Sold To The Shadow King: Reborn Revenge
My husband, Hansford Burris, told me tonight was the most important night of his campaign. He handed me a glass of champagne, his face a perfect mask of concern, telling me to drink up so I could relax before meeting the "Shadow King" of D.C. who could secure his political future.
I didn't know the golden liquid was laced with a high-dose sedative and hallucinogens. He hadn't brought me to this luxury hotel to celebrate; he had brought me here to be sold, trading my body to a stranger in exchange for a seat of power.
In my past life, I trusted him. I drank the poison, woke up shattered, and spent the next five years being tormented by his abusive mother and publicly replaced by his mistress. I was eventually cornered and murdered by the very man I had supported with my family’s fortune, my death staged as a tragic accident to gain him sympathy votes.
To him, I wasn't a wife or a partner. I was just an "asset" with a shelf life, a merchant’s good to be traded away. As the life left my body, I couldn't understand how the man who promised to love me forever could watch me choke without a hint of regret.
Opening my eyes again, I was back in the St. Regis Hotel on October 14th, exactly five years ago. Hansford was standing there in his polished Armani suit, extending the same glass of drugged champagne toward me.
"Gina, darling? Are you alright? Here. Drink this. It will help you relax."
Looking at his handsome, lying face, I felt a cold clarity wash over me. I wasn't the naive rabbit he remembered. I took the glass, but I didn't swallow a single drop. This time, I was going to burn his world to the ground.
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Chapter 2
The pressure on her windpipe was immediate and terrifying.
Gina's vision blurred at the edges. Brandon's grip was iron, his thumb pressing against her larynx with calculated lethality. He wasn't playing. He was going to kill her.
"Give me one reason not to snap your neck right now, Mrs. Burris," Brandon growled. His face was inches from hers, his eyes burning with a cold, blue fire. "You know too much."
Gina didn't claw at his hands. She didn't struggle. That's what a victim would do.
She forced her chin up, exposing her neck further to his grip. She stared directly into his eyes, communicating a desperate, insane courage.
"Because..." she rasped, the word barely squeezing past the blockage in her throat. "Because I can get you Hansford's encrypted ledger."
Brandon's grip didn't loosen, but his thumb stopped pressing down. The intent in his eyes shifted from murder to assessment.
"You're lying," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Hansford is too paranoid to keep physical records."
"He keeps a black notebook," Gina wheezed. "In the wall safe behind the oil painting in his study. I know the cipher logic he uses for the combination. It changes based on the stock market closing numbers."
Brandon stared at her for a long, agonizing second. Then, he released her.
Gina collapsed back onto her heels, gasping for air. She coughed, rubbing the red marks already forming on her skin. The pain was grounding. It meant she was still in the game.
"Why?" Brandon asked. He didn't move from his wheelchair, but the threat of violence still hung around him like a shroud. "Why betray your husband?"
Gina looked up, her eyes wet with tears of physical pain, but her expression was stone cold.
"I want him dead," she said. "Just as much as you do."
Brandon tilted his head. A slow, dark smile touched the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a nice smile. "Well. The rabbit has teeth."
"I'm not a rabbit," Gina said, standing up on shaky legs. She took a step toward him, holding out her hands. "Check me. Hansford thinks I'm a sacrifice. He didn't wire me."
Brandon didn't hesitate. He reached out, his hands moving over her body with professional, invasive efficiency. He checked her waist, the lining of her robe, her hair. It wasn't sexual. It was a security sweep.
"Clean," he muttered.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway.
They both froze.
"He's listening," Gina whispered, her eyes darting to the door. "He's waiting to hear if you're... satisfied."
Brandon's expression shifted. The cold agent vanished, replaced by a mask of cruel amusement.
"Then let's give the Senator a show," he said.
He reached out and swept a heavy ceramic lamp off the side table. It crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The noise was explosive.
"Turn around!" Brandon shouted, his voice booming, filled with a fabricated rage that sounded terrifyingly real. "Don't look at me!"
