The Phantom Heiress: His Secret Obsession
After eighteen years, I finally returned to the billionaire Warren family, only to be treated like uneducated, rust-belt trash.
My stepmother shoved me into a freezing, windowless room, and my half-sister Kelly bought me an $89 plastic dress to humiliate me at the family's high-society gala.
When her petty bullying failed, Kelly took it a step further. Standing at the top of the grand marble staircase, she grabbed my wrist, screamed, and intentionally threw herself down the steps in front of hundreds of elite guests.
Lying in a pool of her own blood, she pointed a trembling finger at me.
"She pushed me! Corrie tried to kill me!"
The entire ballroom erupted in disgust. The guests called me a psychopath. My biological father, purple with rage, raised his hand to strike me, while my stepmother hid a victorious smirk behind her fake tears.
They thought they had perfectly framed the feral country bumpkin.
But they had no idea who they were dealing with.
They didn't know I was "Night God," the dark web's most legendary underground surgeon and hacker, currently being hunted by New York's most ruthless billionaire.
I didn't panic. I didn't cry.
I calmly pulled out my heavily encrypted phone and projected a crystal-clear, un-hackable security feed onto the ballroom's massive LED screen.
"Let's see the replay," I said.
Watching the color drain from their faces was just the beginning. I was going to tear this entire toxic family apart to find out who really burned my mother alive.
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Chapter 4
Brad sat at the massive dining table, aggressively chewing a piece of dry toast.
He heard Kelly's high-pitched voice echoing from the hallway. He swallowed hard, a nasty smirk spreading across his face.
"Shopping?" Brad called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Make sure you put down some plastic sheets in the Porsche, Kel. You don't want her bringing rust-belt fleas into the leather."
Corrie walked past him without breaking stride. She didn't look at him. She didn't flinch. She moved with the silent, heavy grace of a predator ignoring a barking chihuahua.
She walked straight to the espresso machine on the marble counter. She grabbed a mug and hit the double-shot button, watching the black liquid pour out.
Dean glided into the kitchen, the heels of her slippers clicking softly. She had clearly heard the entire exchange.
Dean's face immediately morphed into a mask of overwhelming maternal pride. She walked over to Kelly and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, Kelly, that is so thoughtful of you," Dean cooed, her voice loud enough to ensure Corrie heard every word. "Taking your sister under your wing. That shows true class."
Dean reached into the pocket of her silk robe. She pulled out a heavy, matte-black American Express card and pressed it into Kelly's palm.
"Take this," Dean instructed, her eyes darting toward Corrie's back. "Buy her something... appropriate. Don't worry about the price. We need her looking presentable for the gala."
Corrie lifted the mug to her lips. The scalding black coffee burned her tongue, but she didn't wince. Over the rim of the cup, she watched their reflection in the polished steel of the refrigerator. She saw the secret, malicious look that passed between mother and daughter. It was a look of shared, toxic excitement.
An hour later, Corrie was strapped into the passenger seat of Kelly's obnoxious, cherry-red Porsche 911.
The engine roared as Kelly sped out of the estate gates.
At that exact moment, two hundred miles away, the deafening roar of helicopter rotors tore through the sky over Pennsylvania.
Barron Griffin's private chopper descended rapidly, kicking up a massive cloud of brown dust and trash as it landed in an empty dirt lot on the outskirts of Blue Cloud Creek.
The town was a decaying corpse of the industrial era. Rusted silos and boarded-up storefronts lined the cracked asphalt.
Barron didn't wait for the rotors to stop. He threw open the door and jumped out, his black overcoat whipping violently in the downdraft. Two massive bodyguards flanked him instantly.
He held a military-grade tablet in his hand. A red dot blinked on the screen, marking the exact GPS coordinates of the IP address Arthur had traced.
Barron marched down a broken sidewalk, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He stopped in front of a collapsed, abandoned auto repair shop. The roof was caved in, and the stench of stale urine and rotting tires hung heavy in the air.
