Take My Fiancé, I Take The Empire
Eleanor Sinclair always knew her stepmother and stepsister were leeches, but she never expected their betrayal to reach into her private study.
In the dead of night, she caught the family's trusted nanny of twelve years photographing confidential trust documents. The mastermind paying her off was Lillian, Eleanor's stepmother, who had been secretly embezzling estate funds and bribing tutors to deliberately ruin the academic future of Eleanor's younger brother, the only legitimate heir.
Emboldened by their deceit, the parasites grew arrogant. Her stepsister, Isabelle, deliberately flaunted her secret affair with Eleanor’s billionaire fiancé, sobbing fake tears while waiting for Eleanor to suffer a humiliating nervous breakdown.
When the tension finally peaked, Lillian played the victim so perfectly that Eleanor's own father, a powerful U.S. Senator, stormed into the room with a raised hand, ready to strike his own daughter.
"You will apologize to your stepsister immediately! I will not have this family harmony destroyed by your petty jealousy!"
They actually expected her to be a weeping, heartbroken girl. They thought cheap hotel affairs and stolen pennies could outsmart the true Sinclair bloodline. Did they really believe a few fake tears and a weak-willed father could strip her of her empire?
Eleanor didn't feel anger; she felt the cold, detached fascination of a biologist observing doomed insects. She calmly pulled out the forensic audits, locked down the estate's exits, and prepared her stepmother's psychiatric commitment papers. The merciless purge of her family had officially begun.
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Chapter 2
Eleanor descended the grand sweeping staircase, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble. She reached the vast, echoey estate foyer and stopped at the antique console table.
A stack of thick, cream-colored envelopes rested on a silver tray.
Clara stepped up beside her, silently handing Eleanor a silver letter opener shaped like a miniature dagger.
Eleanor took it. Her fingers lightly brushed over the expensive paper. She sliced open the first envelope. Heavy gold-leaf lettering caught the light. It was from Cordelia Kensington.
Eleanor scanned the Kensington charity gala invitation. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the ostentatious display of wealth. It was tacky.
"Julian Beaumont was seen at the St. Regis downtown last night," Clara informed her, her voice low. "With your stepsister, Isabelle. The paparazzi got photos."
Clara watched Eleanor's face, expecting a flash of anger, a tightening of the jaw.
Eleanor merely hummed. Her heart rate did not spike. Her stomach did not twist. She tossed the Kensington invitation onto the 'accept' pile without a single flinch.
She picked up the second envelope. This one bore the formidable, dark red wax seal of Camilla Beaumont, Julian's stepmother and the true power behind the Beaumont political machine.
Eleanor sliced it open. It was a VIP pass to the Beaumont political fundraiser. A handwritten note at the bottom specifically requested Eleanor's solo attendance.
Footsteps echoed from the top of the staircase.
Lillian Sinclair descended. She wore a flowing designer morning gown that cost more than a car. She projected a sickeningly sweet, fake maternal warmth.
Lillian paused halfway down the stairs. Her eyes darted immediately to the broken red wax seal of the Beaumont family in Eleanor's hand. A sharp flash of raw jealousy twisted Lillian's features before she smoothed it away.
Lillian hurried down the rest of the steps. She reached the marble table, stretching her hand out to snatch the Beaumont invitation. "Let me help you organize those, darling."
Eleanor's hand moved faster. She slammed two fingers down on the envelope, pinning it hard against the marble.
Lillian's fingers stopped an inch away. She looked up, her fake smile straining at the corners.
"I was thinking," Lillian forced a light laugh, "that Isabelle should attend the Beaumont gala this weekend. You've been so stressed lately, Eleanor. You look exhausted."
Eleanor looked directly into Lillian's eyes. Her gaze was flat and dead.
"Camilla Beaumont requested a Sinclair," Eleanor stated coldly. "Not a charity case."
Lillian's face flushed dark red. The insult hit her like a physical blow. Her perfectly manicured nails dug so hard into the palms of her hands that the skin turned white.
Lillian quickly pivoted, her voice dripping with venom. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't show your face anyway. Given the rumors about Julian. It's so embarrassing for you, Eleanor. He clearly prefers Isabelle."
Lillian waited for the emotional breakdown. She wanted to see Eleanor insecure, crying over her cheating fiancé.
