The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire
I woke up in a blindingly white hotel penthouse with a throbbing headache and the taste of betrayal in my mouth. The last thing I remembered was my stepsister, Cathie, handing me a flute of champagne at the charity gala with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Now, a tall, dangerously handsome man walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips. On the nightstand sat a stack of hundred-dollar bills. My stepmother had finally done it-she drugged me and staged a scandal with a hired escort to destroy my reputation and my future.
"Aisha! Is it true you spent the night with a gigolo?" The shouts of a dozen reporters echoed through the heavy oak door as camera flashes exploded through the peephole. My phone lit up with messages showing my bank accounts were already frozen. My father was invoking the 'morality clause' in my mother's trust fund, and my fiancé had already released a statement dumping me to marry my stepsister instead.
I was trapped, penniless, and being hunted by the press for a scandal I hadn't even participated in. My own family had sold me out for a payday, and the man standing in front of me was the only witness who could prove I was innocent-or finish me off for good.
I didn't have time to cry. According to the fine print of the trust, I had thirty days to prove my "rehabilitation" through a legal marriage or I would lose everything.
I tracked the man down to a coffee shop the next morning, watching him take a thick envelope of cash from a wealthy older woman. I sat across from him and slid a napkin with a $50,000 figure written on it.
"I need a husband. Legal, paper-signed, and convincing."
He looked at the number, then at me, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. I thought I was hiring a desperate gigolo to save my inheritance. I had no idea I was actually proposing to Dominic Fields, the reclusive billionaire shark who was currently planning a hostile takeover of my father's entire empire.
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Chapter 2
The alleyway behind the hotel smelled of stale beer and rain.
Aisha leaned against the brick wall, her knees finally giving out. She slid down until she was crouching on the wet pavement, not caring about the ruin of her dress.
She pulled out her phone. Three missed calls from her father. Zero from Kelton.
She dialed Kelton's number. Her fingers knew the pattern by heart.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"You've reached Kelton. Leave a message."
Aisha squeezed her eyes shut. "Kelton," she whispered into the voicemail. "Please. I don't know what happened. I woke up in a hotel. I think... I think Gretta drugged me. Please call me back. I need you."
She hung up, hugging her knees to her chest.
A sleek black sedan rolled past the mouth of the alley. It slowed down as it approached the traffic light.
Aisha's breath caught. It was her father's car. The Bentley.
She started to stand up, desperate to run to it, to bang on the window and beg her father to listen.
But then the rear window rolled down.
Gretta's voice drifted out, sharp and clear in the morning air.
"Useless idiots. They didn't get a clear shot of her face."
Aisha froze. She shrank back into the shadows behind a dumpster.
"It doesn't matter, Mom," Cathie's voice replied. It was light, airy, amused. "The rumor is enough. 'Bartlett Heiress in Drug Scandal.' Daddy is already furious. He's talking about the morality clause."
"Good," Gretta said. "Once she's cut off, the trust defaults to the next of kin. You."
"And Kelton?" Cathie asked.
"Kelton is a pragmatist, darling. He's already agreed to release a statement distancing himself from her. He'll be announcing his engagement to you by the end of the month."
Aisha clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that clawed at her throat.
The light turned green. The Bentley purred and glided away, disappearing into the New York traffic.
Aisha stayed crouched in the filth for a long time.
Kelton wasn't just silent. He was in on it. Or at least, he had been turned.
And her father... her father was letting it happen.
She stood up slowly. Her legs felt like lead, but her mind was suddenly, terrifyingly clear. The shock had burned away, leaving behind a cold, hard rage.
She walked out of the alley and into a 24-hour diner across the street. She ignored the stares of the patrons as she marched into the restroom.
She splashed freezing water on her face, scrubbing at her skin until it turned red. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Her mascara was smeared. Her hair was a bird's nest.
She looked like a victim.
"No," she said to her reflection.