He lifted his leg and kicked the rusted metal door. The hinges screamed, and the door crashed inward, kicking up a cloud of toxic dust.
The inside was empty. A few stray cats shrieked and scrambled out through broken windows.
Barron's eyes scanned the darkness. In the far corner, resting on an oil-stained workbench, was a computer tower.
He walked over to it. The casing was melted. The motherboard inside had been physically destroyed by a localized thermite charge. It was nothing but a lump of scorched plastic and silicon.
Barron's stomach dropped. The realization hit him like a physical blow to the chest.
He had been played. The IP address was a ghost. A remote-controlled zombie terminal designed to waste his time. Night God was never here.
Before Barron could destroy the workbench in a fit of rage, Arthur's phone rang.
Arthur answered it. Within three seconds, all the blood drained from his face. He looked like he was about to vomit.
"Sir," Arthur choked out, his voice trembling so violently he could barely form the words. "It's the hospital in New York. Leo... he found out you left to find the doctor. He slipped past the security detail. He got on a Greyhound bus."
Barron's heart stopped. A cold, paralyzing terror gripped his throat.
"Where is he?" Barron roared, grabbing Arthur by the lapels of his suit, nearly lifting the man off his feet.
"The bus terminal logs show he got off in Philadelphia, sir," Arthur gasped. "He's on the streets. Without his medication."
Barron shoved Arthur away. He spun around and sprinted back toward the helicopter, his lungs burning.
"Get us in the air!" Barron screamed at the pilot. "Philadelphia! Now!"
Back in Philadelphia, Kelly didn't drive toward the high-end boutiques of the city center.
Instead, she merged onto the highway, driving forty minutes out into the rundown, industrial suburbs. She pulled the Porsche into a pothole-filled parking lot in front of a massive, warehouse-style building.
The neon sign above the door flickered, buzzing loudly: Chic Outlet - Everything Must Go!
Kelly killed the engine. She turned to Corrie, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her face.
"Here we are!" Kelly chirped. She pinched her nose slightly, pretending to block out the smell of the parking lot. "This place has the best deals. It totally matches your... vibe."
Corrie unbuckled her seatbelt. She didn't say a word. She just got out of the car.
They walked through the sliding glass doors. The air inside smelled strongly of cheap plastic and industrial carpet cleaner. Racks upon racks of garish, poorly made clothes were crammed together under harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights.
A bored sales clerk chewing gum looked up. Seeing Kelly's designer clothes, the clerk immediately stood up straight.
"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.
Kelly pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Corrie. "Yes. I need to find something for my poor relative here. She's from the country. Something sparkly."
Kelly marched over to a clearance rack. She aggressively shoved hangers aside until she pulled out a dress.
She turned around and practically threw the garment at Corrie's chest.
Corrie caught it. She looked down at the fabric.
Her eyes instantly went cold. A sharp, dangerous thrill shot down her spine.
It was a royal blue evening gown, completely covered in cheap, plastic rhinestones.
But Corrie didn't see the rhinestones. She saw the cut. She recognized the asymmetrical neckline and the draping of the waist.
It was a knockoff. A horrific, butchered, sweatshop-produced counterfeit of the "Starry Night" gown she had designed last year under her alias, Miss Q.
It was an abomination. A wave of physiological revulsion washed over her, not just because of Kelly's pathetic trap, but for the sheer disrespect to her art. The crooked seams and stiff synthetic fibers were like a beautiful symphony being butchered by a tone-deaf singer. It was a public execution of her masterpiece.
Kelly crossed her arms, a look of pure, malicious triumph on her face.
"It's gorgeous, isn't it?" Kelly lied, her voice dripping with fake enthusiasm. "The blue will really bring out your eyes. You are going to be the absolute center of attention tonight."
Corrie slowly lifted her head. She looked at Kelly's smug, punchable face.
