Marrying My Cheating Ex's Billionaire Boss
Alena landed at JFK, eager to call her fiancé of three years.
But a sudden message from her best friend shattered her world: a high-resolution photo of Darrin passionately kissing another woman. The woman was Katrina, her older sister.
Alena rushed to the grand ballroom and confronted them in front of New York's elite. Instead of an apology, her own mother slapped her across the face.
"You jealous, spiteful girl. Trying to ruin your sister's happiness because you can't handle your own failures."
Darrin coldly wrapped a protective arm around Katrina. The nightmare worsened when they ambushed Alena at her apartment, demanding she sign an NDA to cover up the affair and save their family's failing business. If she refused, her father threatened to tell her frail grandfather the truth, knowing the shock would trigger a fatal heart attack.
Alena was suffocated by the sheer magnitude of the betrayal. Her family was weaponizing the only person who truly loved her, treating her like a disposable pawn to protect the sister who stole her life. How could her own flesh and blood be so sickeningly cruel?
Cornered and entirely out of options, Alena pulled a matte-black business card from her pocket.
It belonged to Andrew Spencer, the ruthless billionaire who had rescued her from the freezing rain, and the apex predator Darrin feared most. He had offered her a transactional marriage. If her family wanted to destroy her, she would become their worst nightmare. She picked up her phone and dialed his number.
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Chapter 6
Alena burst through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. The sharp morning air hit her face, making her shiver violently. She flagged down a yellow cab, throwing her Brooklyn address at the driver before slamming the door shut.
She sank into the cracked leather seat and immediately plugged her dead phone into her portable charger.
The second the Apple logo disappeared, the screen exploded with notifications. Thirty missed calls. Fifty text messages. All from her mother, her father, and Darrin.
She ignored every single one of them. Her fingers shook as she opened the Safari browser and typed Andrew Spencer into the search bar.
The page loaded. There were no gossip columns. No Instagram accounts. In fact, there was almost nothing concrete at all. For a man who exuded such overwhelming wealth and power, his digital footprint was practically nonexistent. There were only a few vague, buried mentions in old financial forums, referring to an elusive, high-level investor operating behind the scenes of the main Spencer family.
Alena frowned, scrolling frantically through dead-end links and empty corporate directories. She couldn't find a single clear photograph or a definitive title. But then, a chilling memory surfaced. Darrin used to brag, drunk on his own ambition, about a mysterious, untouchable uncle in the main branch of the Spencer family-a ruthless predator who operated entirely in the shadows, the true "Ghost of Wall Street." Darrin had spent his entire life trying to earn just a five-minute meeting with him.
A wave of pure nausea washed over her. Could this be him? The man who had picked her up out of the mud, the man who had just demanded she marry him... could he be the very apex predator Darrin was terrified of? The sheer possibility made her head spin.
She dropped the phone onto the seat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Why? she thought, panic tightening her throat. Is he using me to punish Darrin's side of the family? Am I just a pawn in some billionaire's sick corporate war?
"Miss, we're here," the driver grunted.
Alena jumped. She looked out the window at her familiar Brooklyn apartment building. She handed the driver a twenty, pulled Andrew's coat tight around her chest, and practically ran to the entrance.
The doorman gave her a concerned look as she hurried past, but she just kept her head down.
She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 15th floor. As the numbers ticked up, she tried to force her breathing to slow down. This apartment was the only thing she owned. It was her safe place.
The doors opened. Alena pulled her keys from her purse and walked down the quiet hallway.
She turned the final corner and stopped dead in her tracks.
The motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the two people standing directly in front of her door.
Darrin and Katrina.
Darrin was still wearing his tailored suit from the engagement party, his tie ripped open, his hair a mess. Katrina stood next to him, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, tapping her foot impatiently.
The sight of them made Alena's blood boil. The fear from the cab vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, white-hot rage. She gripped her keys so tight the metal bit into her palm.
Darrin heard her footsteps and snapped his head up. His eyes immediately dropped to the oversized, expensive men's coat draped over her shoulders.
His face contorted with ugly, possessive jealousy. He closed the distance between them in three massive strides and grabbed her wrist.
"Where the hell have you been?" Darrin snarled, his grip bruising her skin. "Whose bed did you crawl out of?"
Alena stared at him. The sheer audacity of his words actually made her laugh.
She ripped her arm out of his grasp. Without a second of hesitation, she swung her hand and slapped him across the face with everything she had.
