The Disguised Heiress And Her Obsessive Tycoon
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I joined a brutal wilderness survival reality show, playing the perfect role of a pathetic, uneducated girl from a trailer park.
I needed the five million dollar prize to fund my revenge against the wealthy family that drove my father to his death.
I played everyone flawlessly. I outsmarted the arrogant contestants, ruined a corrupt restaurant owner, and secured enough food to guarantee my absolute victory.
But just as I was dominating the game, a massive black helicopter landed in our camp.
The show's new billionaire sponsor had arrived, and he immediately ordered his tactical guards to confiscate every ounce of food I had earned.
My hard-won advantage was wiped out in seconds. The other contestants cheered, pointing at my empty hands.
"Take that, you greedy bitch!"
But the real nightmare wasn't the stolen food or the sudden rule change. It was the man who stepped out of the chopper.
Glenn Ryan. The ruthless CEO from my past life as an elite heiress.
He took off his sunglasses, his dark eyes locking onto my muddy shoes and frayed flannel shirt with a terrifying, obsessive smirk.
Why was he here? Why did he instantly target me the moment I started winning?
He didn't just know my true identity.
He had bought this entire game just to hunt me down.
The Disguised Heiress And Her Obsessive Tycoon Chapter 1
The hydraulic doors of the production bus hissed open, spitting a cloud of dry California dust into the air.
"Welcome to the ultimate survival challenge!" Trey Vance, the host, shouted into a drone camera hovering inches from his face.
Anabelle Garcia stepped out of the bus. Her cheap canvas shoes sank immediately into a patch of thick, foul-smelling mud.
The drone zoomed in, the red recording light blinking aggressively. It hovered right at chest level, capturing every frayed thread of her faded flannel shirt.
She knew exactly what the live chat looked like right now. Millions of viewers typing out jokes about how she looked like a refugee who had just crawled out from under a trailer park porch.
She ignored the buzzing machine. Her eyes darted across the desolate campsite, mapping the terrain, calculating wind direction, and locating the natural rock formations that could serve as windbreaks.
A heavy designer duffel bag swung hard into her shoulder.
"Move it, trailer trash," Kody Reid muttered. He squeezed past her, his expensive cologne masking the smell of the dirt.
The impact sent Anabelle stumbling forward. She caught her balance, her right thumb pressing so hard into her index finger that the knuckle turned stark white. Her stomach muscles clamped down.
A flash of memory hit her-the sickening thud of her father's body hitting the pavement, and those scattered documents fluttering in the wind like pale, dead butterflies. Her chest tightened, the cold air trapping violently in her lungs. She forced the breath out through her teeth. Revenge wasn't a loud, screaming thing. It was cold. It was quiet.
She lifted her head and pasted on a wide, nervous smile.
"Sorry about that," she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound pathetic.
Kody sneered, puffing out his chest for the camera. "Just stay out of my way."
Camila Finch stepped off the bus next. She reached out and grabbed Anabelle's arm, her perfectly manicured nails digging into Anabelle's skin.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" Camila asked, making sure her face was angled perfectly toward the drone.
Diego Oconnor leaned against a dead tree trunk a few yards away. He adjusted his dark sunglasses, his jaw tight, watching the fake display with obvious disgust.
Blaze Kline stumbled down the bus steps last. His skin was a sickly gray. "I haven't eaten in three hours," he groaned, clutching his stomach.
Trey Vance blew a shrill silver whistle. The sharp sound cut through the complaints.
"Five million dollars," Trey yelled. "That is what the last person standing will walk away with."
Greed lit up Kody's eyes. Camila gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
Anabelle kept her face blank. In her head, she was already deducting the federal and state tax brackets, calculating the exact net payout. It was enough to fund the first phase of her legal war against the Edwards family.
"But first," Trey smiled, a vicious, practiced expression. "Hand over everything. No cash. No credit cards. No personal items."