Outside the door, Hansford Burris leaned in, a twisted smile of relief crossing his face. The deal was done.
Inside the room, Brandon sat calmly in his chair, watching Gina with an arched brow. He gestured with his hand: Go on.
Gina understood. She let out a sharp, high-pitched cry. "Please! Please don't hurt me!"
She grabbed a heavy book from the desk and threw it against the wall. Thud.
"Louder," Brandon mouthed.
Gina squeezed her eyes shut. She channeled every ounce of humiliation she had felt in her past life, every scream she had swallowed. She let out a sob that sounded broken, pathetic.
"No... no..." she moaned.
Under the cover of the noise, she moved closer to Brandon, dropping her voice to a whisper. "The ledger is the key to the Sterling investigation. But I need time. I can't get it tonight. He'll be watching me."
Brandon nodded. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, black device. It looked like a hearing aid.
"Encrypted comms," he whispered back. "Direct line to me. If you fail, Gina, I won't save you. I'll burn you."
"I won't fail." Gina took the device and tucked it into the hidden pocket of her robe.
Brandon stood up.
Seeing him rise to his full height was jarring. He was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. The wheelchair was a perfect prop. He walked over to her, his movements silent.
He reached out and grabbed the delicate silk of her robe. With a sharp yank, he tore the hem.
Riiip.
The sound was sharp and violent.
He reached up and brushed his thumb over her cheek. His touch was cold, calloused.
"Remember," he murmured, his face close to hers. "From this moment on, your life belongs to me."
He sat back down in the wheelchair. He waited ten minutes, letting the silence stretch, letting Hansford's imagination fill in the blanks.
Then, he buttoned his jacket, fixed his cuffs, and wheeled himself to the door.
He opened it.
Hansford's bodyguard was standing there. Brandon didn't even look at him. He rolled past, his face a mask of bored indifference.
"She's... durable," Brandon said to the empty hallway, knowing Hansford was listening around the corner. "Tell Burris I'll consider his proposal."
As the wheelchair rolled away, Gina sank to the floor amidst the shattered lamp and torn silk. She touched the hidden earpiece. She wasn't crying.
She was planning.
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8.0
She only wanted to save her brother.
He only wanted an heir to secure his empire.
A contract bound us.
A heartbeat changed us.
I thought the ruthless Alpha was the devil in a tailored suit.
Instead, he became the man fate chained me to... the one my body recognises before my heart will ever dare.
But power demands sacrifice, and love was never part of our deal.
He promised protection, not affection.
I offered my womb, not my soul.
Now I carry his child...
And the secret of who I really am could destroy us both.
7.1
The last thing I remembered was the blinding flash of my starship crashing. But instead of a rescue crew, I woke up tied to a wooden post, surrounded by hostile beastmen.
My universal translator kicked in just in time to hear their priestess, Chelsea, declare that I was a cursed demon who ruined their hunt. To save the clan from winter starvation, I was to be burned alive.
The flames were already blistering my legs, and jagged stones hurled by the crowd gashed my forehead. I barely negotiated a three-day reprieve to find them food, venturing into the deadly primeval forest.
I found a massive supply of wild potatoes and even gained the protection of Bronson, a terrifyingly powerful saber-toothed tiger beastman.
But Chelsea wouldn't stop.
She labeled my food as poisonous, tried to sentence me to starve in a penitent's cave, and when my agricultural knowledge proved her wrong, she invoked an ancient law. She incited the tribe's savage warriors to fight over me, turning me into breeding property.
I was a scientist offering them endless food, yet their primitive ignorance and one woman's vicious jealousy kept pushing me toward a brutal end. I was terrified, completely powerless against their monstrous physical strength.
As five ruthless challengers drew their bone axes to claim me, I begged Bronson to leave me and run.
Instead, he pulled me against his scarred chest and kissed me fiercely in front of the entire clan.
"She is my mate," he roared, unleashing a soul-crushing aura. "Anyone who wants her, come at me together."