The crack echoed loudly down the empty hallway. Darrin's head snapped to the side. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his red cheek, his eyes wide with shock.
Katrina shrieked. She rushed forward and grabbed Darrin's arm, glaring at Alena.
"You psycho!" Katrina screamed. "You disappear all night to sleep with some random trash, and you have the nerve to hit him?"
Alena looked at them. They looked like two pathetic, disgusting bugs.
"You fucked my fiancé at my engagement party," Alena said, her voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. "Do not ever speak to me about morals."
She stepped around them, shoved her key into the lock, and turned it.
"Get away from my door," Alena ordered, not looking back. "Or I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."
Darrin lunged forward. He slammed his hand flat against the wood of the door, forcing it shut just as she pushed it open.
His face changed. The anger vanished, replaced by the sickeningly sweet, manipulative mask he had worn for three years.
"Alena, please," he begged, his voice soft. "Let us in. We need to talk. It's not what you think. I had no choice."
Alena stared at his hand on her door. The veins in her neck throbbed. She slowly turned her head and looked him dead in the eye.
"Fine," she whispered, her voice like ice. "Come inside. Let's hear your excuse."
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8.0
My abusive step-family isolated me completely, holding my mother's medical funds hostage to control my every move.
Yesterday, they finalized my sale.
"You will marry Rudy Petrov next month. He is fifty, wealthy, and willing to overlook your lack of pedigree."
Pushed to the absolute edge, I did the insane. I posted an ad online offering my life savings of $50,000 for a contract husband. A stranger named Brennan agreed.
But my family wouldn't let me go. They forced me back for a dinner by threatening my mother's life-saving prescriptions.
At the table, they relentlessly mocked my new "poor IT guy" husband and intentionally burned my hand with boiling tea.
Worse, the housekeeper locked me in a guest room and forced drugs down my throat so Rudy could come in and assault me.
I lay there paralyzed on the floor, bleeding from Rudy's slap, utterly terrified. I couldn't understand why my own family would throw me to the wolves, and I felt a crushing guilt for dragging an innocent, ordinary guy into my nightmare.
Until a pitch-black Maybach smashed through the estate's wrought-iron gates at eighty miles an hour.
My "poor" husband kicked the solid oak doors off their hinges, beat Rudy half to death, and carried me out into the rain.
I didn't know it yet, but the ordinary man I hired to save me was a ruthless billionaire, and he was about to erase my family's entire empire by morning.
9.3
For five years, I was Ashton Miller's invisible partner, his loyal fiancée, pouring my life into building his empire from the shadows. Tonight, the Bronze Deer exhibition, my masterpiece, was finally opening at the Met, a testament to our shared future.
Then, Bianca, a third-tier actress, stepped into the spotlight in *my* custom Vera Wang wedding dress. My blood ran cold as Ashton's arm circled her waist, his whispered words promising to make her the "new queen of the city."
Five years of trust and sacrifice crumbled. I was a blood bag, drained and discarded. When I publicly exposed their lies, Ashton cornered me backstage, his face twisted in fury, threatening to ruin me, to blacklist me forever. I ripped off his engagement ring, tossing it at his chest. "We're done," I said, walking out as his enraged screams echoed.
The man whose empire I secretly built called me a parasite, his mistress feigning tears, painting me as delusional. My guilt vanished, replaced by freezing, absolute hatred for the man who twisted reality to erase my existence.
Standing in the New York rain, I finally pulled out the military-grade encrypted phone hidden for five years. The line clicked open instantly, a low, gravelly voice asking, "Is it you?" Before I could answer, Archer's voice hardened: "Give me the location. I'll be there in ten minutes. Who touched you? I want his life."
7.1
The night before her wedding to Wall Street billionaire Everette Baird, Deliah Quinn stood happily in her haute couture gown.
Then, her younger sister Arvilla walked in, handed her a drugged glass of champagne, and slammed an ultrasound on the vanity.
"I'm pregnant with Everette's child," Arvilla sneered.
Before Deliah's paralyzed body could react, Arvilla dragged in a canister of industrial gasoline, soaked the bridal suite, tossed a lighter, and locked the heavy oak doors from the outside.
To escape the roaring inferno, Deliah smashed the glass balcony and threw herself into the freezing, violent waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
For five agonizing years, everyone believed the Quinn heiress was dead.
Deliah returned to New York entirely reborn—a top architectural designer and a single mother, having scrubbed her past clean and forgotten the people who destroyed her.
