Reborn Heiress: The Wall Street Titan's Bride
Alaia Dudley spent her life playing the devoted partner, completely unaware that her fiancé Austen was sleeping with another woman.
She thought the worst he could do was break her heart, until she found herself pinned to a cold operating table.
Austen held her down with a cruel smirk while a scalpel sliced through her sternum.
They cracked her chest open while she was still fully conscious.
The agonizing pain of her heart being cut out burned into her nerve endings.
She realized then that to him, she was never a lover—just a spare organ, a boring piece of wood to be discarded the second his true love needed it.
She died in excruciating agony, choking on her own blood while the man she loved walked away with her heart.
Until her last breath, she didn't understand why she had to suffer so brutally.
Why did she waste her life begging for a monster's attention? Why did they get a happy ending while she was carved up like an animal?
But then, ice-cold water flooded her lungs, and Alaia violently broke the surface of her bathwater.
Her trembling fingers touched her smooth, flawless chest. No scars. Her heart was still beating.
The date on her phone glared back at her: it was exactly five years ago.
Tonight was the exact night Austen first took his mistress to a hotel room.
This time, she wouldn't just expose them. She would use Wall Street's most terrifying tyrant as her personal weapon to strip them of everything they had.
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Chapter 9
A few days later, the Dudley estate was buzzing with chaotic energy. Maids rushed through the halls carrying massive floral arrangements. Darrius had announced he was throwing a grand "welcome home" banquet for Alaia.
Alaia stood on the second-floor landing, looking down at the preparations with dead eyes. She knew exactly what this was. It wasn't a welcome party. It was an auction. Darrius had invited the wealthiest, most repulsive old men in Los Angeles to sell her off for business connections.
That afternoon, Devona knocked and pushed her way into Alaia's room, followed by two maids carrying a garment bag.
Devona smiled, her eyes gleaming with fake affection. "Alaia, darling. I had this flown in from Milan just for you. I want you to be the most beautiful girl in the room tonight."
The maids unzipped the bag, revealing a breathtaking, silver sequined haute couture gown.
Alaia gasped, playing the grateful daughter. "Oh, Aunt Devona, it's beautiful. Thank you."
She reached out to touch the fabric. As her fingers brushed the side zipper, she felt a strange, thick bump in the seam. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly.
Devona left the room, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
The second the door locked, Alaia threw the dress onto the bed and flipped it inside out.
She inspected the zipper. The heavy-duty nylon thread had been meticulously unpicked and replaced with cheap, fragile cotton thread. The moment she took a deep breath or twisted her waist, the entire side of the dress would rip open, exposing her to a room full of billionaires.
It was Asia's work. A pathetic, vicious attempt to humiliate her.
In her past life, the dress had ripped. The paparazzi outside had taken photos through the windows, and she had become a laughingstock.
Alaia let out a cold, sharp laugh. She walked over to her suitcase and pulled out a small sewing kit.
She didn't try to fix the zipper. She grabbed a pair of sharp fabric scissors. Without a second of hesitation, she jammed the blades into the seam and violently cut the entire side and back of the dress wide open.
The sound of tearing silk filled the room. The conservative, elegant gown was now in pieces.
She didn't possess the skills of a master tailor, nor did she have a sewing machine to reconstruct the garment. But she had an impeccable eye for fashion and a ruthless sense of survival. Alaia went to work with what she had. She used the fabric scissors to deliberately distress the torn edges, making the jagged cuts look like an intentional, avant-garde design choice. She grabbed a handful of ornate silver safety pins and diamond-encrusted brooches from her jewelry box. Instead of hiding the tear, she used the pins to violently bridge the gap across her exposed skin, transforming the ruined zipper into a plunging, dangerous backless design held together by gleaming metal. It wasn't a professional repair, but a brilliant, punk-couture statement.
Two hours later, the sabotage was gone. The dress was now a lethal, skin-tight weapon of war.
