Playing The Toxic Wife To Attract Billionaires
June woke up transmigrated into the body of a ruthless billionaire's toxic, disposable wife.
Before she could even process the massive Beverly Hills mansion, a cold system voice announced she had exactly five minutes of lifespan remaining.
To survive, she was forced to bind with the system and strictly maintain the original owner's "brainless, abusive drama queen" persona to earn hours to live.
She was forced to violently slap hot coffee out of a terrified maid's hands and physically spank her manipulative five-year-old stepson.
When she tried to escape this nightmare by throwing divorce papers at her terrifying husband, Isaac Walton, he simply ripped them to shreds.
Every time she tried to be reasonable or show a hint of kindness, the system tortured her with agonizing cardiac pain, cementing her status as the most hated monster in the family.
The most absurd part happened when she threw a hysterical, system-mandated tantrum over a gossip magazine, and Isaac's icy demeanor suddenly melted.
He gently touched her hair, offering the one thing she desperately needed.
"Stop crying. I'll handle it."
Just as a spark of hope ignited in her chest, the system's critical death warning exploded in her skull: accepting his sympathy would instantly deduct thirty days of her life.
To stay alive, June had no choice but to violently slap away the only hand reaching out to save her, forcing herself to play the greedy villain while her husband's gaze turned dangerously dark.
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Chapter 1
June bolted upright on the king-size bed.
The silk sheets pooled at her waist as she clawed at her chest. Her lungs refused to expand. A sharp, tearing agony ripped through her sternum, as if someone had shoved a fist into her ribcage and squeezed her heart. She gasped, sucking in useless air.
She blinked through the tears blurring her vision. The room around her was massive. Vaulted ceilings, excessive gold-leaf molding, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the swaying palm trees of Beverly Hills. The sheer opulence hit her brain like a physical blow, sending her into a brief, violent spiral of sensory overload.
Her bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. She stumbled, her knees buckling, and practically threw herself into the adjoining master bathroom.
She gripped the edges of the marble vanity. Her knuckles turned white. She stared into the massive mirror and staggered back a half-step. The face staring back at her was breathtakingly beautiful, but the sharp arch of the eyebrows and the harsh set of the jaw screamed of a toxic, bitter woman. It wasn't her face.
A cold, synthesized voice sliced through the silence in her head.
"System Moe-7 activated."
June's heart stuttered. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples. She thought she was hallucinating from the pain.
"You have exactly five minutes of lifespan remaining." the voice stated.
A digital, blood-red countdown timer burned itself into her retinas.
04:59.
June slammed her fist against the marble counter. "Is this a sick joke?" she rasped, her throat burning.
The system didn't answer with words. It answered with pain.
A very real, very violent spike of agony shot straight through her left ventricle. June's legs gave out. She collapsed, her knees slamming hard against the freezing marble floor.
"Plot synchronization complete," the cold voice echoed.
Memories that didn't belong to her slammed into her skull. June bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She was June Myers. The disposable, toxic wife of the ruthless billionaire Isaac Walton.
She saw the ending. She saw Isaac and his son coldly signing the papers to lock her in a psychiatric ward for the rest of her life. June grabbed the lapels of her silk robe, her fingers trembling violently as terror coated her throat.
"Bind with the system to earn lifespan," Moe-7 demanded.
June forced her breathing to slow. She was a modern woman. She knew how to negotiate. "Show me the underlying logic," she choked out. "What are the terms? I need to see the contract."
The system ignored her. The red numbers in her vision blurred and suddenly dropped.
00:10.
00:09.
The air left the room. An invisible hand wrapped around June's throat, crushing her windpipe. She clawed at her own neck.
00:03.
Survival instinct overrode everything. "I agree!" she screamed into the empty bathroom. "I bind!"
The crushing pressure vanished instantly.
June slumped sideways onto the floor. She dragged in massive, ragged breaths. Cold sweat soaked through the back of her silk nightgown, sticking the fabric to her spine. She had never felt a fear so absolute, so physically crushing.
"Starter pack deployed," the system chimed.
A massive headache split her skull as the original June's memories-a chaotic mess of Hollywood drama, screaming matches, and vanity-were forcefully shoved into her brain.