She only wanted a peaceful life with her five-year-old genius son, Leo.
But she had no idea her son was secretly hacking airport security cameras to find himself a wealthy stepdad.
Leo deliberately bumped into a terrifying, cold-blooded tycoon, spilling scalding coffee on his custom suit to get his attention.
When Deliah frantically rushed over to protect her son and apologize, the air in the terminal vanished.
Everette Baird stared at the exact face he had obsessively mourned for five years, his eyes turning pitch black as he crushed his phone in his bare hand.
7.7
Alondra spent three hours making soup for her husband, only to find him at the hospital tenderly holding another woman's hand.
"I'm four weeks pregnant, Gerard," the woman said softly.
Gerard coldly handed Alondra a divorce agreement, claiming their three-year marriage was just a placeholder because this woman had once saved his life.
Heartbroken, Alondra fled in her car, only to realize her brakes had been completely disabled.
She spun out of control and crashed head-on into a massive delivery truck.
As she lay trapped in the mangled wreckage with her ribs crushed and blood filling her mouth, Gerard's black Maybach pulled up to the curb.
He stared at her dying body through the window with a completely blank expression.
He didn't call an ambulance or even open his door.
He simply rolled up his tinted window and drove away into the rain.
A raw, suffocating hatred burned in her chest, hotter than the pain in her shattered bones.
She couldn't understand how the man she had loved and served so devotedly could just coldly watch her die like a piece of trash.
Opening her eyes again, Alondra gasped for air.
She had returned to the exact morning two years ago, right before she was supposed to deliver that pathetic soup.
When Gerard walked in and threatened her with divorce, she didn't cry or beg.
"I agree. Let's divorce," she said calmly, packing her bags to reclaim her true identity as a billionaire heiress.
9.5
Janet woke up gasping, the phantom fire of a deadly explosion still scorching her lungs. She had been reborn three years in the past, on the exact day her mother forced her into a marriage contract with Gaylord Bradford, a paralyzed and severely disfigured billionaire.
Before she could even process her second chance, her cousin Kandy kicked the bedroom door open, flaunting a massive diamond ring. Kandy, who had also been reborn, smugly announced she had stolen Janet's Wall Street golden boy fiancé, Jax Adler.
"You're going to marry that paralyzed monster," Kandy spat, gloating that she would build a billionaire dynasty with Jax while Janet wiped drool off a rotting corpse. Kandy expected Janet to have a complete mental collapse, completely unaware that Gaylord's own medical team was secretly injecting him with lethal neurotoxins to finish him off.
But Janet only felt a cold, clinical pity. Kandy's "prophetic" memories were a polluted lie. Jax was actually sterile and dying of irreversible kidney failure, while Gaylord wasn't a dying freak—he was a dormant god whose body was merely in a high-dimensional hibernation. Why would Janet mourn losing a doomed fraud?
Leaving her delusional cousin behind, Janet packed her bags and headed straight to Gaylord's maximum-security military cell. She physically tackled his corrupt doctor, drove three bio-electric silver needles into the crippled king's spine to awaken his deadened nerves, and looked him dead in his glacial blue eye.
"Sign the marriage contract," Janet whispered. "I will make you walk again, and we will take back everything."
9.6
I was trapped in a locked-in state for six months, fully conscious but unable to move a single muscle.
My step-family, Delma and Jazmyne, marched into my hospital room, forged a Do Not Resuscitate order, and yanked out my oxygen tube just to stop paying my medical bills.
When my three-year-old daughter, Amari, leaped out from under the bed to protect me, they beat her mercilessly.
They kicked my tiny girl in the stomach, smashed a heavy metal IV pole into her fragile shoulder, and dragged her out by her ankles.
They even tied her to a tree in their backyard and let a massive Rottweiler tear into her flesh, laughing as they recorded her agonizing screams.
I lay in that hospital bed, hearing every blow and every desperate cry.
I didn't understand why they had to torture an innocent toddler just because they thought I was a worthless piece of trash with amnesia.
A tidal wave of absolute fury crashed against the invisible walls of my paralyzed body, burning away the despair.
Gritting my teeth until my jaw popped, I forced my dead weight off the mattress and dragged my atrophied legs across the freezing floor to a landline.
With trembling, bloody fingers, I punched in a twelve-digit military-grade encrypted code.
It was time for my real family—the most powerful men in the country—to make these monsters pay.