At 8:00 PM, the banquet was in full swing. The grand hall was packed with men in tuxedos, their greedy eyes scanning the room.
Asia stood near the bar in a puffy pink princess dress, constantly glancing up at the stairs, vibrating with excitement to see Alaia's downfall.
Darrius stood in the center of the room, checking his watch, his face turning red with impatience.
Suddenly, the motion-sensor lights on the grand staircase clicked on. The sharp clack of a stiletto hitting the hardwood echoed through the hall.
The loud chatter instantly died. Every head turned.
Alaia stepped onto the landing. The silver sequins caught the chandelier light, making her look like she was dripping in liquid diamonds. The massive, plunging back exposed her flawless, pale skin all the way down to her lower waist.
She didn't look scared. She kept her chin high, her eyes cold and commanding. She walked down the stairs with the slow, hypnotic sway of a predator entering a cage of prey.
Asia's smug smile shattered. Her jaw dropped open, her eyes bulging as she stared at the dress that was supposed to fall apart.
Devona gripped her champagne flute so hard the crystal nearly cracked. She muttered a vicious curse under her breath.
The old men in the crowd were completely paralyzed. Their eyes were filled with raw lust, but Alaia's overwhelming, icy aura kept them frozen in place. No one dared to approach her.
Darrius's eyes lit up with extreme greed. He realized his daughter wasn't just a pretty face; she was a masterpiece. Her value had just skyrocketed.
Alaia reached the bottom of the stairs. She glided past a stunned waiter, plucking a glass of red wine from his tray. She locked eyes with Asia, her lips curving into a mocking sneer.
A balding real estate tycoon, sweating through his suit, finally broke the trance. He waddled toward Alaia, a sleazy, confident grin plastered on his face.
Alaia didn't step back. She simply smiled, raising her left hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As she did, she slowly twisted the heavy, black obsidian ring on her index finger.
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8.7
I was trapped in a greasy diner by my own mother.
She was forcing me to marry my abusive cousin because he had paid her twenty thousand dollars.
To escape, I used a contract marriage app and begged a complete stranger to marry me at City Hall that very day.
Ethan drove a cheap Ford and wore a plain suit. I thought he was just an ordinary guy needing a fake wife.
When my mother found out, she brought thugs to destroy my flower shop—my only home and livelihood.
To protect Ethan from her endless extortion, I shielded him and screamed that he was bankrupt and drowning in credit card debt.
My mother fled in disgust, and Ethan took me into his apartment for the night.
But out of trauma and habit, I locked my bedroom door, muttering that he must be old and desperate.
He stormed out into the freezing night, leaving me terrified that I had ruined my only lifeline.
I didn't understand why he was so furiously offended, completely unaware that my "broke" husband was actually the most ruthless billionaire in New York, and I had just trampled his massive ego.
The next morning, his face was a mask of ice as he dragged me back to City Hall to annul the marriage and get rid of me.
"Annulment. Now," he demanded.
But the clerk just popped her gum and slid a pink paper across the counter.
"State law changed. Mandatory thirty-day cooling-off period."
7.9
Valerie Ashford, a girl who had just turned twenty-one, was introduced by her father to his business associates at a grand party, where she met a frightening, cold-blooded man.
That man was none other than her father's business partner, the CEO of a major corporation. He was taken with Valerie and had wanted her from the moment he first laid eyes on her.
For Rovano Morvane, whatever he desired was absolute and he had to have it, even by the worst means possible.
That night Valerie vanished without a trace and Rovano became the prime suspect, yet the Ashford family could not prove their allegations.
"P-please, I don't want to die, sir..." Valerie whispered so softly that Rovano had to bend down even lower.
"Didn't you just say you didn't care whether you were kidnapped or not? So shut your mouth." Rovano ordered.
Cold, Valerie felt the other side of the folding knife pressed against her cheek.
Rovano was going to mark Valerie.