June grabbed the edge of the vanity and hauled herself up. She stared at her pathetic reflection, mentally cursing the goddamn system a thousand times over.
A heavy knock echoed from the bedroom door.
"Mrs. Walton?" a timid voice called out. It was Maria, the maid. Her voice was trembling.
June opened her mouth, the gentle words 'It's alright' already on her tongue. Before she could speak, a blaring yellow warning flashed across her vision. "Warning. Deviation from 'toxic drama queen' persona detected."
June ground her back teeth together. She forced the muscles in her face to twist. She stared at the mirror and practiced a harsh, condescending eye roll.
She yanked the bathroom door open. She grabbed an obscenely expensive silk dressing gown, threw it over her shoulders, and tied the sash tight enough to bruise her ribs, needing the physical pressure to ground her panic.
She marched across the thick carpet, took a deep breath, and yanked the heavy mahogany door open. A rush of cold air swept into the hallway.
Maria stood there, holding a silver tray. The maid flinched so hard the porcelain coffee cup rattled against the saucer.
June crossed her arms over her chest. She looked down her nose at the woman. "Why are you making so much noise?" she demanded, her voice dripping with arrogance.
"I-I brought your morning black coffee, ma'am," Maria stuttered, her eyes glued to the floorboards.
June looked at the perfect, steaming cup of coffee. Her throat was parched. She wanted nothing more than to take it and say thank you.
A sharp, electric shock bit into her temple. The system's threat was clear.
June uncrossed her arms. She reached out and slapped the side of the cup.
The hot coffee flew across the hallway, splashing dark stains onto the pristine carpet. Maria dropped to her knees instantly, tears spilling over her eyelashes as she frantically apologized.
June stared down at the terrified woman. Her chest physically ached. She hid her hands inside the wide sleeves of her gown, digging her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke, desperately fighting the urge to drop down and help her clean it up.
She forced a cold scoff from her throat. "Clean up this garbage immediately," she snapped.
She stepped back and slammed the door shut in Maria's face.
June leaned her back against the heavy wood. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nausea rolled through her stomach at the cruelty she had just inflicted.
"Persona synchronization successful," the system announced. "Reward: 24 hours of lifespan."
The red numbers in her eyes shifted to 23:59:59. June slid down the door until she hit the floor.
"Main Quest 1," the system continued. "Serve your husband, Isaac Walton, with divorce papers immediately."
June's eyes snapped open, wide with absolute shock.
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7.2
I am a resident surgeon, secretly married to Dr. Barrett Walters, the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. It was a transactional marriage; he paid my mother's mounting medical bills, and I was his secret, obedient wife in the dark.
But at the hospital, he was a cold-blooded tyrant who deliberately made my life a living hell. During a major medical conference, he viciously tore apart my successful surgical repair, looking me dead in the eye as he called me incompetent in front of all my colleagues.
The humiliation didn't stop there. With his tacit approval, the senior residents bullied me, assigning me every brutal night shift. When his beautiful, wealthy heiress "girlfriend" visited the ward, he publicly mocked my background to make her smile.
"Some people get in through the back door. They're not fit for the front lines."
Even when I was forced to work as a secret banquet waitress to cover the medical copays he ignored, he found me, ruined the job out of pure possessive jealousy, and then fined my meager resident salary the very next morning just to show his absolute control.
I endured his punishing kisses and cruel rebukes, sacrificing my dignity just to keep my mother alive. But I couldn't understand why he had to destroy every shred of my peace. If he wanted the perfect heiress, why did he refuse to let me go?
Staring at his cold, controlling eyes in the stairwell, my exhaustion finally overpowered my fear. I was done being his victim, and it was time to tear up this contract.
8.0
I sat at a table for two in the center of Le Coucou, clutching a gift box that had cost me two months of savings. It was our three-year anniversary, and I was waiting for Gavin to finally ask the big question.
But when the heavy oak doors opened, Gavin didn't walk toward me with a ring. He walked in with a polished blonde heiress tucked under his arm, her hand resting protectively over a small baby bump.
"This is Tiffany Stone. My fiancée," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't apologize for being late or for the three years we'd spent together. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a number, and slid a ten-thousand-dollar check across the white tablecloth.
