The Runaway Heiress And Her Secret Triplets
I opened the door to my penthouse, only to see my stepsister's limited-edition Louboutins discarded on the foyer rug.
Walking into the master bedroom, I caught my fiancé and my stepsister tangled naked in my bed.
When I went back to the family estate to settle the score, my father didn't even care.
Instead, he and my stepmother demanded I take my stepsister's place to save the family's reputation.
"You will marry the seventy-year-old billionaire next month. We can't ruin your sister's life," my father ordered.
Looking at their hypocritical faces, the last shred of my family affection died completely.
They really thought I would just accept being their sacrificial pawn while they stole my mother's legacy.
So, I pinned them down with a blackmail video of the affair, extorted my father for my shares, and walked out into the freezing night.
To numb the betrayal, I went to an underground club, slept with a terrifyingly powerful stranger, and left a red lipstick note on his forehead.
"Your technique sucks. Keep the change."
Then, I vanished abroad without a trace.
Five years later, I returned to New York with my three children, ready to take back everything that was mine.
But I didn't expect that the "cheap gigolo" from that night was actually Kendall James, the most ruthless corporate titan in the city.
And he had just spotted my five-year-old son—his exact miniature replica—standing right beside me.
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Chapter 6
The midday sun baked the penthouse, pouring through the windows and heating the room to a stifling, punishing temperature. Kendall woke with a sharp, unnatural throbbing at the base of his skull—a deep, pulsing ache that radiated down his spine.
He groaned and reached around to rub the back of his neck. His fingers brushed against a dull, tender point where the nerve had been forcefully struck. The spot was hot to the touch.
He shot up in bed. The massive mattress was empty. The sheets beside him were cold.
He looked around the room, his eyes still blurry. Completely deserted. Nothing left behind but the faint, lingering scent of citrus—bergamot and lemon peel—clinging to the pillow beside him.
As he sat up, a piece of yellow paper fluttered from his forehead and landed on his bare thigh.
Kendall picked it up. The bright red lipstick words burned into his retinas like a brand: Your technique sucks. Keep the change.
The vein in the center of his forehead pulsed visibly, a thick blue cord throbbing under his skin.
A dark, humorless laugh ripped from his throat—low and dangerous. His fingers curled inward, crushing the sticky note into a tight, crumpled ball.
He threw the paper aside and grabbed his encrypted phone from the nightstand. He needed to mobilize his men. He needed to find her.
The second the screen lit up, a dozen breaking news alerts flooded the display, stacked one on top of another.
Kendall tapped the top notification from TMZ. A picture of his own scratched, naked back filled the screen.
He read the headline. The word jumped out like a slap: Gigolo.
The temperature in the room plummeted. The air turned to ice. His reflection in the black screen of the phone stared back at him, eyes pitch-black with rage.
He dialed his Chief Assistant, Chancey Fischer, on the secure line.
"Wipe this news off the internet in five minutes," Kendall ordered. His voice was so low and lethal it sounded demonic, a growl scraped from the bottom of his chest. "And take over the hotel's security system. I want all the footage from last night. Every camera. Every angle. Now."
He hung up and threw the phone onto the bed. He grabbed his white dress shirt from the floor and shoved his arms into the sleeves, not bothering with the buttons.
He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and stared down at the tiny cars crawling through Manhattan far below, his breath fogging the glass.
His jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. He swore to himself, right then, that he would tear this city apart brick by brick to find her.
Ten minutes later, the penthouse door swung open. Chancey rushed in, wiping sweat from his forehead with a crumpled tissue. He clutched an iPad tight against his chest like a shield.
"Sir," Chancey said, his voice tight and breathless. "The hotel's internal servers were physically wiped at 6:00 AM by a top-tier hacker. There is no footage inside the building. Someone knew exactly what they were doing."
Kendall stared at the black screen of the iPad. The rage in his chest twisted into something else—something darker, sharper, almost like admiration. A ghost. He was chasing a ghost.
"Activate the James Group corporate intelligence network," Kendall commanded, his voice hard as steel. "Pull the city's street cameras."