It felt like something was missing if Rovano didn't take out his psychopathic urges on someone.
And this time, for the first time, he wanted a girl: Valerie Ashford.
Would Valerie's life end here?
8.1
Pretty Devil
8.1
Maddy worked at an exclusive underground club, always hidden behind a sleek black mask. One night, a wealthy client approached her with a filthy fantasy , he didn't want to just fuck her. He wanted to be her complete slave.
He took her to his luxury penthouse, while she shoved her soaked pussy onto his face and rode his tongue until she came, then mounted his cock and used him mercilessly, slapping and choking him while denying his orgasm until he begged like a broken whore. Even after she quit the club and started a new corporate job, she kept hooking up with him. One day, she walked into the CEO's office... and froze. Her new boss was the same man.
By day, in his luxurious office, he is the dominant, commanding CEO , barking orders, running the company with iron authority, and no one suspects a thing. By night, he becomes her secret pathetic slave: crawling, getting pegged over his own desk, licking her cum off his floor, and having his cock locked in chastity while she laughs at how easily she owns him.
Pretty Devil is a raw, extremely explicit erotic novel packed with intense femdom, heavy BDSM, humiliation, orgasm denial, pegging, face-sitting, and twisted power exchanges that blur the dangerous line between boss and secret slave.
This book is unapologetically nasty and graphic. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
7.5
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
7.6
Cassie was sold to a terrifying billionaire as a substitute bride.
To protect herself, she glued a grotesque, fake burn scar to her face.
Her adoptive family and her ex-fiancé had stolen her massive trust fund, locked her in an asylum for years, and finally threw her to the wolves. They expected the ruthless Dane Frederick to torture and kill her the moment he saw her ruined face.
At her ex's grand engagement party, her family publicly humiliated her. They mocked her cheap clothes, laughed at her scarred cheek, and even raised their hands to beat her, fully believing she was a helpless freak with no one to rely on.
"Get on your knees and apologize, and I'll write you a check so you don't starve on the streets."
But they didn't expect the billionaire to kick down the doors, wrap his coat around her, and bankrupt their entire bloodline overnight.
Yet, as Cassie stood in the dark and peeled off her fake silicone scar to reveal her flawless face, a deeper terror gripped her.
Tracing her stolen funds, she uncovered a name that made her blood run cold: The Syndicate.
It was the exact nightmare organization that had locked her in the asylum. Why were they controlling her family? And why did the billionaire look at her with such desperate, hidden nostalgia?
Cassie opened her encrypted laptop and dropped into the Dark Web.
She wasn't just a discarded bride. She was the legendary hacker "Nyx," and she was going to burn them all to the ground.
9.3
For three years, Dara endured endless humiliation to be the perfect wife to billionaire Donavon Monroe.
But on their third anniversary, which was also her birthday, Donavon coldly threw divorce papers on the dining table.
He wanted her gone for his returning childhood sweetheart, completely ignoring the blistering burn on Dara's hand—a cruel injury intentionally caused by his brother just hours ago.
When Dara tearfully reminded him how she had bled and almost died to save his life three years ago, Donavon looked at her with pure disgust.
"I have zero interest in looking at the ugly scars you picked up in whatever slum you crawled out of."
He accused her of fabricating a savior complex just to secure a ring, perfectly content to let his mother and brother treat her like a glorified maid.
Dara's heart completely shattered.
She had sacrificed her life and dignity for a ruthless capitalist who viewed her as nothing but disposable trash.
With her last shred of pride, she signed the papers, ready to leave this suffocating nightmare forever.
But that night, a freak lightning storm struck the estate.
When Dara opened her eyes the next morning, she felt incredibly heavy and her center of gravity was completely wrong.
She looked in the mirror and saw Donavon's cold, chiseled face staring back at her in absolute terror.
They had swapped bodies.
Now, she held the absolute power of the Monroe empire, and Donavon was finally going to experience his family's vicious abuse firsthand.