The Betrayed Heiress And Her Genius Comeback
I skipped my final lab review in Geneva and endured a fourteen-hour flight to surprise my husband for our fourth wedding anniversary.
Instead, looking through the window of our beachfront estate, I saw him playing the perfect, loving father to a "tragic widow's" daughter, kissing the widow with practiced, casual intimacy.
Fleeing in pure panic, I got into a horrific car crash.
Waking up in the VIP hospital room, I kept my eyes shut and heard my husband talking to his best friend right beside my bed.
"She's just a party girl who knows how to swipe a black card. I only play the part because I need her father's proxy vote for the IPO."
"Every time I have to touch her in bed, it feels like a corporate obligation. It makes me sick."
Later, even my own father demanded I step down from my company role and publicly welcome the mistress, just to protect the family's investment in the upcoming ten-billion-dollar IPO.
Four years of marriage and quiet humiliations, all reduced to a calculated lie. They all thought I was just a brainless, hysterical socialite who could be easily manipulated and discarded.
They didn't know that the core anti-aging algorithm his entire empire relied on was secretly built by me.
I calmly pulled out my phone and texted my divorce lawyer.
"I want him bankrupt. On the day his company rings the bell, I am going to burn his entire life to the ground."
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Chapter 10
The entire PR department held its breath. The silence was heavy, thick with anticipation.
Golda stood tall in her Dior suit, basking in the glow of her stolen authority.
Bridget didn't answer right away. She let her eyes travel slowly from the hem of Golda's skirt up to the collar of her jacket. Her gaze was clinical, dissecting Golda like a frog on a lab table.
Bridget stood to her full height. In her heels, she towered over Golda.
"Golda," Bridget said, her voice ringing out crisp and clear across the open floor. "The waistline on that Dior pre-fall jacket is bunching. The tailoring is atrocious."
Golda's smile faltered.
"Which makes sense," Bridget continued, her lips curling into a razor-sharp sneer, "considering I bought that exact suit last week, decided the color made me look washed out, and returned it to the boutique. You're wearing my off-the-rack rejects."
A collective gasp rippled through the cubicles.
Golda's face burned crimson. Her hands flew to her sides, clutching the fabric of the skirt as if trying to hide it.
Tinsley stepped in front of Golda, her face red with anger. "You've been demoted! You don't get to talk to the Director like that! You can't even read a basic spreadsheet!"
Bridget's eyes snapped to Tinsley. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop.
Bridget reached down with her uninjured left hand and grabbed the stack of financial PR reports Tinsley had dumped on her desk. She flipped open the cover, careful not to stretch the stitches hidden beneath the bandage on her right palm. Her eyes scanned the numbers for exactly two seconds.
She slammed the report directly into Tinsley's chest using her left hand, her rigid posture absorbing the violent momentum perfectly. Tinsley stumbled back, clutching the binder.
"Page three, row two," Bridget snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "You proposed a brand partnership with a C-list reality star who was just photographed doing lines in a club bathroom. That association alone would tank our prestige image before the IPO."
Tinsley's mouth fell open.
"Page seven," Bridget stepped forward, backing Tinsley up. "Your venue choice for the launch gala is the Pierre ballroom. How utterly pedestrian. The ceiling height won't accommodate the media lighting, and the guest list you drafted puts our biggest rival's CEO at the same table as our lead investor. That is a social and corporate suicide mission."
Bridget pointed a manicured finger at the final page.
"And your summary sheet," Bridget sneered, her voice echoing off the glass walls. "You approved a visual campaign using a color palette and font that looks like a discount pharmacy ad. You are a tasteless, aesthetically illiterate glorified waitress."
Tinsley was paralyzed. The color drained completely from her face. She couldn't form a single word to defend herself against the barrage of high-level financial terminology.
The elevator doors at the end of the hall pinged open.
Jayson strode out, flanked by two senior executives. He had come down to make sure Bridget wasn't causing a scene.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
He saw Tinsley trembling. He saw Golda humiliated, clutching her ill-fitting suit.