Corrie's lips parted. A slow, terrifyingly genuine smile spread across her face. It was the smile of a wolf watching a sheep walk into a slaughterhouse.
"You know what, Kelly?" Corrie said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "You're right. It's very... shiny. I love it."
Kelly's eyes widened in disbelief for a second before she masked it with a sneer. She couldn't believe how easy this was. The girl was truly a tasteless, pathetic idiot.
Kelly practically skipped to the register. She slapped Dean's black card on the counter to pay the $89 price tag. She didn't even ask for a bag. She just shoved the crumpled dress into Corrie's hands.
They walked out of the sliding doors, the harsh sunlight hitting their faces.
Kelly reached into her purse for her car keys.
Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed from the street corner, fifty yards away.
"Help! Somebody help him!" a woman shrieked.
Corrie's head snapped toward the sound.
A young boy, wearing a baseball cap pulled low, was collapsed on the dirty concrete sidewalk. His body was convulsing violently, his limbs thrashing against the pavement. His hands were clawing desperately at his own throat.
Corrie's eyes locked onto the boy's blue lips.
She dropped the $89 dress onto the dirty asphalt.
Her muscles coiled like a spring, and she launched herself forward, sprinting toward the dying boy with terrifying speed.
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7.6
Kaylee's family was drowning in debt, and her stepmother locked her inside a freezing bedroom.
To save their bankrupt company, they decided to sell her off to a sixty-five-year-old man with a disgusting reputation.
They cut off her allowance and confiscated the only precious keepsake her dead mother had ever left her.
"Put on the engagement dress, or I will smash your mother's crystal box into a million pieces."
Terrified of the old man, Kaylee risked her life by jumping out of the second-story window into a violent storm.
She hit the muddy ground hard, twisting her ankle and tearing her skin on rusted iron gates as she escaped into the pitch-black night.
Dragging her bleeding bare feet across the cold sand, her lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass.
She didn't understand why she had to be the sacrifice for their endless greed, or how they could be so cruel as to hold her dead mother's memory hostage.
She had absolutely nowhere to go, and the old man's cars were already pulling into the estate to claim her.
Cornered by the blinding headlights of a motorcade on the beach, she threw herself at the feet of Ernest Blackwell, the most ruthless billionaire in New York.
"Marry me! You need a wife, and I need a husband right now!"
To buy her freedom and crush the family that sold her, she chose to sign a twenty-million-dollar fake marriage contract with the devil himself.
8.7
For three years, I played the perfect, submissive housewife to billionaire Julian Harrison.
But right after an intimate night together, he coldly threw a divorce agreement onto the bed.
"Scarlett landed an hour ago. I need my single status restored to welcome her back."
That same night, I ended up in the emergency room and discovered I was pregnant with twins.
When Julian found out, he didn't show a shred of joy. Instead, he stormed into my hospital room, threw a blank check directly at my face, and ordered me to get rid of them.
He accused me of using the babies as a sick game to trap his assets.
Then, his ruthless lawyer kicked me out of our penthouse, confiscating the jewelry he gifted me and tossing my worn-out notebook onto the floor like garbage.
Standing in the freezing rain, my heart completely died.
I had swallowed my pride, managed his life, and cooked his meals to his exact standards for three years, only to be thrown away the second his first love returned.
But he didn't know that the notebook his lawyer discarded contained the secret formulas of Aura Beauty, a billion-dollar empire I built in the shadows.
I tore his check into pieces, blocked his number, and left in a Maybach sent by my associate.
Logging into my global CEO database, I looked at his company's fragile stock chart with a predatory smile.
The docile Mrs. Harrison died in the rain. It was time to crush his empire.
8.1
Desperate for a way out of rejection and poverty, Pearl Augustine accepts a nanny job with an outrageous salary-working for billionaire Ace Warren. What she doesn't expect is his daughter.
Mia Warren is spoiled, sharp-tongued, and feared by everyone in the mansion. Behind her cruelty is a lonely child longing for a mother. As Pearl becomes the only one who can reach her, walls begin to fall-especially those around Ace, a grieving man hiding behind wealth and control.
