The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife
My husband stood by the window of his Manhattan office, his silhouette cutting through the storm like a blade. He didn't even look at me as he tossed the divorce papers onto the desk, his voice a cold baritone. "Sign it," Isaiah commanded, "or your brother’s dialysis treatment ends today."
He believed the lie that I had pushed his pregnant mistress down a flight of stairs in a jealous rage. To save my dying brother, I signed the confession and accepted the role of a murderer, trading my freedom for a life of disgrace.
At the funeral, Isaiah forced me to crawl on my knees through the freezing mud to the grave while a mob of mourners spat on me and cursed my name. When I went to prison, his influence followed me into the showers, where inmates told me the King wanted me to "remember my crime" before they used rusty shears to hack off my finger.
Five years later, I was a ghost living in a damp basement with the son Isaiah never knew I had, hiding my mangled hand under a leather glove. When he eventually tracked us down, he didn't show mercy; he tore my son from my arms, calling me an unfit monster and swearing I would rot in a cage.
I couldn't understand how the man I once loved could look at my broken body and see only a criminal, never realizing that every scar I carried was a gift from his own hatred.
As he walked away with my child, I swallowed a bottle of pills to end the nightmare, leaving Isaiah to rip the glove from my hand and discover the mangled truth just as my eyes finally closed.
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Chapter 8
The basement was silent except for their harsh breathing.
Isaiah's hand was wrapped around Karen's left wrist, pinning it to the wall above her head. His fingers were digging into the leather of her glove.
Something was wrong.
His mind registered the sequence in slow motion. The curve of her wrist bones beneath his grip. The flat plane of her palm pressed against the cold concrete. But then, his thumb, applying pressure where the base of her smallest finger should be, met no resistance. The leather simply… collapsed.
It was soft. Empty. An unnatural void where solid bone and flesh should be.
Isaiah froze. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by a deep, unsettling confusion. He squeezed again, his thumb exploring the hollow space, trying to make sense of the tactile lie the glove was telling him.
Nothing. Just air inside leather.
Karen realized what he was doing. Her eyes went wide with a primal terror. It wasn't the fear of him, of his strength, but the terror of being seen. Of having her deepest, most guarded wound exposed.
"Don't," she whimpered, the sound barely a breath.
She tried to yank her hand away, a sudden, desperate bucking of her body.
"What is this?" Isaiah asked. His voice dropped, losing its rage and taking on a sharp, suspicious edge.
"Let go!"
"Are you hiding something?" Isaiah's suspicion flared. Drugs? A weapon? "Open your hand."
"No!"
"Show me!"
He shifted his grip, his fingers fumbling for the edge of the glove.
"Isaiah, please!" Karen begged. It was the first time she had pleaded with him for anything since the day she signed the papers. Her voice cracked with a desperation that went beyond their fight. "Don't look! Please don't look!"
Her reaction was too extreme. It was visceral. It only confirmed his suspicion that she was hiding something dangerous.
"Hoke was living with this?" Isaiah growled, his mind racing to the worst possible conclusions. "What do you have in there?"
He didn't wait. He grabbed the cuff of the black leather glove.
Karen screamed. It was a raw, tearing sound from the depths of her soul. "NO!"
Isaiah pulled.
The glove was tight, damp with sweat. It slid off with a sickening resistance, peeling away from her skin like a second layer.
It came free.
Isaiah looked.
The breath left his body in a single, silent rush.
The light in the basement was dim, a single bare bulb casting long shadows, but it was more than enough.
Karen's hand was pale, trembling against the dark, damp wall. The thumb, index, middle, and ring fingers were there, slender and stained with charcoal.
But the pinky...
It was gone.
It wasn't a clean, surgical amputation. The stump was jagged, a mangled knot of scar tissue that had healed in a twisted, shiny pucker. It looked like it had been hacked off. Or crushed.
It looked like torture.
Isaiah stared at it. His brain stuttered, unable to process the visual information. He blinked, a stupid, reflexive action, expecting the finger to reappear. It didn't.
He released her wrist as if it had burned him. Her hand dropped to her side, limp and exposed.
Karen didn't move. She didn't try to cover it. She just slumped against the wall, tears finally streaming down her face, her chest heaving with silent, violent sobs. She looked utterly, irrevocably broken.
Isaiah took a staggering step back. He felt like he had been punched in the gut, the air forced from his lungs.
"Karen..." he whispered, her name a foreign sound on his tongue. "What happened?"
He reached out, his own hand trembling, with an insane urge to touch the scar, to verify it was real.
Karen flinched away from his touch as if he were a hot iron.
"Don't touch it," she hissed through her tears.
"Who did this?" Isaiah asked. His voice was rising, a chaotic mix of horror and a sudden, confusing rage that had no target. "Did you do this to yourself?"
Karen looked up. Her eyes were red, swollen, and filled with a hatred so pure and bottomless it scorched him.
"You did," she said.
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7.6
The heavy prison gates clanged shut, ending three years. I scanned the empty lot for Julian, my fiancé. Deserted.
Biting December wind my only welcome. Calls to Julian, father, mother: unanswered/disconnected.
