The Jilted Ex-Wife's Undercover Billionaire Assistant
Carlee signed the divorce papers without a second of hesitation, ending a three-year marriage to a billionaire husband she had never even met.
She walked away with nothing, publicly cutting ties with both the Vaughan empire and her toxic family to launch her own jewelry design studio.
Her family immediately retaliated. They mocked her as a useless, abandoned trophy wife and ruthlessly blacklisted her new company from every major supplier in the city, intent on forcing her to crawl back.
Exhausted but defiant, she hired a handsome, seemingly broke valet she bumped into outside a hotel to be her personal assistant.
She even bought him a tailored suit, pitying his maxed-out credit cards and his desperate need for a paycheck.
But things quickly stopped making sense.
Why did this humble assistant possess such lethal combat skills, effortlessly snapping a two-hundred-pound bodyguard's wrist to protect her?
And why did top-tier luxury store managers bow to him in absolute, trembling terror?
"Whatever is happening, I will handle it."
Carlee found a foolish comfort in her poor assistant's reassuring voice.
She had absolutely no idea that the man sitting at the wobbly desk in her cramped office was Braden Vaughan—her legally divorced ex-husband. And the ruthless billionaire was currently orchestrating a global financial massacre from the shadows, entirely obsessed with clearing her path to the top.
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Chapter 7
Carlee leaned back in her leather chair. She reached out and took the manila envelope from Braden's hands.
She pulled the single sheet of paper out and smoothed it flat on her desk.
Her eyes dropped to the top of the page. The name was printed in bold, black ink: Braden Vaughan.
Carlee's entire body went rigid. The breath was punched out of her lungs. Her pupils dilated as she stared at the surname that had haunted her for three years.
The air in the small office instantly turned to lead. Lena, sensing the sudden, violent shift in the atmosphere, stopped breathing and took a step back.
Braden stood perfectly still in front of the desk. His hands hung loosely at his sides. His dark eyes watched her face, waiting for the explosion.
Carlee snapped her head up. Her eyes were sharp, furious daggers.
"Why is your last name Vaughan?" she demanded, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
Braden didn't flinch. He let out a soft, self-deprecating sigh. He reached up and pushed his cheap glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"It's a curse, honestly," Braden said, his tone dripping with exhaustion. "I'm from a distant, entirely disowned branch of the Vaughan family. My grandfather was cut off decades ago, and we haven't seen a single dime of their money since, but the name still brings me nothing but endless trouble." He offered a bitter, perfectly crafted smile. "I saw the Page Six article this morning. Believe me, my landlord has been making jokes about me being the 'blind heir' all day while simultaneously demanding my overdue rent."
Carlee stared hard into his eyes, searching for a lie. Her brain spun rapidly.
She had never cared enough to learn her husband's first name. But her logic quickly built a wall. The man who controlled the global Vaughan empire would never stand in a cramped office wearing a stiff, cheap suit, begging for twenty-five dollars an hour.
The logic clicked into place. The tension drained from Carlee's shoulders. She let out a harsh scoff.
"It's a disgusting name," Carlee muttered, looking back down at the paper.
Braden's eyes darkened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of wicked amusement dancing in the black depths. He kept his face perfectly humble.
Carlee flipped to the second page. She saw the photocopies of three maxed-out credit card statements. A brief flash of pity softened her eyes.
She folded her hands on the desk, instantly shifting into a ruthless boss. She began firing off questions.
She threw impossible scenarios at him-scheduling conflicts, PR nightmares, hostile client negotiations.
Braden answered without missing a beat. Drawing on a decade of crushing corporate enemies, he stripped the problems down to their core logic and offered flawless, brutal solutions. He spoke with a calm, unshakeable rhythm.
Carlee's eyes widened. The admiration in her chest swelled. She was completely captivated by this man who was so brilliant, so handsome, and yet so desperately poor.
She slammed her hand flat on the desk. "You're hired. One month probation. Lena will show you the ropes."
Braden bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, Ms. Barron." Even in the cheap suit, the movement carried a terrifying, aristocratic grace.
Lena led Braden out to a tiny desk in the outer room. She dropped a massive stack of data entry forms next to his keyboard.
Braden sat down. The cheap ergonomic chair wobbled violently under his weight. He stared at the outdated monitor, his jaw clenching in disgust.
But he cracked his knuckles and started typing. His fingers flew across the keyboard with terrifying speed.
Through the blinds, Carlee watched him work. A massive, uncontrollable smile broke across her face. She had found a diamond in the rough.
During the lunch hour, Carlee walked toward the breakroom to get coffee.
As she approached the door, she heard Lena's voice. "So, Braden... do you have a girlfriend?"
Carlee's feet stopped dead. Her stomach plummeted. She held her breath, pressing her back against the wall.
"I'm married," Braden's deep voice replied instantly.
A sharp, ugly spike of jealousy pierced Carlee's chest. Her jaw tightened. She stepped into the doorway, her face a mask of cold fury.
"Keep your personal life out of my office," Carlee snapped, glaring at him.
Braden looked up from his coffee. He saw the raw jealousy burning in her eyes. The dark, possessive beast inside him purred.
He leaned against the counter, his eyes locking onto hers with intense, suffocating heat.