She pulled out her phone again and pulled up the PDF of her mother's trust fund document. She scrolled past the legalese until she found Paragraph 14, Section B.
The Morality Clause.
...in the event of a public scandal involving substance abuse or sexual impropriety, the Beneficiary shall forfeit all rights to the Principal...
But there was a sub-clause. Her mother, god bless her paranoia, had added a safety net.
...unless the Beneficiary can demonstrate a stable domestic partnership through legal marriage within thirty (30) days of said incident, thereby proving a commitment to rehabilitation and family values.
Marriage.
She needed to be married. Immediately.
But to who? Kelton was gone. Her social circle would be closed off the moment the story broke. No man in her zip code would touch her now.
She needed someone who didn't care about her reputation. Someone who needed something she still had-cash flow. Someone desperate.
Her mind flashed back to the hotel room. The towel. The stack of cash on the table. The way he had taken her three hundred dollars without hesitation.
Dominic.
He was handsome. He could pass for high society if he kept his mouth shut. And he was clearly in a line of work where money was the only object.
Aisha checked her bank app. Account Frozen.
Of course. Barry didn't waste time.
But she had a secret stash. Cash in her apartment safe. And jewelry.
She dried her face with a rough paper towel. She didn't have time to cry. She didn't have time to heal.
She had a business deal to make.
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8.8
They say tough situations don't last, but tough people do.
They are bloody liars, whoever said that.
My tough situation didn't make me stronger. It pushed me into the arms of Elias Thorne. CEO of Blackwood Holdings. One of the richest men in the country. And, apparently, my fake husband.
I'm just a contract wife. A transaction. He needs me to secure his standing in the company. He hates me and I don't care. I need his money, his influence, his resources, anything to save my mother's and sister's life.
Forty-five days. Then I walk away.
That was the deal.
No love or feelings. Just business.
But a penthouse is smaller than it looks. And forced proximity has a way of cracking open doors you swore you locked up.
He has his own wounds. His own ghosts. And sometimes, when he looks at me, I swear he's not seeing a contract at all.
Forty-five days.
Either we walk away untouched.
Or we burn.
8.9
My father was marrying a gold-digger, the mother of my cheating ex-boyfriend.
To end the charade, I crashed their luxury wedding with a ten-foot funeral wreath.
In front of hundreds of elites, my father slapped me across the face, calling me a vicious bitch while his new wife smiled in victory.
I triggered the estate's fire system to ruin them, but a terrifying stranger in the VIP section bypassed my military-grade hack in seconds.
He was Kavon Velasquez, a dangerous billionaire heir who had been missing for twelve years.
Instead of exposing me, he shielded me from my father's second blow.
When my pathetic ex tried to drag me away, I grabbed Kavon and kissed him to humiliate my ex.
I shoved a $500,000 check into Kavon's pocket as hush money and left.
I thought that was the end of it.
But why did this apex predator move into the penthouse right next to mine at 2 AM?
Why did he violently crush my ex's face the next morning just for grabbing my arm?
"She is my woman. If you ever come within ten feet of her again, I will bury you."
I didn't understand why a man with lethal skills was suddenly hunting me.
Then I found out he had just blackmailed my father with undeniable proof of corporate money laundering.
His demand wasn't money. It was me.
He ordered my father to announce our engagement by tomorrow sunset, and this dangerous game officially began.
8.5
Billionaire oil mogul Iyke Obiora is a man who has everything-money, influence, and a marriage admired by society. But beneath the polished surface, his empire is cracking. His wife has grown distant, his rivals are closing in, and his secret underground deals could cost him everything.
Then he meets Amara Okoye, a stunning and ambitious school secretary whose quiet charm awakens a hunger he thought long dead. What begins as an innocent encounter soon becomes an all-consuming affair-one that threatens to shatter their lives.
Caught between fiery passion and deadly consequences, Iyke and Amara must face the truth: their love burns too brightly to remain hidden, but stepping into the light may destroy them both.
