The Billionaire widowers Last Wife
They say marrying Cassian Blackmoor is a death sentence.
Seventeen wives. Seventeen funerals. One widower no one can explain.
They call him cursed. They call him dangerous. Some call him a murderer who hides behind wealth and silence. But no one can prove anything - and no one dares accuse a billionaire who buries his wives with the same calm devotion he once loved them with.
Eloise Laurent knows the rumors. She knows the whispers. She knows the stories about the widower whose brides never live long.
Instead, she falls for him.
For the quiet sadness in his eyes.
For the way his voice softens only for her.
For the way he loves like he's terrified of losing her.
And maybe he should be.
But when she discovers a hidden grave bearing her own name, Eloise realizes something far worse than rumors is waiting for her inside his house.
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Chapter 1
"He killed her."
That whisper cut through the chapel. sharp, thin, and once it was out there, it couldn't be unsaid. No one turned. Not all the way, anyway. Grief demanded you keep yourself together, and keeping yourself together meant pretending you didn't hear things that made the room feel colder.
"They all die," someone muttered. "Every single one of them."
A man next to the speaker hissed, "Angela, keep your voice down."
"Why?" The first voice didn't drop. "Everyone's thinking the same thing."
Eloise Laurent heard every word, though. Her hand tightened on her handbag until the leather squeaked, but she let go before anyone noticed. She kept her face forward, her expression calm, like she belonged there in all that black silk and polite mourning.
She didn't.
She wasn't family. Not a friend. No invitation. She was just curiosity dressed up for a funeral.
Up front stood Cassian Blackmoor. The man rumor had turned into something part flesh, part ghost story. He stood beside the coffin of his latest dead wife.
Closed lid. White roses. Silver handles so shiny they caught the candlelight and shook it like nerves. The whole setup looked intentional, elegant, and expensive.
So did he.
His suit fit perfectly, like it'd been sewn just for him. Broad shoulders, straight back, hands at his sides, still in a way most people never are unless they've practiced. Black hair slicked back, jaw set. not in anger, not in grief, just steady. Controlled.
He didn't look strong.
He looked worn out in a way sleep couldn't fix.
The priest talked quietly about peace and mercy, about how death wasn't really the end. The words drifted around, light as smoke. Nobody clung to them.
Eloise didn't listen. She watched Cassian.
She didn't mean to. She couldn't help it. Something about the way he stood pulled her attention. Not wrong, not guilty. something stranger. Like gravity bent toward him, like the air itself played by different rules around him.
Another mourner leaned in close: "I heard the last one fell down the stairs."
His companion whispered back, "This one, they said it was fever."
Eloise didn't turn. The voices didn't matter. The words did.
Every single one.
Her eyes went back to Cassian. Seventeen marriages, people whispered. Seventeen funerals. All different stories. Accidents, sickness, bad luck, fate. Patterns hide themselves well.
The priest's voice softened. "Please stand."
Chairs scraped. Fabric rustled. Somewhere behind her, a woman sobbed, too raw for a room this careful. Someone hushed her. Someone sighed.
Eloise stood with the rest.
Cassian didn't move.
Not when the prayer ended. Not when the first mourner stepped forward. Not when the condolences started up, soft and practiced.
A gray-haired man squeezed his shoulder. Nothing.
A woman dabbed at her eyes and tried to say something kind. Cassian didn't nod.
A younger man gripped his arm. Cassian didn't blink.
It wasn't indifference. It was something else, like he'd locked away something dangerous and thrown out the key on purpose.
Eloise's pulse thumped once, hard, in her throat.
She should've been scared.
But really, she just felt aware.
She noticed his stillness, the way people gave him space, the heavy air around him, as if it pushed back when you got too close.
One by one, mourners left, their whispers trailing out with them.
Eloise stayed put.
Leave, she told herself.
Her feet wouldn't obey.
The last mourner stepped away. Silence settled.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Eloise stepped into the aisle.
Her heels made a single, soft click on the floor. She shifted her weight and tried to walk more quietly. She went to the coffin first because that's how it's done.
A photo stood on an easel. The dead woman smiled behind the glass. Bright eyes, smooth skin, beautiful in that permanent, untouched way only pictures manage.
Eloise met that smile for a moment.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, not sure who she was talking to, or why.
Then she turned to him.
Up close, Cassian was worse.
