glass violently disrupted the quiet morning at the Conway Estate in Long Island.
Johan hurled a priceless Ming dynasty vase across his mahogany-paneled study. It exploded against the wall, sending sharp shards of porcelain flying across the Persian rug.
He stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving, his tie ripped open, and his eyes bloodshot. His phone lay on the desk, the screen glowing with the paparazzi photos from last night. Alexander Briggs, kissing Eleanore's forehead in the parking garage.
The heavy oak doors of the study swung open.
Percival Conway, the patriarch of the family, walked in. He leaned heavily on a gold-tipped cane, his face purple with suppressed rage.
Percival slammed his cane against the floor. "You pathetic fool! You made a spectacle of yourself at the Plaza! Over a bankrupt girl!"
Johan spun around, his hands balling into fists. "She is mine! Alexander has no right to touch her!"
At the mention of Alexander's name, a complex shadow of fear and deep-seated disgust crossed Percival's eyes.
"Alexander Briggs is a shark," Percival spat. "And you are acting like bleeding bait. You need to focus on Karlie Christensen. That marriage is the only thing keeping our stock prices from tanking."
Johan slammed his hands down on the desk, leaning forward. "I will marry Karlie. But I will not let Alexander take Eleanore. I'll kill him first."
Percival walked slowly toward his son. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a cruel, venomous whisper. "Do not forget what you are, Johan. You are a bastard. You sit in that chair because I put you there. Do not make me regret throwing the real heir out on the street."
Johan's entire body went rigid. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking sickly and hollow. The ghost of his illegitimacy-the twelve-year nightmare of being the fake son who stole the throne-clawed at his throat.
Johan let out a bitter, twisted laugh. "The real heir? He's nothing but a street dog playing dress-up on Wall Street."
The sharp click of heels interrupted them. Karlie Christensen walked into the study, holding a porcelain teacup. She wore a perfect, sympathetic smile, acting as if she hadn't just heard the most toxic family secret in New York.
"Johan, darling," Karlie cooed, offering him the tea. "You need to calm down. We can handle this."
Johan looked at her fake smile. All he could see was Eleanore's cold, disgusted eyes from the night before.
He violently slapped the cup out of Karlie's hand.
The hot tea splashed across Karlie's designer dress. She shrieked, jumping back, a flash of pure hatred crossing her eyes before she forced her face back into a mask of victimhood.
Percival shook his head in disgust. "If you cannot control your temper, the board will find someone who can." He turned and walked out of the room.
Johan stood by the window, his breathing ragged. He pulled out his phone and dialed his assistant.
"Cut all funding to the Chelsea Art Restoration program," Johan ordered, his voice shaking with malice. "Call every gallery in Manhattan. If anyone hires Eleanore Coffey, they are dead to Conway Group. I want her starved out."
He hung up the phone. A cruel smile touched his lips. She would come crawling back. She always did.
Suddenly, a loud, screeching crash echoed from the front gates of the estate.
Johan frowned and looked out the massive window overlooking the driveway.
Three black, armored Maybachs glided toward the security checkpoint. They didn't slow down. From the lead car, L. Thorne tapped a localized EMP override on his tablet. The Conway estate's multi-million-dollar security mainframe short-circuited in a fraction of a second. The heavy wrought-iron gates silently slid open, entirely paralyzed by the technological breach. The cars roared up the long, winding driveway without a single scratch to their pristine paint, tearing up the immaculate gravel, and slammed on their brakes right in front of the central fountain.
Conway security guards rushed out, pulling their weapons, but they froze when they saw the license plates.
The door of the lead Maybach opened.
Alexander Briggs stepped out. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that fit his massive frame perfectly. He didn't look at the guards with guns. He didn't look at the house.
He slowly looked up, his dark eyes locking onto the second-floor window. He stared directly into Johan's eyes through the glass.
Alexander raised his left hand to adjust his tie. The morning sun caught the thick, platinum wedding band on his ring finger, flashing a blinding beam of light directly toward the window.