"Julian's lowbrow extracurricular activities in luxury hotel suites are entirely irrelevant," Eleanor replied calmly. She didn't blink. "As long as the Beaumont political donations clear into the Senatorial trust, he can sleep with whoever he wants."
Lillian was momentarily stunned. Her mouth opened slightly. The sheer, cold pragmatism of the statement short-circuited her brain. She realized, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that she could not use emotional manipulation on a woman who felt no emotion for the man she was marrying.
Eleanor pulled the invitation out from under her fingers and handed it to Clara.
"Arrange a fitting for a bespoke gown," Eleanor ordered. "Something dark. Suitable for camera flashes."
Lillian's chest heaved. "I will tell your father about this. I will tell Robert that you are being uncooperative and hostile to your own family."
Eleanor turned her head slowly. "Do that. And while you have his attention, remind him that his campaign trust is up for my grandmother's review next week. It would be a shame if your monthly allowance was suddenly reallocated to a super PAC."
Lillian took a physical step back. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes widened as the threat landed. She realized Eleanor wasn't just throwing insults; she held actual, devastating financial leverage.
Eleanor turned her back on Lillian entirely. She dismissed the woman's presence as if Lillian were a piece of broken furniture cluttering the hallway.
Clara stepped forward, handing Eleanor the tablet. The screen displayed a grainy paparazzi photo of Julian and Isabelle slipping into the side entrance of the St. Regis.
"Should I have our contacts suppress it?" Clara asked.
Eleanor swiped the tablet screen, enlarging the photo. "No. Let the tabloids run it. Boost the algorithm. I want a public narrative built that Isabelle is a home-wrecking parasite."
Clara smirked slightly. She understood the strategy perfectly. She pulled out her own phone and sent a quick text to their media fixers.
Eleanor checked her heavy Patek Philippe watch. The cold metal against her wrist was a grounding sensation. "I have a scheduled meeting with Genevieve in fifteen minutes."
Lillian, humiliated, ignored, and stripped of her power, let out a frustrated noise. She turned sharply and retreated up the stairs, her heels stomping angrily against the marble.
"Double the security detail around my private quarters," Eleanor instructed Clara, not even looking up as Lillian fled. "Lillian is desperate. Desperate people do stupid things."
Eleanor picked up her tablet. She began preparing her mental arguments for the matriarch. She turned away from the foyer and walked toward the heavy French doors that led to the private gardens.
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7.6
When the Pollard family kicked Alyssa out into the freezing rain, Walter threw a ten-thousand-dollar check into a dirty puddle.
"Take it and get out. Don't ever come back," he sneered.
Her adoptive mother and stepsister stood on the mansion's porch, mocking her as a worthless country girl who tarnished their wealthy name. They laughed, claiming she wouldn't even be able to afford community college and would be begging on the streets in a week.
They looked at her cheap clothes and worn backpack with absolute disgust.
They were completely unaware that for the past five years, Alyssa was the secret mastermind who had built their failing gallery into a multi-million-dollar investment empire.
Every key investment, every fortune they made, came from the anonymous notes she had slipped into their unread books. They genuinely believed they were business geniuses, while treating the true architect of their wealth like a stray dog.
Looking at their smug, arrogant faces, Alyssa didn't feel a shred of sadness, only a cold, sharp irony.
They actually believed they had raised her.
She stepped close, whispered the master code to Walter's most secret offshore account, and watched the blood completely drain from his face.
"I raised you," she said, turning her back on the mansion without hesitation.
Walking into the storm, she pulled out a heavily encrypted phone and gave a single, cold order.
"Initiate a full hostile takeover of the Pollard Group."
It was time to end this little game and step into her true life—as the world's most elusive medical genius, and the long-lost billionaire heiress of the Summers dynasty.
9.3
Chandler was the secret wife of Avery Osborn, a powerful media heir who kept their marriage hidden to avoid the scandal of her illegitimate birth.
After catching him openly flirting with a rival at a gala, Avery mocked her low status and told her she was nothing without his money.
Instead of crying, Chandler immediately signed a zero-payout divorce agreement, left her wedding ring on his glass table, and walked out.
To numb the pain of her shattered life, she went to a notorious underground club.
Drugged by a bartender, she lost her mind and ended up having a wild night with a handsome stranger she mistook for a high-end male escort.