9.2
My world shattered twice. First, the ocean claimed my son. Then, the mountain road took another, a direct sacrifice to the man I loved and the woman he chose. In the hospital, beeps marked the emptiness where my second son used to be, echoing the first loss, both involving Holden and Giana.
During the car crash, I was pinned, bleeding, and trapped. Holden, my partner, looked me in the eyes, then chose to save Giana, abandoning me and our unborn child.
Soon, I overheard Holden praising Giana for turning our tragedy into a PR win. His hollow apologies and focus on Giana’s "miracle work" reignited the brutal memory of her push and his past denials.
A decade of sacrificing my life and two children for a man who saw me as a liability left a bitter taste. His choice was clear; only profound abandonment remained.
But this time, I was choosing me. From my profound loss, a dangerous spark ignited: I would not just survive; I would find freedom and make him pay.
7.3
Clara came home from a fourteen-hour board meeting to the sound of a piercing scream in the playroom.
When she rushed in, she found her husband, Chadwick, kneeling on the floor in a panic.
But he wasn't looking at their five-year-old son, Leo, who had a massive bleeding welt on his forehead.
Instead, Chadwick was trembling as he held the nanny's daughter, Autumn, who barely had a microscopic scratch.
"She needs ice. And antibacterial ointment," Chadwick snapped, carrying the nanny's daughter away and leaving his bleeding son behind.
From that moment, the nightmare only escalated.
Chadwick ordered Clara to cook a three-hour meal for the nanny's kid, threw away Leo's favorite toys because Autumn sneezed, and even secretly took the nanny and her daughter on Leo's promised Disney trip.
The final humiliation came at the Met Gala.
Right before their sponsor speech, Chadwick received a frantic call from the nanny claiming Autumn was having a panic attack.
He abandoned Clara in front of hundreds of flashing cameras, sprinting out of the ballroom.
Clara stood completely alone, the humiliation eating through her veins like acid.
She couldn't understand how a father could call the nanny's kid his "little princess" while watching his own son cry.
Why was he treating his own flesh and blood like garbage just to play savior to another woman's child?
Suddenly, the blinding camera flashes were blocked by a massive shadow.
Erasmo Chase, the heir to New York's largest financial dynasty, stepped out of the darkness and shielded her.
"A man like that is unworthy of your grief, Ms. Best," he whispered, pressing a silk handkerchief into her trembling hand.
Looking at the sharp profile of the powerful man beside her, Clara's shock hardened into a lethal, cold fury.
She was going to dump her family's shares, crash the board, and make Chadwick lose absolutely everything.
8.8
Mate's VENGEANCE
8.8
To destroy him, I've traded my pride for a maid's uniform.
My plan is simple: infiltrate his estate, seduce him into breaking his royal engagement, and lead his enemies to his doorstep. I want to see his pack burn. I want to see the light leave those storm-grey eyes as how he did to my mate
8.8
My little boy died on the operating table during a minor, routine surgery.
That exact same night, my billionaire husband bought out the Hudson River for a massive, million-dollar fireworks show.
It wasn't to mourn our child. It was to celebrate his first love's son being discharged from the hospital.
When I confronted him with our son's death certificate, he sneered and accused me of hiding the boy to get his attention.
He held his mistress in our home, watched her fake a panic attack, and threatened to bankrupt my family if I didn't get on my knees and apologize to her.
But the most horrifying truth came from a terrified hospital nurse.
My son's anesthesia was deliberately kept low during the procedure to keep his tissue viable to save the mistress's child.
He was awake and in agonizing pain while his own father planned a grand celebration for another man's son.
I couldn't understand how a father could be so completely heartless.
How could he sacrifice his own flesh and blood just to please a woman who constantly manipulated him?
Looking at the ashes on my son's favorite toy, my paralyzing grief evaporated, replaced by a cold, unyielding rage.
I arranged my little boy's funeral alone in the freezing rain, left my wedding ring on the counter, and walked straight into the private hotel suite of my husband's most ruthless business rival.
"Let's take him down," I said.