Within minutes, the network delivered. A traffic camera two blocks away had caught a grainy glimpse of her face—those cheekbones, that jawline, the determined set of her mouth.
The intel poured in faster now. "We've identified her as Ansley Crawford," Chancey reported, his fingers trembling as he read from his tablet. "Public records and social media chatter show she violently broke her engagement to Gavin James last night. Sent the press into an absolute frenzy. The Crawford PR team is in full meltdown."
Kendall's eyes narrowed, the dark amusement fading into something far more dangerous and focused. "Dig deeper. I want to know everything she did. Every single move she made before she walked into this hotel."
Ten minutes later, Chancey returned. His face was pale, the blood drained from his cheeks.
"Sir." Chancey swallowed hard, his Adam's apple jumping. "Our source inside Crawford Industries just confirmed a massive, highly classified share transfer to her name early this morning. It seems she strong-armed her own father and stole a core formula. And..." He paused, his hands shaking slightly as he handed the tablet over. "I just pulled up the customs database. She boarded a private jet three hours ago. She's flying to Europe. The flight plan is completely masked."
Kendall stood frozen, absorbing the information. Three hours. She was already in the air. Already gone.
He pulled his fist back and slammed it directly into the bulletproof glass window.
The thick glass vibrated with a loud, terrifying hum that resonated through the entire room. Blood bloomed across his knuckles—bright red against his skin.
He turned around, his eyes completely black, burning with a cold, obsessive fire.
"Issue a global tracking order," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I don't care what it costs. Find her."
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7.6
After an exhausting fourteen-hour flight, Katia returned to her Upper East Side penthouse, expecting the quiet comfort of the life she had built.
Instead, she found a pair of familiar red stilettos in the foyer and her fiancé, Caleb, tangled in their bedsheets with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.
She didn't scream or cry. She simply took off her three-carat engagement ring, threw it at his bare chest, and demanded he buy out her half of the penthouse by Friday.
Seeking to numb the sickening disgust, she got blackout drunk and crashed at a luxury hotel, accidentally stumbling into the wrong suite.
Thinking the imposing man inside was a high-end escort hired by her friend, she threw him over her shoulder and spent a wild night with him.
The next morning, she left five thousand dollars on his nightstand with a lipstick-stained note.
"Good Job."
For six years, she had funded Caleb's dreams and built his startup from the ground up, only to be treated like a lifeless ATM.
With ruthless precision, she spent the next two months systematically bankrupting his company, cutting off his venture capital, and erasing his life's work.
She felt no heartbreak, only a cold, calculating need to cleanse herself of his betrayal.
But when Katia finally returned to corporate headquarters to co-lead a massive merger, she literally crashed into the new Vice President.
Strong arms caught her waist, and the sharp scent of cedarwood and whiskey hit her like a freight train.
"You came back," Jackson whispered, his eyes burning as he stared at the woman who had treated him like a cheap gigolo.
7.9
For five years, April Gamble loved Julian Travis with everything she had, trusting him completely.
But on a stormy night, he casually tossed a liquidation agreement at her feet, single-handedly destroying her grandfather's company.
He coldly admitted he only dated her to steal Vance Group's internal financial data.
"You were convenient," Julian said, swirling his whiskey without a shred of guilt.
Before April could even process the brutal betrayal, a breaking news alert lit up her phone.
She watched in absolute horror as her grandfather jumped from the ledge of the Vance Tower on live television.
Julian looked at her writhing, screaming form with utter boredom and simply ordered his bodyguard to throw her out.
Blinded by grief and tears, April sped into the torrential rain, only to be completely crushed by a hydroplaning transport truck at an intersection.
As the shattered glass tore into her skin and the metal crushed her ribs, she died with a hatred so pure it made her teeth ache.
Why did five years of devotion mean absolutely nothing to him? Why did her family have to die just to feed his ruthless greed?
When she opened her eyes again, the harsh hospital lights blinded her, but the familiar burn scar on her arm was gone.