"Consider it severance for your time," he added, as Tiffany mocked my cheap drugstore dress. "Don't contact me again. Tiffany doesn't need the stress." I was the entertainment for the entire restaurant—the pathetic girl dumped for a better model. By the time I walked out into the rain, I had lost my boyfriend, my home, and the funding for my secret medical research project.
I was an orphan with no safety net, facing an eviction notice and a ruined career. I had given Gavin everything, and he had discarded me like a broken tool. The injustice burned in my chest, a hot, sharp rage that replaced my tears.
Desperate and freezing, I ducked into a coffee shop where I met Colton Bentley, a reclusive billionaire in a wheelchair. After I defended him from a cruel date, he offered me a contract: a marriage of convenience and a seven-figure payment to act as his shield. I signed the papers that night, ready to use his wealth to rebuild my life. But as I watched my new husband navigate his penthouse, I noticed his "paralyzed" legs tense with a strength that shouldn't exist.
7.4
Evelina Barrett was the legitimate daughter, yet she was framed for a disgusting sex scandal, expelled from the Ivy League, and locked out of her late mother's massive trust fund.
While she was thrown out to rot on the streets with a jagged, hideous red scar covering half her face, her father and step-family were throwing a lavish charity gala to celebrate her total ruin.
They laughed as they officially published her disownment notice in the Times to cut her off forever.
"Without the school halo, that ugly freak will be begging on the streets by tomorrow," her sister Aspen sneered.
Her stepmother Annabella toasted to taking out the trash, perfectly happy to steal Evelina's inheritance while ignoring the fact that Evelina knew exactly how they had murdered her mother.
For years, Evelina had been locked in a dark basement, abused by bodyguards, and treated worse than a stray dog.
Why should she, the true heir, suffer in the gutter while the leeches who destroyed her life enjoyed the wealth that rightfully belonged to her?
She refused to be their victim anymore.
Washing away her fake scar to reveal her true, breathtaking face, Evelina blackmailed New York's most lethal billionaire into marriage to secure the ultimate shield.
Then, she put on a black mourning dress, ordered a dark web ghost crew, and climbed into a heavy semi-truck.
At exactly 6:00 PM, she smashed through the iron gates of her family's elegant gala, delivering three pure black coffins directly to the lawn.
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.
8.0
She has thirty days. Ten billion dollars. And a quantum space that can swallow anything.
Kinsey Elliott died cold, starving, and betrayed—pushed into a frozen abyss by the uncle who stole her fortune.
Then she woke up.
Back in her penthouse. Back in her perfect body. Back with a silver mark on her wrist that lets her store entire warehouses of supplies in a dimension where time stands still.
The world has thirty days until a global ice age freezes everything.
Her family has thirty days to try to lock her away, steal her money, and have her killed.
And Kinsey? She has thirty days to turn ten billion dollars into an invisible fortress—and burn every last one of them to the ground.
She's not surviving the apocalypse.
She's building it.
8.5
I was rushed to the emergency room with a bleeding head after a horrific car crash.
But while the doctor was stitching my forehead, I heard the nurses whispering.
"The CEO of the Finley Group is upstairs right now, playing nurse to that pregnant actress."
My heart stopped. I ripped out my IV and dragged my battered body to the VIP suite, only to watch my billionaire husband tenderly wipe away his mistress's tears.
I filed for divorce that night and left his penthouse with nothing but a basic suitcase.
Carter was furious. He tracked me down, completely ignoring my injuries, and mocked me relentlessly.
"You're nothing but a breeding tool. You won't survive a week without my money."
When I later collapsed from severe stomach cramps, he abandoned me on the floor because his mistress faked a panic attack over the phone. He even nearly ran me over in the freezing rain as he sped back to her side.
I had loved him in secret for ten agonizing years, pouring my bleeding heart into a novel about my unrequited love. I couldn't understand how a man could be so incredibly cold-blooded to his own wife.
But Carter didn't know I was the anonymous author of that global bestselling book.
So when he tried to use his massive wealth to buy the film rights and give his mistress the lead role, I walked straight into his boardroom, slammed my contractual veto on the table, and finally fought back.