Not scary.
Just present.
He was tall enough that she had to tilt her chin up, and his presence hit her like warmth from a fire she hadn't noticed until she was too close. He kept his eyes down, somewhere over her shoulder, refusing to see her or anyone else.
Eloise swallowed.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said, keeping her voice low.
She made sure it didn't waver. That mattered to her.
Cassian didn't respond.
She wondered if he'd even heard. Then his fingers curled at his side, just once, slow and careful, like he'd caught himself before anything could slip.
Her stomach dropped.
He saw her.
Not out of politeness. More like instinct.
Eloise dipped her head, cutting the moment short before it turned into something else, and started to go.
One step.
Another.
The chapel lights flickered-just a blip. Probably nothing, but she caught it. Her eyes lifted to the chandeliers overhead, their crystals still and glittering above all those bowed heads.
Nothing moved.
She kept going.
Behind her, fabric rustled. Barely a sound. Just a shift in the air.
Cassian turned.
He didn't hesitate. Every move was precise, like he wasn't asking permission from anyone.
Eloise felt it, even before she saw it.
She glanced back.
His eyes were on her.
Not lazy. Not curious. Focused. Unblinking.
Her breath snagged.
He didn't look gentle. He looked like he'd just noticed something that didn't fit.
His gaze swept over her face, quick and clinical, never resting long enough to be rude, like he was scanning for answers only he could see.
Eloise's back straightened on its own.
The rest of the chapel faded.
Cassian lifted his hand, not reaching for her, just turning his ring hard against his finger, like the metal burned.
Then his eyes darted past her.
Checking, searching.
Eloise shifted, trying to follow his gaze.
Nothing. Just mourners in black, heads lowered, the kind of hush that pretends to be respectful.
She looked at him again.
For the first time, his composure slipped.
Only a flicker, nothing anyone else would catch.
But she saw it.
A flash. Urgent and sharp.
His lips moved.
No sound.
Run.
Her heart hammered.
She didn't move.
Cassian's jaw clenched.
Someone shifted behind him.
Eloise's eyes jumped past his shoulder and landed on a woman alone in the front pew.
Black pearls. Perfect posture. Makeup untouched. Bright eyes, curious in a way that had no place at a funeral.
The woman met Eloise's stare and smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
It was known.
Cold washed down Eloise's spine.
She stepped back.
Cassian watched her, calculating distance, time, risk.
The woman in pearls tilted her head, like she'd just confirmed something.
Eloise turned and left.
Not rushing and not running. Just steady, measured steps toward the doors. Every sense stretched thin, aware of every sound, every shift in the room.
Behind her, the whispers started again, sharp and eager.
"Who is she?"
"Did you see him look at her?"
"She came alone."
She grabbed the door handle.
Pushed.
Light spilled in.
For a moment, she thought she'd made it.
Then the reflection in the glass caught her. The woman in pearls, right behind her.
Still smiling.
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8.4
Kloe Guthrie dragged her crystal-encrusted wedding gown down the penthouse corridor, exhausted but ready to finally be alone with her new husband, Justen.
But as she passed the presidential suite, a familiar, cloying perfume stopped her. Through the cracked door, she saw Justen brutally thrusting into her cousin, Candyce.
"Like fucking a corpse with Kloe," Justen grunted, his voice thick with lust. "Worth it for the trust fund control, though."
Candyce giggled, mocking Kloe's pathetic gratitude.
Shattered, Kloe stumbled backward in the dark, only to be caught by Julian Larsen—Justen's billionaire best man.
Instead of offering sympathy, Julian trapped her against the wall. He forced her to listen to her husband's cruel mockery, then dragged her into the opposite suite, tearing off her wedding dress and dismantling her dignity piece by piece.
Everything she had believed for four years was a meticulously calculated lie.
She was nothing but a boring prop to the man she loved, a naive fool meant to be drained of her family's immense wealth and laughed at behind closed doors. The humiliation and betrayal burned through her veins like acid.
"You could cry," Julian whispered against her neck, his eyes predatory and dark. "Or you could make him regret he was ever born."
Instead of running from the man cornering her in the dark, Kloe looked at the destroyed remains of her life, grabbed Julian's collar, and pulled him in.
This time, she would make them all pay.
