The Jilted Heiress: Her Secret Billionaire Life
I returned to the city for the only person who ever truly loved me-my dying grandfather. As the "forgettable" daughter of the wealthy Clemons family, I had spent years hiding my true identity as a world-class elite behind oversized hoodies and a silent, exhausted demeanor.
But the welcome home was a nightmare. My family made it clear I was nothing more than a parasite, unaware that I had just saved a powerful stranger's life on the train or that I was the silent partner of the very club they were visiting.
While they sipped champagne in a VIP penthouse I had secretly upgraded for them, they left me standing outside in a freezing downpour for hours. My cousin Belle recorded me, laughing as she called me a "drowned rat" for her social media followers. My father, Glyn, even sent me a formal notice revoking my access to the family trust, thinking he was cutting off my only means of survival. He had no idea my private bank account held eighty-five million dollars. The betrayal cut even deeper when I discovered the darkest truth: they were swapping my grandfather's life-saving medication for cheap generics just to pocket the extra cash.
I stood in the mud, watching the people who shared my DNA celebrate their greed while they slowly killed the man who raised me. How could they be so blind? How could they treat me like trash while they lived off the crumbs of my secret success?
"Enjoy it while it lasts," I whispered against the cold glass. I was done playing the victim and done hiding in the shadows to protect their fragile egos.
I pulled out my encrypted phone and dialed my head of security. As an armored Range Rover pulled up to the curb and the city's most dangerous man watched me from the shadows, I realized I was done being the "charity case." It was time to show the Clemons family who really owned this city.
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Chapter 2
The man blinked. He looked down at the red stain blooming on the beige fabric of the seat, then back up at her.
"Who are you?" he rasped. His voice was deep, textured like gravel.
"The person keeping you out of a body bag," Dylan replied, not looking up from her black screen. "Apply pressure. I don't have a suture kit."
She reached into her bag and tossed him a clean, rolled-up t-shirt. "Use that."
He pressed the shirt to his side, wincing. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth. "You moved... efficiently. For a civilian."
Dylan finally looked at him. He was handsome, in a devastating, sharp-edged way. Even pale from blood loss, he had the kind of bone structure that commanded attention. But she wasn't interested in his face. She was looking at his hands.
"And you're terrible at hiding," she said.
He managed a weak, charming smile. It was a practiced expression, one used to disarm. "I'm a doctor. With Doctors Without Borders. I... ran into some trouble with a local gang before I got on the train. Loan sharks."
Dylan's eyes dropped to his hands again. They were smooth. Manicured. Except for a distinct callus on his right index finger. The trigger finger.
She smirked. "Sure, Doctor. And I'm the Queen of England."
He paused, the smile faltering. "You don't believe me."
"Doctors Without Borders usually have calluses from work, not from hands too clean, too soft for a field medic. And they don't wear watches that cost more than this train car." She nodded at the platinum timepiece peeking out from his cuff.
The train began to decelerate. The intercom chimed. "Now arriving, Union Station."
The man sat up straighter, adjusting his jacket to hide the blood. The charm returned, cooler this time. "Fair point. What's your name?"
"Dylan."
"Just Dylan?"
"Just Dylan."
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a money clip. "I should pay you. For the silence. And the first aid."
Dylan stood up, shouldering her duffel bag. "Keep your money. Just don't die on my exit. It would be a paperwork nightmare."
She unlocked the door and stepped out, checking the corridor. Empty.
"Wait," he called out softly.
She didn't look back. She walked toward the economy exit, blending into the crowd of commuters.
Anson Hampton watched her go. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, three men in tactical gear materialized from the shadows, flanking him.
"Sir," one whispered. "We secured the perimeter. The targets are neutralized in the closet."
Anson didn't answer. He was watching the girl in the oversized hoodie disappear into the throng. "Find out who she is," he murmured.
Dylan emerged from Union Station into the biting wind of the capital. She scanned the pickup lane. A sleek, black Bentley was idling at the curb.
She walked toward it. The driver honked. Aggressively.
The window rolled down. The chauffeur, a man with a thick neck and a sneer etched into his features, looked her up and down.
"You the Clemons girl?" He spat the name like it was a bad taste. "Throw your bag in the trunk. I'm not opening it for that thing."