Two massive security guards stepped forward carrying black plastic bins.
"You can't take my watch!" Kody yelled, backing away. "It's a limited edition!"
The guard didn't speak. He just held out the bin until Kody cursed and unclasped the heavy gold timepiece, dropping it in.
When the guard stopped in front of Anabelle, she didn't hesitate. She unzipped her faded backpack and dumped the contents into the bin.
A half-empty pack of generic tissues. And a thick, scratched flip phone with a shattered screen.
The guard stared at the pathetic pile.
Anabelle kept her eyes down, playing the part. That broken phone was her shield. She had destroyed her real devices weeks ago, erasing every digital trace of the heiress she used to be. Let them think she was poor. Let them underestimate her.
"Rule number one," Trey announced, pacing in front of them. "No jobs. You cannot work for a wage. You survive on your wits."
He handed each of them a plain white plastic card.
"This is an emergency medical card. It has a zero balance. Use it only if you are dying."
The sun dipped below the mountains, and the temperature plummeted instantly. The desert cold bit into Anabelle's skin, raising goosebumps on her arms.
The contestants scrambled toward the five rusty military cots set up in the center of the camp.
Kody shoved Blaze out of the way, throwing his body onto the cot closest to the unlit fire pit. He smirked, already imagining the warmth of the flames, mentally claiming what he assumed would be the VIP spot once the fire was going. He ran a hand through his hair, looking smug.
Camila let out a fake sob, shivering violently. "Can someone please trade with me? I'm so cold."
Diego ignored her, taking the cot furthest to the left.
Anabelle didn't speak. She walked past the fire pit and headed straight for the darkest, most broken-down cot shoved against a massive boulder.
She gathered handfuls of dry, dead grass and stuffed them under the thin canvas mattress. It was a basic insulation technique. The boulder would block the northern wind, and the elevated ground would keep the morning frost away.
A red infrared light blinked from a camera hidden in the brush, tracking her precise, efficient movements.
She lay down, pulling her thin jacket tight.
At 4:00 AM, the camp was dead silent.
Anabelle's eyes snapped open. She didn't stretch. She didn't yawn. She rolled off the cot in one fluid, silent motion and walked away from the camp, heading straight for the black asphalt of the highway.
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The Disguised Heiress And Her Obsessive Tycoon of Contents
New Release Novels
7.3
I found out my husband of three years had cheated on me and his mistress is the one who told me-because he didn't have the balls to do it himself.
I move out and get a new apartment, a job as a bartender, and try to move on with a broken heart. I wonder where it all went wrong, if I hadn't been enough for him, if I'd been stupid for marrying him in the first place.
I'm at work one night when he walks inside-the most beautiful man I've ever seen. He sits at the bar and a forest fire burns between us. I was depressed the moment before he entered, but the second I look at his blue eyes, I forget the dumpster fire that my life has become. I invite him back to my place and it's the most passionate night of my life. I expect to never see him again.
I just want him as an anti-depressant-but he wants me all to himself. I just got my heart ripped out of my chest so I want something easy and no-strings-attached, but he wants all the strings because he's hooked.
I don't get much of a say in the matter, and that's not surprising when I learn why-because he's the Butcher. The crime lord of all crime lords, the boss that overshadows all of Paris, that makes everyone abide by his rules-or pay.
And now I'm his.
9.1
He postponed putting my name on the deed 18 times.
Each time, his mentee Ciera had an “emergency.” Each time, he ran to her.
I watched him give her his prized Montblanc pen—the one he wouldn’t even let me borrow. I saw her post their late nights on Instagram. I ate anniversary dinners alone while he “mentored” her.
Then he bought me a necklace—identical to the one she just flaunted online.
That was when I stopped feeling anything.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight. I simply packed two suitcases, resigned from our firm, and booked a one-way ticket to London.
He thinks I’m coming back in a week.
He has no idea I’m gone for good.
