The Billionaire’s Contract: Revenge On My Ex
I was a top-tier model with a fiancé I trusted to manage every cent I earned. I thought we were building a life together until a blown fuse at the studio sent me home twenty minutes early.
The silence of the penthouse was broken by a trail of clothes: Haywood’s silk tie, then a red-soled stiletto that belonged to Brandy, the girl I had mentored like a sister. Through the bedroom door, I watched the man I loved tell his mistress that I was "yesterday's news" while they tangled in the sheets I had picked out six months ago.
I didn't scream; I just turned to leave, but the betrayal went deeper than the bedroom. When I checked my banking app, my balance was exactly $12.45. Haywood had liquidated every holding account and savings entry I owned, using a "tax strategy" he’d convinced me of to steal my entire past.
Within hours, the man who robbed me was planting stories in the press, claiming I was having a drug-fueled breakdown. He wanted me penniless, homeless, and discredited so no one would believe the truth. He even tried to force me into a "rehab" facility to silence me forever while he promoted his pregnant mistress.
I stood on a New York curb with nothing left but a desperate, insane idea born from a headline on my phone. Isham Rhodes, the most ruthless CEO in the city, needed a wife by thirty to keep his empire, and I needed a shield to survive mine.
"Mr. Rhodes, I hear you need a puppet," I said, intercepting him in the rain outside City Hall. "I don't want your love. I want a legal document that makes me untouchable."
He didn't ask for a romance; he asked for my ID. Now, with a billionaire’s black card in my pocket and a marriage certificate in my hand, I’m going back to the agency to take back everything they stole. The war has just begun.
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Chapter 5
Hester stepped out of the bathroom, wrapping a thick, charcoal-colored robe around herself. The fabric was plush, swallowing her slender frame. The master suite was cavernous-minimalist design, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, and a single, massive bed in the center.
Isham was sitting on the balcony, a laptop balanced on his knees. The wind from the ocean whipped at his white dress shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. He was typing.
Hester approached the glass doors. She hesitated, then slid one open. "Do we...?" she started, gesturing vaguely at the bed.
Isham stopped typing. He closed the laptop with a snap. He looked at her, his gaze clinical. "We are married, Hester. But I don't force things. And I don't sleep with business partners until the merger is complete."
He stood up and walked into the room. Under the harsh light of the chandelier, he noticed something. He reached out, his hand stopping inches from her arm.
"Who did that?"
Hester looked down. There was a dark, purple bruise blossoming on her upper arm, shaped like four fingers. It was from where Haywood had grabbed her backstage, warning her to be Brandy.
She pulled her robe tighter, covering it. "Old news."
Isham's jaw tightened. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You are Mrs. Rhodes now," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Your body is a billion-dollar asset. No one damages the merchandise. Not even you."
The phrasing was cold, objectifying. It should have offended her. But as he turned to the bedside table and retrieved a jar of medicinal ointment, his actions betrayed his words.
He stepped closer. "Arm," he commanded.
Hester hesitated, then let the robe slip down her shoulder. Isham dipped his fingers into the jar. The ointment was cool, smelling of menthol. His touch was surprisingly gentle. He rubbed the salve into the bruise with slow, circular motions. He didn't look at her face; he focused entirely on the injury, treating it with the precision of a restoration artist working on a damaged painting.
Hester felt a strange flutter in her chest. It wasn't romance. It was the shock of being cared for, even transactionally. Haywood had never noticed her bruises; he had only caused them. Isham’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second over the bruise, his jaw tightening. He said nothing, but the silence felt heavier than any promise.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Isham wiped his hand on a tissue. "Sleep," he said, pointing to the bed. "Tomorrow, the war resumes."
"Where will you sleep?"
"The couch," Isham said, moving toward the sprawling leather sectional in the corner of the room. "I work late."
Hester climbed into the massive bed. The sheets were cold. She watched Isham settle onto the couch, opening his laptop again. He was a fortress. And for tonight, she was inside the walls.
Meanwhile, in the Mckee Penthouse, the sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the hallway.
Brandy screamed, throwing a Ming vase-fake, like everything else in the apartment-against the wall.
"Stop breaking things!" Haywood shouted, grabbing her wrists. "We're bleeding money! The investors are pulling out because of the 'Mystery Model' confusion!"
"She blocked me!" Brandy shrieked. "I tried to DM her to tell her she's fired, and she blocked me!"
Haywood pushed Brandy onto the sofa. "Listen to me. We control the narrative. If she won't talk to us, we make sure no one listens to her."
"How?"
"We say she's crazy," Haywood said, his eyes lighting up with a desperate idea. "We say the 'Mystery Walk' was a breakdown. That she hijacked the show because she was jealous of your pregnancy. That she's mentally unstable."
Brandy wiped her nose, a cruel smile spreading across her face. "And drugs," she added. "Say she's on drugs. That's why she's so thin."
Haywood hesitated. That was a career-ender. A nuclear bomb.
"Do it," Brandy urged. "Destroy her value. If she's toxic, no agency will touch her. She'll have to come crawling back to us for scraps."
Haywood nodded slowly. He picked up his phone and dialed a contact at the Daily Mail.
"run the story," he said. "Former model Hester Irwin has a psychotic break at Fashion Week."
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8.9
I sold myself into a loveless marriage for $500,000 just to afford my little niece's life-saving surgery.
But my new husband, Kash, despised me, completely convinced I was a shameless gold-digger after his assets.
At 2:00 AM, he called to demand I fulfill my end of our twisted bargain: giving him an heir.
He forced me to sign a supplementary agreement surrendering all custody rights before I was even pregnant, treating me like a rented womb he bought at auction.
