The Ruined Heiress Plans Her Vicious Revenge
I was the heiress to the Sterling Group, engaged to Brook, the ultimate Wall Street savior who stepped in with emergency capital when my family's company faced sudden bankruptcy.
But one morning, I accidentally answered his hidden burner phone.
It was my sweet best friend, Chelsey. Through the speaker, I heard them laughing about how they successfully framed my brother for an eight-year federal prison sentence just to get the Sterling heir out of the way.
Worse, Brook casually admitted he had bribed the nurses at the private facility to swap my father's life-saving heart medication with placebos.
"Nature will take its course," he said coldly.
He was paying to let my father die so he could drain my last architectural patents, transfer them to his own enterprise, and kick me to the curb. Seconds later, Brook walked into the bedroom, brushed my hair behind my ear, and lovingly called me his sleeping beauty.
A wave of pure, physical nausea crashed over me. The man I was about to marry, the man the media praised as a fiercely devoted hero, was the monster orchestrating my family's complete destruction.
Tears were a luxury I could no longer afford.
I didn't scream, and I didn't confront him. Instead, I washed my face, slid the five-carat diamond ring back onto my finger, and drove straight to his headquarters.
If he wanted to use my family's tragedy to build his empire, I would play the perfect, broken fiancée—right until I burned it all to the ground.
Chapters
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Chapter 1
Farah rolled over on the massive California King mattress. The back of her hand brushed against the cold, empty cotton sheets beside her.
She opened her eyes. The harsh, bright morning sunlight of Manhattan poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing her to squint against the glare.
A faint, rhythmic buzzing sound vibrated through the silent bedroom. It was coming from the narrow gap in the mahogany nightstand drawer on Brook's side of the bed.
Farah pushed herself up on one elbow. She reached across the mattress and pulled the heavy wooden drawer open. Sitting on top of a stack of notepads was a sleek black smartphone. It was Brook's secondary business phone, a device he kept for his most private dealings. He must have been working late in bed last night.
The screen was lit up. The caller ID flashed two simple initials: CP. The vibration pattern stuttered, signaling the call was about to go to voicemail.
Farah reached out. She just wanted to press the volume button to mute the buzzing. Brook was likely in the adjacent study, and he hated being disturbed before his morning coffee.
Her fingers were stiff from sleep. As she gripped the edge of the device, her thumb dragged clumsily across the smooth glass, swiping the green accept icon. In her fumbling attempt to silence it, her palm pressed against the speakerphone icon on the screen just as the call connected.
"Brook, where the hell were you?" Chelsey's voice blasted from the small speaker. Her tone was sharp, impatient, and entirely devoid of her usual sweet pitch. "You promised you'd come to my Upper East Side place last night."
Farah's brain flatlined. Her lungs simply stopped pulling in oxygen.
"Relax." Brook's deep, soothing voice echoed through the phone. Behind his words, Farah could hear the distinct whistling of the wind hitting the glass panels of their penthouse terrace. "I had to stay here. The bankruptcy liquidation files for the Sterling Group need my eyes on every single page."
"Whatever," Chelsey scoffed. The sound of a lighter flicking echoed through the speaker. "I'm just annoyed. Cannon getting eight years in federal prison is a joke. It's too good for him."
"It was the best my lawyers could do without making it look obvious," Brook laughed softly. It was a cold, satisfied sound. "Buying off Clarence's doctors to fake that sterility report cost me a fortune. But getting the Sterling heir out of the way? Worth every penny."
Farah's pupils dilated so fast the bright room seemed to plunge into darkness. Her fingers curled inward, her nails digging so hard into the mattress that the fabric threatened to tear.
"And the old man?" Chelsey asked. "How is Farah's father doing?"
"He won't last the winter," Brook said. His voice was completely flat, devoid of any human empathy. "I paid the head nurse at the facility to swap out his experimental heart medication with standard placebos. Nature will take its course."
A violent spasm ripped through Farah's stomach. Acid rushed up her throat. Cold sweat erupted across her skin, instantly soaking the thin silk of her nightgown.
"Good," Chelsey giggled. "So when are you going to dump the bankrupt princess? I'm tired of playing the supportive best friend."
"Soon," Brook replied. "Once I drain the last of her architectural design patents and transfer them to Tyler Enterprise, I'll kick her to the curb. She's useless to me otherwise."
The heavy glass door of the terrace slid open with a loud scrape.
Farah's heart slammed against her ribs like a hammer. She slammed the phone face-down onto the mahogany wood, cutting off the speakerphone.
She threw herself back onto the mattress and yanked the heavy duvet up to her chin. She squeezed her eyes shut. She forced her chest to rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm, though her blood was roaring in her ears.
The bedroom door pushed open. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of Brook's footsteps as he walked into the room.
He stopped right next to the bed. He stood there, looking down at her.
Farah felt the temperature drop as his tall frame cast a shadow over her face. Her eyelids twitched with the biological urge to snap open, but she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper to keep them shut.
Brook reached out. His large hand brushed against her cheek, his fingers pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. His touch was incredibly light.