"Don't worry," Braden murmured, his voice thick with double meaning. "My wife is an extremely difficult woman to deal with."
Carlee's heart did a violent flip. The sheer heat in his gaze made her skin burn. Unable to hold eye contact, she grabbed her mug and practically ran back to her office.
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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.
9.7
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.
8.0
Finley's stepfather gave her a sickening ultimatum: marry her predatory stepbrother Shane tonight, or he would throw her fragile mother out on the street.
To escape this hell, she used a matchmaking agency and hastily married a complete stranger. Garrison Strickland claimed to be an ordinary data analyst making $95,000 a year, driving a beat-up Honda Civic, and needing a wife in name only. They got their marriage license at City Hall that very afternoon.
But when Finley returned home to pack her bags and threw the certificate on the table, her family just laughed. Dozier ordered Shane to drag her into the bedroom to "teach her a lesson" and trap her forever.
"Come on, little sister," Shane crooned, lunging at her. "Don't fight it."
Finley's own mother just stared at the floor, blaming Finley for ruining the family, watching blindly as Shane cornered her.
Terrified and desperate, Finley smashed an ashtray over Shane's head and frantically dialed her new husband's number. Shane snatched the phone, mocking the "imaginary husband" before the line went dead. Finley felt a bottomless despair. Garrison was just a normal guy; he would never risk his life against her violent family. She was completely on her own, waiting for the end.
Suddenly, deafening bangs echoed through the house, and Garrison stepped into the living room radiating a cold, terrifying fury. This supposedly "frugal data analyst" effortlessly snapped Shane's wrist, leveled a ruthless death threat that made Dozier tremble, and whisked Finley away in a waiting Bentley. Looking at the powerful man beside her, Finley's heart raced: just who exactly had she married today?
7.8
Andrea was trapped in a suffocating marriage with billionaire Gregory Morse, forced to live as the pathetic substitute for his dead fiancée.
When armed intruders broke into their estate in the dead of night, she called her husband in pure terror.
"Stop playing these cheap, attention-seeking games," Gregory sneered with disgust, and hung up the phone.
She barely escaped with her life, but the cruelty only escalated. At the family mansion, his dead fiancée's sister deliberately scalded Andrea's hand with boiling tea. Instead of defending his wife, Gregory publicly humiliated her, ordering her to clean up the mess while calling her a stray dog.
That night, hiding in the dark wine cellar, Andrea overheard a chilling confession.
Gregory admitted to his brother that he knew Andrea was completely innocent of the car crash that killed his fiancée. He knew she had been framed.
Why did he marry her? Just to use her as a psychological punching bag to vent his twisted grief. He watched her suffer every single day, treating her like disposable trash, while violently threatening anyone who showed her an ounce of kindness.
He thought she was just a useless, helpless shadow who would quietly endure his torment forever.
He had no idea that behind her submissive facade, she was secretly Madame Lan, the apex predator of the global fashion world. And now, she was ready to burn his empire to the ground.
9.7
For three years, I played the role of a devoted, naive wife to billionaire Conrad Whitney. I hid my true identity and foolishly believed in our fairy tale.
Then he handed me a harsh divorce agreement, ordering me to sign and walk away with absolutely nothing. He was leaving me to marry Cindy, the fragile woman he claimed had saved him from a fire.
He expected me to cry and beg. Instead, he watched coldly as Cindy and her family illegally transferred my father's trust fund. When I confronted them at the hospital, Conrad shielded her, calling me a greedy, toxic viper. He mocked me, completely blind to the fact that Cindy was a fraud. He truly believed I was just a pathetic, useless housewife who would be utterly destroyed without his money and status.
I looked at the man I had actually dragged out of that burning debris with my own soot-covered hands. My trauma, my sacrifices, and my love had all been reduced to a joke by his sheer arrogance and a few fake tears from a manipulative liar.
I didn't shed a single tear. I calmly signed the papers, drugged his wine, and left a crumpled one-dollar bill on his unconscious chest with a sticky note mocking his terrible service.
Then, I picked up my encrypted phone. It was time for the world's top surgeon, Dr. Hades, to return, and for Conrad to finally see the god he had just thrown away.
9.4
Aria Mcgee was the unwanted second daughter of a decaying Long Island family.
To save their bankrupt corporation, her father and older sister drugged her. They shoved her into a town car and delivered her to a ruthless Wall Street billionaire's bed like a piece of meat.
They expected her to be the perfect sacrifice. The original Aria had no access to her own trust fund and was forced to live in a windowless broom closet. Even worse, a cold, synthetic System voice echoed in her skull, demanding she play the tragic, helpless female lead. It ordered her to endure her family's abuse and suffer the billionaire's humiliation to force a pathetic romance plotline.
"Host must follow the tragic trajectory and achieve the ultimate painful romance."
But the soul that woke up in that bed wasn't a weak, frightened girl. She was a dead Hollywood Oscar-winning actress. Why would a top-tier professional ever agree to play the weeping victim in such a garbage, B-list script?
Instead of trembling in fear as the System commanded, Aria looked at the billionaire and smiled. Using her flawless acting skills, she shattered his ego, extracted a hundred thousand dollars, and walked right out the door. Now, she was heading back to the Mcgee estate, ready to rip her money from her father's greedy hands and burn her sister's life to the ground.