When my niece's condition suddenly worsened and I desperately begged him for a $50,000 advance, he hurled a black credit card directly at my face, leaving a stinging red welt.
"Take the money and get out," he sneered, his eyes filled with absolute disgust.
He immediately set up real-time transaction alerts to track my every purchase, waiting to catch me on a selfish shopping spree.
He thought I was a parasite, completely unaware that every single penny went straight to the pediatric intensive care unit.
Even my abusive former guardians cornered me at the fertility clinic, loudly mocking me for selling my body while my niece was dying.
I endured the degrading contracts, the cold IVF appointments, and Kash's relentless contempt, suffocating under the weight of his cruel assumptions.
Why did he have to strip away my dignity when he already owned my life on paper?
But as I clutched the hospital receipt that finally secured my niece's surgery, the fear inside me died.
With a new career starting tomorrow and a high-powered lawyer suddenly stepping in to audit my stolen inheritance, I was done playing the helpless victim.
I was going to show my arrogant husband exactly what happens when you push a desperate woman too far.
8.9
I returned to New York for my welcome-home party, expecting a warm embrace from Edwin, my devoted fiancé of twenty years.
Instead, his first words to me were a cold, public warning to stay away from his new girlfriend, Kacy.
He stood in my family's hotel, shielding a girl I had never even met, and painted me as a vicious, jealous bully.
"She is very sensitive, Kaitlyn. Her background is tough. Please, be gentle with her. Don't upset her."
He humiliated me in front of our entire elite circle, allowing them to mock me as the aggressive, discarded ex while he carried her away like a fragile princess.
For twenty years, I had been his loyal shadow, fixing his mistakes and loving him unconditionally.
I couldn't understand how decades of deep devotion could be instantly erased by a few crocodile tears and a manipulative damsel act.
He was absolutely certain I would throw a tantrum, cry, and eventually crawl back to beg for his attention.
But he was wrong.
He didn't know that Everett Rowe, a billionaire tech mogul, had been patiently waiting five years to marry me.
He also didn't know that during my three years abroad, I wasn't just studying art—I became "K.B.", the ruthless Wall Street predator who could swallow his family's empire whole.
I calmly pulled out my phone, ignored the mocking whispers around me, and typed a single message to Everett.
"Yes. I'll marry you."
8.2
BLURB:
The job was simple; to preserve the past. But Isla never expected her own past to walk through the door of the Thorne Estate.
Isla Campbell lands a career-defining project as a historian for organizing the archives of the Thorne estate, a task critical for a high-stakes foundation review. Her client, Cade Thorne, is the dedicated and undeniably handsome heir to a legacy he strives to honor and keep.
But on her first day, Isla is met with a shocking surprise: her boss, Cade, is the charming stranger she shared a fleeting, unforgettable night with just days before. Now, the undeniable spark between them threatens to ignite, risking the professional integrity of the project and the future of the very estate Isla was hired to protect.
As their passion deepens and secrets unravel, they must choose between the history they're preserving and the future they're dangerously close to writing together despite the odds. What happens when Isla finds out she is also a Thorne?
9.5
Elena's world crumbles when she finds out her husband, Alex, has been cheating on her. After confronting him, he doesn't show regret; rather he demands for a divorce and she walks away for good, giving up her marriage and the career she carefully built.
To move on, she strikes an unexpected deal: a contract marriage with Max, who turns out to be Alex's past rival.
But just as Elena begins to rebuild her life, Alex realizes what he lost-and wants her back.
But Elena isn't the same woman he once knew and she is not alone anymore.
8.0
She gave him her innocence. He gave her a mark she could never escape.
Five years ago, Elena's world shattered when she was betrayed by everyone she loved. Left homeless and heartbroken, she found fleeting solace in the arms of a devastatingly handsome stranger-a single night of raw, primal passion that became her secret touchstone of strength.
Now, she's rebuilt her life from the ashes, fighting to provide for her young son. But every door she tries to open slams shut, sabotaged by a powerful, unseen force.
That force is Dax Valiente.
Billionaire. Alpha. Obsession.
As a human girl, Elena has never expected what awaits her when she walks into the Valiente Group.
That ruthless man was not just her new Boss, but the werewolf king who wants her to be his.
7.7
I stood in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown, waiting to seal the merger of the century between the Singleton and English families. Everything was perfect, fragile, and obscenely expensive.
But minutes before the ceremony, my brother burst into the bridal suite looking like he’d seen a ghost. He handed me a crumpled note from Jeffery, the man I was supposed to marry.
"I can’t do it," the note read. "I’m choosing love." Jeffery had fled to Paris with another woman, leaving me to face two thousand guests and a family legacy that would plummet forty percent by Monday morning.
Harrison Singleton, the family patriarch, didn't offer sympathy; he offered a cold ultimatum. The wedding would happen, with or without Jeffery. He stepped aside to reveal Declan Singleton, the "Wolf of Wall Street" who had spent the last year ruthlessly stripping my father’s companies for parts.
To save my family from bankruptcy, I had to walk down the aisle and marry the man I hated most. At the altar, Declan didn’t just say "I do"; he claimed me with a kiss so possessive it felt like a sentencing.
The humiliation was physical, a knife twisting in my gut as the world watched the "hostile takeover" of my life. I was a spoil of war, traded to a predator who believed in leverage over love.
Then, Jeffery called, weeping about his mistake and begging to come back. I looked at the massive, perfectly-sized diamond Declan had already prepared for me and realized this wasn't a coincidence.
I wiped away my tears and straightened my emerald silk. If I had to live in a cage, I was going to make sure I had the sharpest teeth.
"Let's go to war," I whispered to my new husband.