"Good morning, my sleeping beauty," he whispered. His voice dripped with a thick, sugary devotion.
Farah inhaled. The scent of his expensive cedarwood cologne filled her nose. Her stomach he heave, a wave of pure, physical nausea crashing over her.
Brook pulled his hand back. He turned around and walked toward the massive walk-in closet, his footsteps fading away.
Farah slowly opened her eyes. The bloodshot veins in her sclera burned. The absolute terror in her chest evaporated, leaving behind a cold, solid block of pure killing intent.
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7.6
Johana walked half a mile through a brutal blizzard just to secure a tutoring job with the elite Black family.
But the very night she was hired, she received a terrifying call from the ER—her quiet roommate, Hazelle, had been drugged and severely traumatized at a Hamptons party.
When Johana rushed to the hospital, she didn't find the police. Instead, she found a team of ruthless billionaires erasing the crime.
Leading them was Dalton Black, the cold, arrogant older brother of her new student.
Within minutes, Dalton's fixers wiped the hospital's security footage, deleted all digital evidence, and forcefully transferred Hazelle to a locked private psychiatric facility.
"We are ensuring her privacy."
Dalton's voice was devoid of emotion, treating the horrific assault like a minor PR glitch.
His friends mocked Johana's powerlessness, while Dalton authorized a blank check to pay for the private ward, effectively burying the scandal and buying their silence.
Johana stood in the sterile hallway, trembling with a mix of despair and absolute rage.
How could they destroy an innocent girl's life and simply pay to make it disappear? Why was the truth so easily erased by money?
She had no wealth, no connections, and no proof, but she refused to be a victim of their cover-up.
Staring directly into Dalton's intimidating, icy blue eyes, Johana made a vow.
"I don't want your money. I will find out what you monsters did to her."
She thought the billionaire heir would crush her on the spot, but instead, he watched her walk away and quietly ordered his assistant: "Find out everything about Johana Neal."
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.
9.2
After catching my fiancé cheating with my adoptive sister, I broke off our engagement on the spot.
In retaliation, my abusive adoptive parents sold me to Kaelen Knight, the Lycan King, to clear our pack's debts.
He was rumored to be a ruthless, reclusive monster who had been horribly crippled in a fire centuries ago.
To ensure my absolute ruin, my sister planted fake love letters to my ex in my luggage and anonymously destroyed my university scholarship, cutting off my only escape route to the human world.
"A wolfless whore. You planned to drug me," Kaelen sneered, looking at the fake evidence with absolute disgust.
Believing I was a spy, my new husband had his guards throw me into the freezing woods with the Dire Wolves, leaving me to survive the night alone.
I was just a broken, wolfless Omega, entirely at the mercy of a cruel, powerless Lycan and a family that wanted me dead.
But I was wrong about him being powerless.
One night, I accidentally saw him rise from his wheelchair, his tall frame radiating an overwhelming, lethal aura.
He wasn't crippled at all.
The secret I thought was my shield was actually a loaded gun pointed at my head. Trapped with a terrifying predator, I had to stop playing the victim and fight for my life.
8.6
The Maybach glided through rain, Dante's cold cedar cologne a familiar comfort. Seven years, my life revolved around him, my fingers on his suit cuff, a silent promise. But tonight, our normal shattered with a single phone call.
He answered, speaking rapid Italian – a language he thought I didn't understand. Every word: a death knell. Confirming his engagement to Sofia Moretti, dismissing me as a 'consolation prize.'
Seven years of loyalty vanished. His loving mask back, he left for his fiancée. I stumbled into freezing rain, recalling my foster past. My numb fingers dialed his mother, Isabella, demanding fifty million for my silence. Her insults didn't sting.
The true gut punch: Sofia's Instagram, a prenup on Dante's desk, proudly showing *my* watch, captioned: 'Fourteen days left.' This wasn't their celebration; it was my death sentence.
I wouldn't stay another day in this gilded cage. My old duffel bag, packed, waited. The Australia brochure, a childhood dream, in my pocket. This time, I would live for myself, and they would all pay.
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.
8.8
"I loved you with all my heart, but you betrayed me, cheating with me on her? Really?" Vionne Wallace said bitterly to her husband.
"Sign it! We are getting a divorce, I've come to realize Nora is the one for me. You can't even bore a child, barren woman." He said sharply, his void devoid of emotions
He could tell it all, he was in love with Nora, my own step sister.
Lene Wallace, was a fashion designer and also business administrator, she got married to the love of her life, Harrison Worthington
Just after 3 years of marriage, she couldn't give birth and the marriage started crashing, he cheated on her with Nora.
With a broken heart, she drank to stupor and had a one night stand with a powerful billionaire.
When her father found out, he was in support of Harrison and Nora, while he disowned her, giving everything he had to Nora.
She found out there was more to the one night stand man, when they met again.
He was her father's best friend
The one night stand was not just powerful, he had a connecting relationship with her father and her ex husband, he will get married to her and help her defeat them.
Will they come to fall in love? Or will she go back to her ex husband after this?