Panicking the next morning, Chandler transferred her entire life savings of $50,000 to the man to buy his silence, then fled to her corporate job.
But at the afternoon executive meeting, her blood ran cold.
The man she had paid off was standing at the head of the boardroom table. He wasn't a gigolo. He was Brennan George, the ruthless new COO of her company.
Cornering her in the women's restroom, Brennan held up a printed copy of her $50,000 wire transfer.
"Wiring a massive sum of cash to your direct superior after a night together is classified as commercial bribery and solicitation," he whispered dangerously.
Chandler was terrified, realizing she had handed him the exact evidence needed to destroy her career and sue her into bankruptcy.
"Marry me," Brennan demanded coldly. "It's the only way to make this HR problem disappear."
9.1
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.
9.5
For twenty years, Krista lived as the perfect daughter of the wealthy Cain family.
But a single DNA report shattered her entire world. Her adoptive parents coldly declared she was just a mistake and immediately replaced her with the true bloodline.
Desperate, she ran through the freezing rain to find her fiancé, only to hear him laughing with his friends.
"Marry a fake? I don't collect the Cain family's second-hand trash."
She slapped him, threw her diamond ring at his chest, and stumbled into a jazz lounge to drown her pain.
Drunk and heartbroken, she accidentally crashed into a stranger, clinging to him like a lifeline, which ended in a wild night in a luxury penthouse.
When she woke up, she realized the man she had ravaged was Jasper Stone, the most ruthless, cold-blooded billionaire on Wall Street.
At the same time, her phone lit up with notifications. Her bank accounts were frozen, and the Cain family had just released a brutal public statement permanently cutting her off.
She was completely abandoned, stripped of her home, her family, and her dignity in a single night. Why was twenty years of loyalty erased so easily?
But instead of kicking her out, Jasper tossed a prenuptial agreement onto the bed.
"Pay off your debt with marriage. Stay, and you are the untouchable Mrs. Stone."
Looking at the contract, Krista wiped her tears, put on bold red lipstick, and signed her name.
7.6
For three years, I played the perfect, docile wife to Brendon Jimenez, desperate for the real family I never had as an orphan.
But during a high-society gala, I peeked through a cracked door and caught him sleeping with my best friend.
When I packed my cheap canvas bag to leave the penthouse, my mother-in-law blocked the door.
She dumped my clothes on the marble floor, called me a stray dog, and slapped me so hard my mouth bled.
Brendon just stood there, watching his mother humiliate me.
To keep me trapped as his perfect public prop, he even faked his mother's heart attack in a VIP hospital suite.
"Get on your knees. Kneel down right now and beg my mother for forgiveness until she decides to accept it."
I gave them my youth and unconditional loyalty, only to realize this prestigious old-money family was nothing but a rotting corpse built on dirty secrets.
I didn't cry, and I certainly didn't drop to my knees.
Instead, I pulled out my phone right in front of him and called my lawyer.
"File for an at-fault divorce. I have proof of his infidelity with Kaelynn Hudson. I want him ruined."
Then, I touched the matte black card hidden deep in my clutch.
It belonged to Kile Barrett, the ruthless billionaire shark my husband feared most, and I was going to use him to tear the Jimenez family apart.
8.2
Casey woke up with a throbbing skull in a glamorous dressing room, facing a public execution by an internet mob.
Her wealthy family had thrown her away. Her hypocritical sister, Coralie, forced a holographic tablet into her hands, demanding she join a deadly survival reality show on a wasteland planet.
"It's what Mommy wants. If you don't sign, you're dead to the Hendersons."
The whole world wanted her dead. On the live broadcast, billions of viewers cursed her as a toxic stalker. The golden boy idol Kayson physically attacked her to defend Coralie's honor. Even the show's staff mocked her, deliberately leaving her with nothing but a torn, broken tent and a single bottle of water for the lethal alien wilderness.
The universe was playing a cruel joke on her. She was framed as the villain of her sister's perfect story, banished to a wasteland where everyone expected her to cry, beg, and die on live television.
But they didn't know she had already survived a decade in the ruins. Casey didn't shed a single tear. Instead, she invoked a hidden contract clause, demanding a full year on the planet instead of the standard month.
"I'll survive for a year, and the planet becomes mine."
She grabbed her broken tent, stepped onto the red alien dirt, and prepared to show the universe what a real predator looked like.