And he saw Bridget. She stood in the center of the room, radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying competence. She didn't look like a spoiled socialite. She looked like an apex predator.
Bridget turned her head and locked eyes with Jayson.
There was no anger in her gaze. No sorrow. Just the cold, calculating stare of an executioner.
She picked up the ruined, coffee-stained report from her desk and tossed it onto the floor at Jayson's feet.
"Leash your dogs, Jayson," Bridget said, her voice dripping with ice. "Before they bankrupt your company before you even ring the bell."
Bridget turned on her heel. The crowd of employees parted instantly, stepping back in awe and fear as she walked perfectly straight down the aisle.
Jayson stared at her retreating back. His heart seized in his chest. A cold, creeping terror crawled up his spine, whispering a question he was suddenly too afraid to answer: Who the hell did I marry?
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9.0
On their seventh wedding anniversary, Kiley's billionaire husband, Aden, slid a thick stack of papers across the restaurant table.
It was a petition for divorce.
He was leaving her for his college sweetheart. Thanks to a ruthless prenup, Kiley was being thrown out with absolutely nothing.
That very night, their young son Jules was rushed to the ER, bleeding profusely. The doctor's diagnosis was a death sentence: acute leukemia.
When Kiley frantically called Aden for help, he dismissed the emergency as a simple nosebleed.
"I'm not paying for this. Deal with it," Aden sneered, the sound of his mistress giggling in the background.
To force Kiley to sign the divorce papers, Aden froze all her credit cards and canceled their son's health insurance. He refused to pay a single cent for the chemotherapy.
Even Kiley's adoptive parents sided with the wealthy Aden, calling her a burden and telling her to stop fighting him.
Driven to the brink of despair, with a dying child and no money, Kiley didn't understand how a father could be so monstrous to his own flesh and blood.
Until a news article on a friend's phone caught her eye.
It featured a fallen 9/11 firefighter hero from the ultra-wealthy Whitfield family. The man in the photo looked exactly like Jules, down to the very bone structure.
Kiley's mind raced back to the fertility clinic and the anonymous sperm donor.
Could this dead billionaire hero be her son's biological father?
Looking at her sleeping, fragile boy, Kiley wiped her tears and crushed the divorce papers in her hand.
She was going to find the Whitfield family, save her son, and make Aden lose everything he held dear.
7.2
For three years, I was imprisoned by Anderson Hopper, the monster who forced me to watch my fiancé, Kendall, plummet into a freezing river.
But when I saw the morning news, I realized Kendall wasn't dead. He had returned as Eben Gill, a ruthless tech billionaire.
I risked my life to escape and find him, only to be met with eyes full of absolute hatred.
He publicly humiliated me, dragged me to the exact bridge where he "died," and sneered at the C-section scar on my stomach.
"Anderson Hopper's bastard," he spat, completely unaware that the baby was actually his—the very child Anderson had murdered in the operating room to break me.
To make matters worse, Anderson used Kendall's dying mother as a hostage to force me back into my cage.
I knelt on the freezing asphalt, begging the man I loved to just visit his mother, while he coldly ordered his driver to run me over.
I had lost my baby, my freedom, and my dignity, all to protect him from Anderson's blackmail. Why was I the one being tortured and treated like a traitor?
"Don't think your little kneeling stunt earned you my forgiveness."
He whispered those cruel words before walking away without looking back.
Staring at his cold, retreating figure, the last shred of my love finally turned to ash.
That night, under the cover of a torrential storm, I bypassed the estate's laser grids and walked out into the dark.
9.3
"Adrian, why would you lie to me? Why would you let her push my mum like that?"
Yvonne's voice trembled, holding back tears.
Adrian smirked. "Wake up, Yvonne. You really thought I wanted you when Tricia was right here?"
That was how Adrian-her first crush, the boy she thought cared-chose to humiliate her in front of everyone as she was the cleaner's adopted daughter.
