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 7
Alena pushed the door open and walked straight into the living room. She didn't bother flipping the light switch. The gray morning light filtering through the windows was enough as she turned to face the two people trailing behind her.
Darrin stepped into the apartment, his eyes scanning the familiar furniture. He opened his mouth to speak, trying to use that soft, intimate tone he always used to control her.
Katrina pushed past him. She looked around the modest apartment with obvious disgust and dropped onto the Italian leather sofa, crossing her legs like she owned the place.
Alena didn't take off Andrew's coat. She stood behind the kitchen island, crossing her arms over her chest, creating a physical barrier between herself and them.
"You have three minutes," Alena said, staring at the clock on the wall. "Start lying."
Darrin took a deep breath. He put on his best tortured expression. "Alena, Payne Real Estate is drowning. The supply chain credit just got cut this morning. The only way the Spencer family will inject capital is if Katrina and I get married."
He took a step toward the island, reaching his hand out as if to touch her. "I did this to protect you. To protect your family's legacy. You know I love you."
Alena's stomach violently heaved. She snatched a Clorox wipe from the counter and aggressively wiped her hands, staring right at him.
"You fucked my sister to save my family?" Alena's voice dripped with pure acid. "Wow, Darrin. You're a real hero."
Katrina slammed her hand against the armrest of the sofa. She stood up, her face twisting with spite.
"He loves me!" Katrina shrieked. "You were just a boring, frigid placeholder! You don't even make a sound in bed!"
Darrin's face flushed dark red. "Katrina, shut up!" he snapped, his deep-in-love act shattering instantly.
Alena looked at them. She felt completely numb. She couldn't believe she had wasted three years of her life on this pathetic, social-climbing coward.
She walked over to her small desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and grabbed a thick stack of bound paper. She walked back to the island and threw the stack directly at Darrin's chest.
The heavy papers hit him hard and scattered across the floor.
"That is the venture capital pitch I stayed up for three weeks writing for you," Alena said, her voice rising. "The one you used to beg the Spencer executives for a meeting. Don't stand in my house and tell me you did this for me."
Darrin looked down at the papers. His mask completely fell off. His eyes darkened with a vicious, humiliated rage.
Katrina rolled her eyes. She reached into her Birkin bag, pulled out a stapled legal document, and slammed it onto the glass coffee table.
"Enough of this," Katrina sneered. "Sign the NDA. You admit that you and Darrin broke up mutually six months ago, and that your little stunt at the party was a mental breakdown."
Alena glanced at the paper. It also demanded she leave New York and surrender her minor shares in Payne Real Estate.
She let out a dry, hollow laugh. She picked up the document, ripped it cleanly in half, and dropped the pieces into the trash can.
"I'm going to send the photos of you two to every media outlet in the city," Alena said, staring Katrina down.
Darrin snapped. He lunged across the kitchen island. He didn't hit her, but his large hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with a bruising, vicious grip.
He shoved her backward. Her spine slammed against the refrigerator door. The impact knocked the breath out of her. He stepped into her space, using his larger frame to pin her against the cold steel, his forearm pressing dangerously close to her collarbone, trapping her completely.
"You will shut your mouth!" Darrin hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifying, calculated whisper. "Do you have any idea what is at stake here? If you ruin my career, if you breathe a word of this to the press, I will systematically destroy everything you have left. I will make sure you never work in this city again."
His grip tightened on her wrist, grinding her bones together. Alena's heart hammered against her ribs, but she refused to look away.
She didn't panic. Her hand blindly felt along the counter behind her. Her fingers wrapped around the heavy, cold handle of a paring knife.
She brought her arm up and pressed the sharp steel tip directly against Darrin's stomach, right below his ribs.
"Press harder," Alena choked out, her eyes wide and completely insane. "I swear to God I will push this into your spleen."
Darrin looked down at the blade. The color drained from his face. He ripped his hands away from her and stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet.
Alena sucked in a massive breath of air, coughing violently. She threw the knife onto the floor. It clattered loudly against the tiles.
"Get out!" she screamed, pointing at the door.
Katrina was pale and shaking. She grabbed Darrin's arm and dragged him toward the exit. But right before she stepped out, Katrina stopped.
She turned around, a wicked, triumphant smile spreading across her face.
"Don't want to sign?" Katrina mocked. "That's fine. Dad already took a copy of the NDA to the Hamptons."
Alena froze.
"Let's see if Grandpa's heart, with its three shiny new stents, can handle the news of your little scandal," Katrina whispered.
She slammed the door shut.
The words hit Alena like a bullet to the chest. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the kitchen floor.
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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.