8.1
I was the "fallen princess" of New York, living in a charcoal silk cage while paying off my father’s millions in debt with my own body. My owner was Braxton Kensington, a man who looked at me with the same cold interest he gave a fluctuating stock graph.
One morning, a New York Times alert shattered the silence: Braxton was getting engaged to a billionaire socialite in the merger of the decade. When I demanded my freedom and the five-million-dollar severance promised in our contract, he just smirked and pointed to the fine print.
"In a court of law, an engagement is just an intention," he whispered, gripping my chin until it bruised. "Until I sign that marriage license, you belong to me."
He flicked a black AmEx at my feet like I was a tragic charity case, ordering me to buy a dress for his engagement gala. To save my dying mother from eviction, I took a secret translation job, only to realize my client was his new fiancée, Caroline. She dragged me to Braxton’s office to humiliate me, and after he hid me in a secret room to avoid a scandal, he branded me a "security risk" and froze every cent I had.
I stood in a CVS with my last sixty dollars, swallowing a Plan B pill dry while watching a news report about Braxton demolishing my family’s last legacy. He didn't just want my body; he wanted to erase my entire existence and leave me with nothing.
The cruelty was breathtaking, but Braxton forgot that a woman with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous player in the game. I reached out to the only man he truly feared—his billionaire half-brother and the boy whose heart I broke years ago, Ansel Neal.
"Coffee isn't enough," Ansel replied to my message in seconds. "Dinner. Our old spot. 8 PM."
As I walked into the club to meet Braxton's greatest rival, I knew the game wasn't over. I was just changing the rules.
8.7
I spent three years building my husband, Axel Farrell, into Silicon Valley's ultimate "family man." As his lead PR strategist, I carefully managed his public image, making sure the world saw him as a perfect, devoted husband while I worked in the shadows of our estate.
The illusion shattered when he came home one night smelling of sandalwood and roses, with three deep fingernail scratches carved into his back. When I tried to check his phone, the passcode we had used for years-our wedding anniversary-had been changed.
The betrayal got worse the next morning when his mother called me a "defective product" and tried to force me into a fertility clinic. Axel didn't defend me; instead, he shoved me against a marble bar at a public gala to protect his mistress in front of the world's elite. By the time I tried to leave, Axel had frozen my bank accounts and filed a forged legal petition to have me declared mentally incompetent.
He planned to have me legally kidnapped and locked in a private psychiatric ward just to stop me from filing for divorce. He even blocked every major law firm in the city from taking my case, leaving me with no money, no identity, and no one to turn to.
I couldn't understand how the man who "saved" me from the mud years ago could be the same monster now trying to legally erase my existence. Was our entire marriage just a grooming process to exploit my genius for his billion-dollar empire?
As the deadline for my forced commitment approached, I stopped crying and opened my laptop. I leaked the video of his affair to every tech journalist in the country, watching his stock price crash in real-time.
"Axel thinks starving me out will make me crawl back to him," I whispered as I walked into the headquarters of his biggest rival.
"But he forgot that the most valuable part of his company is in my head."
I was no longer the abandoned wife; I was the one who was going to take his throne and burn it to the ground.
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."
9.7
Eliana Rivera is the firstborn daughter of business tycoon Cassian Rivera. When her father's company falls into debt, he marries her off to the arrogant and ruthless billionaire, Alexander Grayson, as part of a business contract and under the threat of blackmail.
Alexander, the billionaire CEO, never planned to marry, but the pressure of blackmail forces him into a union with a woman he barely knows. Although Eliana doesn't see Alexander as her ideal partner, she agrees to the marriage out of a sense of duty.
Once engaged, however, he barely acknowledges her presence and harbours disdain for her because of her father's actions and their relationship. But as they navigate their newfound relationship, the unexpected desire for each other's touch ignites-a twist neither of them planned, leading them toward an unforeseen love.
7.8
On the day she married, Alina unknowingly took the place of the Hayes family's daughter and became Kellan's wife, the richest man in town who was rumored to be disfigured.
Everyone mocked their doomed marriage, expecting misery and disgrace.
Instead, Alina revealed brilliance no one expected-a renowned jewelry master, financial genius, and medical prodigy.
The woman the Hayes family ignored was actually the heiress they should have treasured.
As regret consumed them and her ex begged for another chance, Kellan stood beside her, now devastatingly handsome.
"Alina and I are perfect together. Stay away from my wife."