Dylan paused. The disrespect was palpable, a physical slap. She looked at the trunk, then at him. She tossed her bag into the trunk herself, the thud echoing.
She opened the back door and slid onto the pristine leather. It smelled of new car and vanilla air freshener-cloying and artificial.
The chauffeur, Mike, stared at her in the rearview mirror. He didn't start the car.
"Don't touch anything," he warned. "Miss Belle just had this detailed. I don't want grease on the seats."
Dylan stared out the window, her expression unreadable. "Just drive."
Mike laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You got an attitude for a charity case. You know they didn't want you coming, right? Glyn told me to leave you if you weren't at the curb in five minutes."
Dylan didn't react. She was used to this. The staff always mimicked the masters. If the Clemons treated her like trash, the help treated her like dirt.
"We're going to The Sanctuary later," Mike bragged, merging into traffic. "Miss Belle is the guest of honor. You're just... baggage."
Dylan's phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a secure line.
"Just baggage," Mike repeated, shaking his head.
"The feeling is mutual," Dylan whispered against the glass. The city skyline rose ahead of them, gray and imposing. She closed her eyes, letting the vibration of the engine rattle her bones.
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8.4
For twenty years, I lived as the adopted daughter of the wealthy Hill family.
But today, they forced me to sign a severance agreement and kicked me out so their precious biological daughter, Malia, could marry my fiancé.
To ruin me completely, they framed me for stealing Malia's engagement bracelet, threatening me with prison.
I calmly exposed the "sapphire" as cheap glass, then rolled up my sleeves to show the reporters my scarred, punctured arms.
For two decades, I wasn't a daughter. I was Malia's living blood and bone marrow bank.
They drained my health to keep her alive, even ordering doctors to ignore my failing organs just so she could attend a gala.
"Take this million dollars and shut your mouth," my adoptive father sneered, throwing a check at my feet.
My ex-fiancé looked at me with disgust, and Malia screamed that I was a crazy, vindictive liar.
They had stolen my life and my health, yet they still looked down on me like I was garbage.
I ripped the check into pieces and threw it in their faces.
Just as they ordered the butler to drag me out, a group of men in black suits shattered the chaos.
The heir of the untouchable Montgomery dynasty stepped through the door, ignoring the Hills' fawning, and handed me a DNA report.
I wasn't a disposable blood bag. I was the long-lost true heiress of old New York money.
And now, I was going to take back everything they stole from me.
8.5
I was Landon Mercer's secret girlfriend and loyal assistant for four years. I thought my absolute devotion would eventually win his heart.
But he casually announced his engagement to a wealthy heiress, reminding me I was just a convenient nobody from an orphanage.
When I got trapped in a horrific car crash and begged him to call an ambulance, he just hung up on me, annoyed that my bleeding was ruining his romantic getaway.
He even blackmailed me with my orphanage's land lease, forcing me to attend his engagement party as a prop.
At the party, his elite family and friends brutally humiliated me.
They deliberately crushed my broken arm, poured red wine over my head, and kicked me into a freezing pond.
When Landon finally pulled me out, he didn't care that I was suffocating and turning blue.
"Are you out of your mind? You come out here and cause a scene during my engagement party?"
He threw a stack of cash at my shivering body, furious that I had embarrassed him in front of his wealthy guests.
Looking at the hundred-dollar bills floating in the muddy water, my four years of foolish love completely died.
To him, I wasn't even human; I was just a cheap toy he could abuse and pass around.
I didn't cry, and I didn't beg.
I dragged my soaked, battered body into a car and headed straight to the penthouse of his biggest billionaire rival.
It was time to burn Landon Mercer's world to the ground.
7.4
My mother was dying and desperately needed a half-million-dollar deposit for an experimental heart surgery by tomorrow.
I swallowed my pride and begged my wealthy husband, Garrick, to save her life.
Instead of helping, he laughed coldly and threw a thick stack of divorce papers right in my face.
"A hen that can't lay eggs gets slaughtered," he sneered, ruthlessly poking my flat stomach.
He revealed that his secretary, my supposed friend Lacey, was already pregnant with his heir.
To him, our three years of marriage was just a business transaction, and now that my family was bankrupt, I was nothing but damaged goods.