Shivering, Julian's tracker showed an unfamiliar Long Island estate. A freezing cab left me penniless; I walked through the blizzard. Through a mansion window, I saw Julian, my stepsister Clara, a small boy—a perfect family. Julian, who hated children, doted on him, and Clara wore *my* engagement ring.
I overheard Julian's call: he, my father, conspired to frame me for Clara’s medical error, saving their company and future. My family hadn't just abandoned me; they plotted my destruction.
A delayed text from Julian popped up, lying about a "cross-border meeting," promising to pick me up tomorrow. Despair vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying smile. Typing "Understood," I turned from their stolen life, walking into the blizzard, fueled by burning rage.
8.2
Warning: this book contains strong sexual content, smuts and explicit scenes and is strictly for readers over the age of 18.
Author pov: To my readers who are wondering if bikers men fuck as much as they ride--yes, they do. but these aren't super-heroes or the cute boy next door.They take.They claim and make you beg for more.
For years, Daisy endured the mistreatment from her husband who was the president of the fallen-saints MC but tragedy struck when he got into an accident and lost his life.But even in his death, her husband showed her how much he hated her, he left everything to the hands of his mistress and the secret son they had leaving her hopeless and penniless.
Broken by his hatred for her Daisy took his death as good fate and decided to start afresh, far away from the life she lived with him. but not until she ran into his rival Christian Blackwood.
Christian Blackwood is the President of the hell-hounds motorcycle club and the perfect definition of a devil in human clothing. He is known to be ruthless , cold and most importantly without emotions and her husband sworn enemy.
But somehow Daisy finds herself in the world of the man she was warned never to cross.
The man who suddenly lurks in her shadows and wants her all to himself.
Somehow she finds hers back in the world she vowed to run away from but this time it was just any world it was his world.
Feelings become obsessions and obsession burns into something unthinkable.
Rules are broken and rivalry's are heightened and not just that dark secrets are unveiled.
7.1
Princess Aurelia Blackwood has spent her entire life learning how to obey.
As the sole heir to a modern royal dynasty, her future has already been written, strategic alliances, a public marriage, and a crown that allows no room for personal desire. Love is a luxury she was never meant to claim.
Everything changes the day she meets Dr. Elara Voss, the academy's newest senior lecturer.
Calm, brilliant, and devastatingly attractive, Elara represents everything Aurelia should avoid. Their connection is immediate, unsettling, and impossible to ignore. What begins as restrained conversation and stolen glances soon deepens into something far more dangerous, an emotional bond that threatens duty, reputation, and the crown itself.
The age gap, the hierarchy, and the rules of the monarchy stand firmly between them. When their forbidden relationship is exposed, Aurelia is forced to choose between the life she was born to live and the woman she was never meant to love.
Because some hearts are not meant to be ruled.
Some crowns are meant to be rewritten.
And some love stories are worth breaking tradition for.
8.4
Evelyn Rowe never thought she could survive Victor Blackthorn nor his fists, especially since her unborn baby didn't.
But what she didn't expect was to be saved by Dominic Russo, after being publicly blamed for her miscarriage and humiliated in front of the world.
Finally finding the strength to divorce Victor, and the path to become the independent woman she always wanted to be, Evelyn becomes unstoppable.
What no one expects is for three dangerous men to claim her: the heir apparent to the British throne, the billionaire who rules the corporate world, and a mafia lord who bows to no one.
They were enemies at first, but for her, they became lovers.
And when her ex-husband finally realizes what he destroyed, she already belongs to kings who would do everything in their power to keep her.
8.3
Adaline Whitmore becomes the price for her father's betrayal when she is forced to live under the roof of the ruthless billionaire Ronan Frost, the man who lost everything because of her family.
But neither of them knows one truth. She is the same girl who once saved him years ago.
As everything begins to change and secrets come to light, the line between punishment and desire fades. Now Ronan must choose between his need for revenge and the woman quietly stealing his heart.
9.4
Dorene survived a terrifying night with a bleeding, dangerous intruder in her hotel penthouse, only to receive a far more devastating blow the next morning.
A black and gold envelope arrived. It was an engagement invitation. Her boyfriend of seven years, Kadyn, was marrying her sweet, innocent best friend, Dolly.
Refusing to hide, Dorene crashed the gala in a blood-red gown. But Dolly was ready. Grabbing Dorene's wrists, Dolly purposely threw herself backward into a tower of champagne glasses, shrieking about her stomach and her unborn baby.
"If anything happens to Dolly or my child, I swear to God, I will destroy you!"
Kadyn roared, holding the weeping Dolly in the broken glass. He didn't ask a single question. He branded Dorene a jealous monster. To completely break her dignity, he publicly handed her over to the city's most notorious, sleazy playboy just to appease Dolly's fake tears.
"Give him a shot," Kadyn told her coldly.
Seven years of love were ground into the marble floor. She was framed, publicly humiliated, and discarded like trash by the two people she trusted most.
Dorene didn't shed a single tear. She gave them a smile of pure, freezing mockery and walked out of the gilded cage into the freezing Manhattan night. She didn't know that as she left, the lethal, blood-stained man from her penthouse was watching from the shadows, ready to help her burn their world to the ground.