What started as "just a job" quickly turns into something dangerous: attachment.
Sometimes, healing begins where you least expect it.
8.9
Aubree Hamilton was the top-tier executive assistant to Wall Street's most ruthless titan, Beck Franco. A month ago, she made a catastrophic mistake and spent the night in his bed.
Thinking she had erased the mistake with a morning-after pill, she panicked upon his return and lied about being engaged to push him away.
But Beck, a man who despised disloyalty above all else, immediately suspended her and ordered her escorted out of the building. Her nightmare only escalated when her toxic ex-boyfriend attacked her on the street, tearing her purse open and exposing the empty morning-after pill box to the public—and to Beck, who was watching from his penthouse. After having his security rescue her, Beck trapped her in his car, ruthlessly tearing apart her fake engagement. Later in her apartment, the suffocating tension between them almost ignited into a kiss, but a violent wave of nausea suddenly hit Aubree.
She shoved him away with all her strength and violently threw up in the bathroom.
Beck took it as the ultimate physical disgust. He walked out, deeply humiliated and dangerously obsessed, unleashing his resources to investigate her every move.
Left alone and trembling, Aubree finally checked the crushed white box. The pill she took had expired a month ago.
Staring at the two bright pink lines on the pregnancy test, she made a desperate vow: Beck Franco could never know she was carrying his child, and she had to disappear before he found out.
7.9
I woke up in a burning warehouse, twelve years after my supposed death. My body had been reset to its physical prime, the deep burn scar on my wrist completely gone.
Through the smoke, my eldest son, Kennard, rushed blindly into the flames. He was screaming the name of the very woman who had orchestrated this trap—Brittnie.
When I tackled him out of the way of a falling steel beam, he didn't recognize my youthful face. Instead, he pinned me to the concrete and nearly crushed my windpipe.
"How much did she pay you to carve up your face to look like a dead woman?"
He hissed the words at me, treating me like a sick corporate spy. For a decade, a bizarre narrative "script" had brainwashed my son, forcing him into pathetic devotion to Brittnie. She had drained his wealth, turned my daughter against him, and hollowed out our family empire.
Whenever Kennard tried to resist her, the mind control punished him with agonizing migraines, driving him to smash his own hands against the wall just to cope with the pain.
Hearing him quietly sobbing outside my locked door, my heart shattered. How could this invisible force torture my brilliant son and turn my family into puppets for a D-list actress?
I dragged him to the hospital for a DNA test.
When the results confirmed my maternity at 99.999%, the cold billionaire collapsed to the floor, weeping in my arms like a lost child.
I wiped his tears and smiled ruthlessly. It was time to take back my empire and burn Brittnie's life to the ground.
8.2
Casey woke up with a throbbing skull in a glamorous dressing room, facing a public execution by an internet mob.
Her wealthy family had thrown her away. Her hypocritical sister, Coralie, forced a holographic tablet into her hands, demanding she join a deadly survival reality show on a wasteland planet.
"It's what Mommy wants. If you don't sign, you're dead to the Hendersons."
The whole world wanted her dead. On the live broadcast, billions of viewers cursed her as a toxic stalker. The golden boy idol Kayson physically attacked her to defend Coralie's honor. Even the show's staff mocked her, deliberately leaving her with nothing but a torn, broken tent and a single bottle of water for the lethal alien wilderness.
The universe was playing a cruel joke on her. She was framed as the villain of her sister's perfect story, banished to a wasteland where everyone expected her to cry, beg, and die on live television.
But they didn't know she had already survived a decade in the ruins. Casey didn't shed a single tear. Instead, she invoked a hidden contract clause, demanding a full year on the planet instead of the standard month.
"I'll survive for a year, and the planet becomes mine."
She grabbed her broken tent, stepped onto the red alien dirt, and prepared to show the universe what a real predator looked like.