She wasn't the betrayed financial analyst April Gamble anymore.
She had woken up in the body of Altagracia Blanchard, the most notorious, obscenely wealthy heiress in New York.
Julian had taken everything from her, but now, armed with a billionaire's empire, she was going to bury him.
7.5
Five years ago, Alisson Ford's adoptive family drugged her and offered her to a repulsive old investor to save their failing company.
She escaped the trap, only to accidentally stumble into the bed of Jake Yates, the most terrifying and powerful billionaire in the city.
Months later, while she was painfully giving birth to triplets in a freezing basement, her adoptive sister Bella tracked her down. Bella violently snatched Alisson's firstborn son to pass off as her own ticket into the Yates family. Then, Bella smiled as her men poured gasoline over the mattress and set the room on fire, leaving Alisson and her two remaining newborns to burn alive.
Shielding her fragile babies with her own blistering skin in the roaring inferno, Alisson's despair turned into absolute, blood-soaked hatred. She couldn't fathom how the family she had trusted for years could steal her flesh and blood and condemn her to such a horrific death.
Five years later, Alisson returns to the city as a powerful trauma specialist. She steps right into Jake and Bella's grand engagement banquet, watching coldly as her five-year-old daughter runs straight up to the untouchable billionaire and hugs his leg.
"You are a bad daddy! You abandoned Mommy and us, and now you are going to marry an ugly old witch!"
8.2
Ashley was tied to a rusted iron pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the noxious fumes of gasoline soaking her clothes.
Her fiancé Devon and her stepsister Brittany stood before her, revealing a horrifying truth. Devon never saved her from that fatal car crash three years ago; he merely stole the credit.
Worse, Brittany smirked and confessed that Ashley's own father had orchestrated her mother's murder. Before Ashley could process the betrayal, Devon callously tossed a lighter. A wall of blistering heat instantly consumed her. Even when Bennett Hawkins, the cold and untouchable billionaire, rushed into the inferno to shield her with his body, they were both swallowed by the explosion.
As the fire melted her skin, Ashley died with agonizing hatred. Why did her own flesh and blood want her dead? What dark secret were they hiding about her mother's tragic death?
Opening her eyes again, freezing saltwater violently flooded her lungs.
She was back at her twentieth birthday yacht party, right after Brittany had secretly pushed her into the freezing Hudson River.
Staring at the hypocritical faces of her family pretending it was an accident, Ashley didn't cry or beg. She calmly snatched a phone and dialed 911.
"Yes. I need to report an attempted murder."
8.6
To save my father's failing workshop from ruthless loan sharks, I sold one year of my life.
I signed a fake marriage contract with Cameron Fox, an icy billionaire who needed a wife to pacify his sick grandmother. The rules were strict: it was purely a commercial transaction, with absolutely no physical contact and no emotional attachments.
Soon after, that cold hearted man seemed different to me. Wait, is he pursuing me?
9.1
For two years, Elena played the role of the perfect, submissive wife to her wealthy husband, Andrew Macdonald, quietly swallowing the daily insults of his elite circle to appease his family.
But using her hidden divination skills, she tracked his GPS to a dirty nightclub terrace and caught him tightly holding a fragile, crying woman, calling Elena a disposable "Appalachian hillbilly."
"The lawyers are drafting the divorce papers. Next week, she'll be out of New York for good."
Hearing Andrew promise this gently to his cheating partner, Elena stepped into the dim light, only to be met with nasty mockery from his arrogant friends, while the mistress shrank back and pretended to be an innocent victim.
Andrew glared at Elena with deep annoyance, aggressively demanding she stop embarrassing him in public and go back to the countryside, fully expecting her to break down, cry, and beg him to save their marriage.
Two years of cooking his meals, ironing his shirts, and enduring his family's cruel abuse were nothing but a sick joke to him, completely blind to the terrifying, ancient power she actually wielded.
Instead of shedding a single tear, Elena mercilessly exposed their darkest medical and financial secrets, signed the divorce papers without taking a single dime, and stepped into her new life as the untouchable master she truly was.