But fate had other plans.
Because the Diamond Belfort brothers-the heirs everyone adored were coming to their school in search of their missing heiress- baby sister. But the queen bee steals the chance that should have been hers. Then again, secrets don't stay buried forever. With her true identity waiting to explode, Yvonne must decide to rise from the ashes, claim her place, and bring down everyone who tried to destroy her.
Because the real heiress doesn't beg.
She takes rather.
Now, Yvonne is done playing small. It's her time to rise, reclaim her crown, and make everyone regret ever doubting her.
8.6
Marrying Theron Draix in a few days was a life long dream come true.
For seventeen years, I'd loved him, revolving my life around him, and in just three days, we should be married.
"Let's break up. I won't be attending the wedding," he said.
My life shattered in that instant.
Finding out he was in love with my adopted sister was worse. They had played me and controlled my emotions.
At the end, Mireya had killed me.
If I was given a second chance, I would never love Theron and never trust Mireya.
9.7
"This is not a game." As I wrapped my arm around her waist, I slipped my hand under her dress.
"What are you doing?" She froze, eyes like a deer caught in the headlights.
Kissing the back of her ear, I whispered, "Do you want me to take it out now?" I rubbed my finger against her pussy. As expected, she was soaking. A blaze of lust and need swept through me. My cock was hard, pressed against her ass. "You're drenched, my love. I know you enjoy it. Stop fighting it. Give in. Submit to your desire."
***
TARA
A family practice forces me to run away from home, leaving me disgraced and my family in shame.
Just when I start making new friends, someone threatens to expose who I am and the person behind my nom de plume. The condition- a contract marriage, the very same reason I fled from.
So, what's so different this time? Mad Shanewood- the achingly handsome, with waving red flags, an irrefutable passion, or a magnetic attraction?
With my secrets still haunting me, now the whole world is watching, and our delicately fragile public image is at stake.
After a glimpse beneath his shallow exterior, there is a damaged soul who makes me feel as if I'm everything to him.
And how is it that the one thing I never wanted has me fighting so hard to keep?
***
MAD
I always get the deal done until my recklessness has thrown the company into a tailspin, derailing my path to a billion-dollar project.
With my image under brutal public scrutiny, marriage is my last straw.
Tara Montimer not only intrigues me. She's selfless, kind-hearted, and sexy as hell. And something deep in her eyes makes me question if I'm worthy to be her husband.
For me, it seems that it's not just fixing my reputation anymore- the entrancing deposed princess didn't only steal my breath away. She penetrates the protective wall around my heart that I built for years.
Our goals may be aligned. But then there's a disapproving father who is a King, a law, and constant threats that prevent us from getting married.
Will this razor-thin edge arrangement be enough to fix what's been broken, or is something between us worth fighting for?
7.4
For five years, I abandoned my status as the heiress of the powerful Montgomery family to play the role of a poor, submissive housewife for Barrett.
Then, a bank notification popped up on my phone. Barrett had forged my digital signature and transferred our entire $50 million joint trust fund to a woman named Crista Reid.
When I called his boardroom to confront him, he humiliated me in front of a dozen Wall Street executives.
"Stop acting like a hysterical housewife. You're living in a penthouse I pay for, so don't embarrass yourself."
I broke into his encrypted laptop and uncovered the sickening truth. Crista was his mistress, and they had a five-year-old son together.
Barrett hadn't just stolen my money; he had spent years painting me as a helpless charity case he rescued, completely erasing the fact that my financial models built his entire company.
He thought I was just a discarded peasant he could manipulate, cheat on, and replace. He truly believed he held absolute power over my life.
He had no idea that I still possessed the highest security clearance of the Montgomery empire.
I pulled an old BlackBerry from a hidden wall compartment, plugged it in, and dialed my family's lawyer.
"Draft the prenup for Commodore Clayton IV," I ordered, choosing to marry Wall Street's most ruthless predator. "I'm done playing the peasant."