Alexander's lips curved into a cold, mocking smirk. He had come home.
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8.0
Abigayle was the proud heir to the Pena Group, living a perfect life and engaged to Jeffery Sullivan.
But the morning after a charity gala, she woke up drugged in a hotel room, blinded by paparazzi cameras. Her fiancé and her best friend stood at the foot of the bed, throwing a forged pregnancy report at her face to publicly frame her for cheating.
The betrayal was only the beginning of the slaughter. Before she could even clear her name, the Sullivan family ruthlessly bankrupted her family's company overnight. Her father was rushed to the ICU with a heart attack, her brother was run off the road into a coma, and violent repo men raided her penthouse. Just as she was thrown out into the freezing rain, Jeffery's terrifying uncle, Donovan Sullivan—the very mastermind who engineered her family's ruin—stepped in. He offered to cover the life-saving medical bills, but only if she agreed to become his personal plaything.
Abigayle's blood turned to ice. She couldn't understand how the people she trusted most could plot such a vicious, coordinated destruction just to break an engagement. How dared the man who destroyed her entire family stand there playing the savior, trying to buy her body with her own stolen wealth?
Facing a $100,000 hospital deadline and abandoned by everyone she knew, she didn't shed another tear.
"I will never beg him."
Clutching her last diamond bracelet, she hailed a cab straight to the biggest pawnshop in the Diamond District. The Sullivans thought they had buried her, but her counterattack was just beginning.
7.2
For three years, I was imprisoned by Anderson Hopper, the monster who forced me to watch my fiancé, Kendall, plummet into a freezing river.
But when I saw the morning news, I realized Kendall wasn't dead. He had returned as Eben Gill, a ruthless tech billionaire.
I risked my life to escape and find him, only to be met with eyes full of absolute hatred.
He publicly humiliated me, dragged me to the exact bridge where he "died," and sneered at the C-section scar on my stomach.
"Anderson Hopper's bastard," he spat, completely unaware that the baby was actually his—the very child Anderson had murdered in the operating room to break me.
To make matters worse, Anderson used Kendall's dying mother as a hostage to force me back into my cage.
I knelt on the freezing asphalt, begging the man I loved to just visit his mother, while he coldly ordered his driver to run me over.
I had lost my baby, my freedom, and my dignity, all to protect him from Anderson's blackmail. Why was I the one being tortured and treated like a traitor?
"Don't think your little kneeling stunt earned you my forgiveness."
He whispered those cruel words before walking away without looking back.
Staring at his cold, retreating figure, the last shred of my love finally turned to ash.
That night, under the cover of a torrential storm, I bypassed the estate's laser grids and walked out into the dark.
9.4
Six years ago, Breanna was shoved into a pitch-black hotel suite by her own uncle.
She was forced to endure a brutal night with a drugged stranger just to keep her grandmother's ventilator running.
Nine months later, she gave birth in a cold underground clinic.
But her uncle immediately snatched the crying newborn from her trembling hands, coldly announcing the baby had died.
For six years, Breanna lived in agonizing grief, working as a lowly hotel cleaner just to survive.
But a cruel setup threw her directly into the path of Elliot Finch, the arrogant billionaire from that dark night.
He did not recognize the woman whose life he had completely ruined.
Instead, he looked at her like she was rotting garbage, had his guards drag her into a wet alley, and mercilessly got her fired.
"If I ever see your face again, I will make sure you cannot get a job cleaning toilets."
Breanna was suffocating from the injustice, stripped of her dignity and her family's only lifeline.
Yet, when she instinctively protected a traumatized little boy from bullies, she discovered he was Elliot's son.
The boy clung to her neck, crying and desperately begging his father to let her stay.
But Elliot just threw a massive check at her chest, violently accusing her of brainwashing a sick child for a meal ticket.
Looking at the toxic disgust in his eyes, something inside Breanna finally broke.
She picked up the check, ripped the millions into tiny shreds, and let them rain down on his expensive shoes.