Nineteen broken promises. One silent goodbye. And a new life waiting across the ocean.
8.3
On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news.
He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city.
The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.”
For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets.
My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me.
So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts.
He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked.
He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree.
He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.
7.3
Ten years ago, I was banished from my pack, branded a whore and a traitor for allegedly drugging and stealing my sister's fated mate.
Now, I was summoned back because my father, the Alpha who disowned me, was dying from a poisoned attack.
Standing by his deathbed, a locked memory finally surfaced—I didn't drug anyone. My husband and I were both victims, poisoned with wolfsbane to force our mating.
But before my father could reveal who orchestrated the setup, his heart monitor flatlined.
My brother instantly shoved me to the ground, pointing a trembling finger at my face.
"You killed him. I will hunt you, I will break you, and I will make your life a living hell."
Even my husband, Kieran, the man I was forced to marry to save our unborn child, walked right past me in the hospital corridor.
He didn't spare me a single glance, choosing instead to gently comfort my mother while I sat bruised and shattered on the cold floor.
I didn't understand why my own family hated me so blindly, and I understood even less who had framed me a decade ago.
What terrified my father so much in his final moments that he couldn't even speak the culprit's name?
Watching my cold husband walk away with the family that abandoned me, the last shred of my naive hope died.
I wiped my tears and stood up. This time, I was going to tear this pack apart to find the truth.
8.5
Alexandrea woke up with a splitting headache in a strange hotel bed, terrified to find a brutally handsome, half-naked stranger beside her.
Before she could even scream, the door burst open. Her adoptive mother, Ivette, stormed in with a swarm of reporters and flashing cameras.
"How could you disgrace our family name like this?"
Ivette sobbed, putting on a theatrical performance of a heartbroken mother. It was a setup to completely ruin Alexandrea's reputation in front of New York's elite.
For ten years, Alexandrea had lived in a house of horrors. Her back and arms were covered in silvery scars and puckered cigarette burns left by Ivette's vicious abuse.
Yet to the public, Ivette had carefully crafted Alexandrea's image as a wild, ungrateful, and manipulative liar.
Trapped under the duvet, Alexandrea was drowning in shame, her voice lost in the storm of accusations.
She didn't understand why her adoptive family hated her so much, treating her worse than a stray dog while using her brother's future to keep her chained.
But what she understood even less was the stranger beside her.
Instead of panicking, the man slowly sat up, his presence alone silencing the frantic room. He was Ace Griffith, the billionaire heir who owned half of Manhattan.
He wrapped his suit jacket around her trembling shoulders, looked Ivette dead in the eye, and dropped a bomb.
"I will be marrying her."
Then, he carried Alexandrea away from her ten-year prison, ordering his men to dig up the Terry family's darkest secrets and her true identity.
9.0
I spent a year scrubbing floors in my fiancé’s club, hiding my identity as the daughter of the Capo dei Capi.
I needed to know if Connor Bishop was a King worth merging empires with, or just a puppet.
The answer came walking in wearing a neon pink dress.
Jaden Juarez, a civilian he was infatuated with, didn't just treat me like a servant; she deliberately poured scalding espresso over my hand because I refused to be her valet.
The pain was blinding, my skin blistering instantly.
I video-called Connor, showing him the burn, expecting him to enforce the code of our world.
Instead, seeing his investors watching, he panicked.
He chose to sacrifice me to save face.
"Get on your knees," he roared through the speaker. "Beg her pardon. Show her the respect she deserves."
He wanted the daughter of the most dangerous man on the East Coast to kneel to his mistress.
He thought he was showing strength.
He didn't realize he was looking at a woman who could burn his entire world to ash with a single phone call.
I didn't cry. I didn't beg.
I simply hung up the phone and locked the kitchen doors.
Then, I dialed the one number everyone in the underworld feared.
"Dad," I said, my voice cold as steel. "Code Black. Bring the papers."
"And send the wolves."