He flicked a humiliating five-thousand-dollar check at me as his final act of charity, then locked me out of our townhouse into the freezing, pouring rain.
I had spent years enduring agonizing hormone treatments for a fertility issue that wasn't even my fault, only to be discarded like trash when I needed him the most.
Was my dignity, my absolute devotion, and my mother's life really worth nothing to him?
Driven by pure, reckless desperation, I threw myself directly into the path of a moving Rolls-Royce Phantom on Fifth Avenue.
It belonged to Holden Tillman, the ruthless patriarch of the Tillman empire—and the uncle Garrick lived in absolute terror of.
I thought I was walking into my death, but instead, I became his fiancée, ready to make Garrick and Lacey pay for every tear I shed.
7.7
💕💕💕
She trusted him with everything.
But love was never part of the plan... and neither was death.
Seventeen-year-old Jessica Harts arrives at the University of Gold Coast full of dreams, brilliant, beautiful, and trusting. Andre Blake, her charming "school father," was everything she thought she needed: older, smart, respected... safe.
But behind the charm and quiet smiles was something darker.
Something he kept buried... until it consumed him. And what he promised himself he'd never do again happened a second time.
Only this time... it couldn't be undone.
Now Jess is dead.
And Andre is the only one who knows the truth.
The world believes it was an accident. The whispers say depression.
But someone else knows better... and they're watching.
But Andre? He thought his wealth would cover his tracks.
He thought silence could protect him.
Until Jess's older sister arrives... with questions he can't answer and eyes that saw straight through him. He was hiding something or worse lying.
Secrets don't stay buried.
Guilt doesn't stay silent.
Was it ever love?
Or something much, much darker?
Not Her Biological Father is a haunting billionaire romance thriller set on the golden coast of Australia. A story about twisted desire, broken trust, and the irreversible cost of crossing the line.
7.7
Alondra spent three hours making soup for her husband, only to find him at the hospital tenderly holding another woman's hand.
"I'm four weeks pregnant, Gerard," the woman said softly.
Gerard coldly handed Alondra a divorce agreement, claiming their three-year marriage was just a placeholder because this woman had once saved his life.
Heartbroken, Alondra fled in her car, only to realize her brakes had been completely disabled.
She spun out of control and crashed head-on into a massive delivery truck.
As she lay trapped in the mangled wreckage with her ribs crushed and blood filling her mouth, Gerard's black Maybach pulled up to the curb.
He stared at her dying body through the window with a completely blank expression.
He didn't call an ambulance or even open his door.
He simply rolled up his tinted window and drove away into the rain.
A raw, suffocating hatred burned in her chest, hotter than the pain in her shattered bones.
She couldn't understand how the man she had loved and served so devotedly could just coldly watch her die like a piece of trash.
Opening her eyes again, Alondra gasped for air.
She had returned to the exact morning two years ago, right before she was supposed to deliver that pathetic soup.
When Gerard walked in and threatened her with divorce, she didn't cry or beg.
"I agree. Let's divorce," she said calmly, packing her bags to reclaim her true identity as a billionaire heiress.
9.4
I was the eldest daughter of the powerful Kirk family, sent away to a Swiss sanatorium to recover from my supposed mental illness.
But my stepmother, Johnie, never intended for me to get better. She sent her personal cleaners to drag me onto a plane back to Washington D.C.
In my past life, I didn't know they were assassins. I was forcefully injected with heavy sedatives and locked in a secret torture chamber inside our luxury estate.
My stepmother and cousin skimmed my inheritance while watching me suffer.
They framed me as a crazy addict, and my own father, a sitting Senator, turned a blind eye to protect his political career.
"Her political value is gone, just get rid of her quietly."
That was the last thing I heard my father say before I was brutally slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand why they hated me so much.
Why did my father let them force those pills down my throat?
Why was my life worth less than my stepmother's public image?
Opening my eyes again, the freezing sensation of lake water filling my lungs vanished.
I was back in the VIP room of the St. Moritz Sanatorium in 2023.
It was the exact morning before the cleaners walked through my door with uncapped syringes.
This time, I wouldn't just survive. I was going to cut the throat of the Kirk family.