A tale of power, forbidden desire, and dangerous secrets-Crude Desires will leave you breathless.
9.5
Blaire's mother gave her a ruthless ultimatum: find a husband today, or never call her mother again.
Desperate to escape the suffocating control and disastrous blind dates, Blaire agreed to a fake marriage with a stranger she met through an old woman.
She thought she was marrying a dirt-poor salesman drowning in mortgage debt.
They lived in a rundown Queens apartment and split the living expenses fifty-fifty.
He drove a sputtering Toyota Camry, established extreme territorial rules, and treated her like a gold-digging biohazard.
When she accidentally tripped and spilled hot soup on him, he didn't help her up, instead accusing her of using pathetic tricks to seduce him.
Her own mother even crashed their apartment, ruthlessly mocking his pathetic financial state and calling him a total loser.
Blaire endured his coldness and extreme germaphobia, genuinely pitying him for his stressful, low-paying job.
She refunded his money and defended his dignity, refusing to take advantage of a struggling man.
But she couldn't understand why this supposedly broke guy possessed such a lethal, commanding aura, or why an incredibly expensive cashmere blanket mysteriously appeared on her when she was freezing on the couch.
Until her brother called with a shocking warning.
"Blaire, the name on your marriage certificate belongs to the notoriously secretive billionaire CEO of New York's top financial syndicate!"
Blaire laughed out loud, completely unaware that behind the bedroom door, her "broke" husband was frantically ordering his PR team to bury his true identity.
9.5
I was the heiress to a real estate empire, celebrating my engagement to Douglas at our Manhattan penthouse.
But when I stepped into the master bedroom, I caught him sleeping with my best friend, Krystle.
Before I could even react, Douglas forced me to sign away my family's entire trust fund.
He held up a tablet and forced me to watch a live feed of my parents being burned alive in our Hamptons estate.
"The fire hasn't reached the main house yet, sign it and I'll call them off," he lied.
As soon as the ink dried, he beat me to the ground and locked me in the soundproof study.
He poured twenty-three-year-old whiskey on the carpet and dropped a lit cigar.
"You could have walked away with nothing, but alive," he sneered.
He left me to burn to death while he and Krystle went back to our engagement party to drink champagne.
As the flames melted my skin and my bones shattered against the bulletproof glass, I couldn't understand it.
How could the man who promised me forever brutally exterminate my entire family just for money?
But I didn't die in that fire.
Three years later, with a reconstructed face and a new identity as the mysterious global designer Alice Moreau, I returned to New York.
Watching Douglas and Krystle flaunt the wealth they stole from my family's ashes, I smiled behind my black veil.
It was time to make them pay with everything they had.
9.7
Charity woke up in a hellish, acid-rain-soaked slum, trapped inside a bloated body covered in festering, toxic sores. She was the exiled Grand Princess of the Empire.
But the real nightmare wasn't her ruined body. It was the fact that the original owner had used her royal authority to force genetic marriage contracts onto four top-tier, powerful men.
Now, she was bound to them, and they absolutely loathed her.
Hjalmar, chained to a bed in her filthy room, smiled like a feral beast and promised to rip her head off the second his chains snapped.
Braden, a ruthless military officer, saved her from a mutated rat only to look at her with pure disgust.
"If you want to die, go die somewhere else. Don't dirty my patrol sector."
Even the locals mocked her fallen status, and a wealthy heiress publicly framed her for stealing a hundred-thousand-coin energy core just to see her rot in a dark cell.
She was universally despised, physically repulsive, and a lethal biological toxin gave her exactly 59 days left to live. How was she supposed to survive this absolute hell when her starting affection with her partners was at negative 100?
Then, a mechanical voice echoed in her skull, activating a survival system. To purge the poison, she had to harvest emotional energy by making these four men fall for her. Charity accepted the mandate, unlocked a top-tier culinary skill, and grabbed a rusted meat cleaver to start her counterattack.