"Keep your dirty money."
She turned her back on the crying boy and the stunned billionaire, deciding she would no longer be their victim.
8.8
On the eve of my glamorous Waldorf Astoria wedding, I went to the penthouse to surprise my fiancé, Hugh, wearing my late mother's heirloom pearls.
Instead, I heard my stepsister's familiar laugh and caught them tangled together on the sofa.
Through the cracked door, I heard Hugh slur that he was only marrying me for my family's financial backing.
"As soon as I secure my inheritance, she's the first thing I'm getting rid of," he promised her.
Floy giggled and asked for my mother's pearl necklace, my only legacy. Hugh agreed without hesitation, mocking my dead mother's naivety and my desperate dreams of building a family.
Every sweet word he had ever said was a lie, a knife he had been patiently sliding between my ribs for years. They planned to strip me of everything the moment I signed the prenup.
I didn't cry or scream. The crushing weight of their betrayal hollowed me out, leaving behind a terrifying, absolute calm.
Why should I be the one to lose everything while they stole my future and insulted my mother's memory?
I calmly walked down the hall, set the prenuptial agreement on fire, and vanished into the rainy night.
If Hugh wanted to play dirty for the Maxwell empire, I would play for keeps.
Using a forgotten, century-old family covenant, I was going to marry Hugh's uncle-the comatose, paralyzed war hero, Fleet Maxwell.
I would return not as a naive bride, but as their worst nightmare: his aunt, and the new lady of the house.
7.9
Eileen Goff was a nobody, scrubbing diner tables to survive while her greedy family bled her dry.
On the eve of her twentieth birthday, the government's mandatory marriage algorithm matched her with a spouse.
It wasn't a plumber or a teacher. It was Harrison Butler, the ruthless, untouchable billionaire king of Butler Industries.
At the registry, Harrison's glamorous intended fiancée threw a half-million-dollar check at her.
"Take the money, get out of here, and never show your face again."
The registry supervisor even offered her a million dollars to sign a cancellation agreement, trying to erase her from the system.
At their first high-society gala, Harrison's stepmother and the fiancée locked Eileen in an empty room, plotting to humiliate her and prove she was just cheap trash.
Eileen was terrified and confused. Men like Harrison Butler didn't just accept federal matches with girls who smelled like fried onions.
But instead of abandoning her, Harrison smashed the door open, publicly banished his own family, and kissed her in front of the entire city's elite.
Why was this billionaire going to such extreme lengths to protect a complete stranger?
Then she overheard his assistant talking about a marriage clause in his grandfather's trust fund.
He didn't love her; he just needed a powerless, state-mandated wife to lock his parasitic family out of his empire.
Realizing she was a highly valuable pawn, Eileen stopped trembling, looked the billionaire in the eye, and spoke.
"I believe we can have more than just a legal relationship. We can have a business arrangement."
7.0
I was the Stanton family heiress, engaged to the President's son to secure a vital military alliance.
But he cornered me in the White House sitting room, slamming a thick manila folder onto the marble table.
"I said, sign the annulment agreement, Hester."
He looked at me like I was dirt, demanding I step aside so he could be with a manipulative intern named Tricia.
In my past life, I was a naive lamb. I cried and begged him not to end it. My devotion was rewarded with absolute cruelty. He ordered my bones broken and my reputation completely shredded. My trusted assistant forced poison down my throat, and I was left to die with a rope burning my neck.
Until my last breath, I didn't understand. I had done everything perfectly for the family. Why did my unwavering loyalty only bring me a gruesome death? Why did the monsters who tortured me get to live happily in the highest seats of power?
Opening my eyes again, the suffocating terror of the noose suddenly washed away. I was sixteen again, staring at the exact same annulment papers.
"Hester, please. Just let us be happy," Tricia whimpered, reaching out her trembling hand.
This time, I didn't cry. I picked up the solid gold fountain pen, stabbed it violently through the center of the contract, and prepared to drag the entire First Family straight to hell.