The Ruthless CEO's Forgotten Amnesiac Wife
Five years ago, Grace was left to die in the suffocating darkness of a collapsed building.
She survived with severe amnesia, clawing her way through Los Angeles as a broke, struggling actress.
But her fragile peace shattered when she was cornered by Bryce Delaney, a ruthless billionaire who looked at her with agonizing, terrifying obsession.
He slammed a multi-million dollar prenuptial agreement onto his mahogany desk, demanding she become a bought-and-paid-for mother to his three identical sons.
Worse, she accidentally ran into her biological mother, a wealthy socialite, on the street.
Instead of joy, her mother looked at Grace in absolute horror.
"You should have stayed dead! To us, you are dead!"
At her most important audition, her sister Ashleigh publicly humiliated her, mocking her torn clothes and ordering security to throw her out like trash.
Meanwhile, Bryce threatened to destroy her entirely if she tried to escape his grasp.
Grace was suffocating in confusion and rage.
Why did her own family leave her to bleed out in the rubble?
Why were they so terrified to see her alive?
And why did this powerful tyrant call her "Gracie" with such broken grief, yet try to trap her in a fake, transactional cage?
She refused to be a victim again.
She threw the contract directly at Bryce's chest and violently slapped her sister's hand away.
Just as the industry tried to blacklist her, an elite European consortium suddenly descended, pouring fifteen million dollars into the production solely to crown Grace.
The war for the truth had just begun.
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Chapter 3
Grace shoved the boys behind her back.
She crept toward the thick glass wall of the VIP lounge, pressing her shoulder against the frame.
Peered through the frosted stripes.
Ten massive men in identical black suits marched down the corridor. Earpieces coiled behind their ears. Movement precise, lethal – ex-special forces, or worse.
The lead man held a radio to his mouth. His face was carved from violence.
Grace’s lungs seized.
Right. Dangerous. They’d hurt the boys.
The boy on her left tugged her shirt hem. Pointed a small finger toward a gray ‘Employees Only’ door at the lounge’s rear.
The bespectacled boy pulled up a blueprint on his tablet. “Corridor leads to underground parking,” he whispered.
No time to question a child hacking airport schematics. Survival instinct roared, drowning the tremor in her hands.
Grace dropped to her knees, ripped open her duffel.
Muscle memory took over. Years of stage combat, prop wrangling, desperate scrabbling – channeled into frantic disguise.
She yanked out a massive khaki trench coat. Shoved the smallest boy inside, buttoning it to his chin.
Dug out a vintage silk scarf. Wrapped it tightly around the left boy’s head, covering his hair, jammed cheap plastic sunglasses onto his face.
Snatched her wide-brimmed straw hat, crammed it onto the bespectacled boy’s head.
She pulled her gray hoodie up, snapping a surgical mask over her nose and mouth. The fabric felt flimsy armor against the terror clawing her throat.
Through the glass, the lead bodyguard pointed at the lounge doors.
Ten yards.
Grace sucked in a breath like shrapnel. Scooped the smallest boy into her left arm. Grabbed the other two’s hands with her right.
Crouched low, using the potted palms as a shield – a trick learned dodging stage managers and paparazzi.
She moved fast toward the gray door.
A bodyguard outside stopped. Head turned. Eyes locked onto the gaps between fronds.
Grace’s heart stuttered.
She slammed back against the wall, pulling the boys flat against her legs, breath trapped in her chest.
The bespectacled boy reached into his pocket. A small black device. Button pressed.
Outside: The bodyguard doubled over, ripping out his earpiece, face contorted by a burst of agonizing static.
Go!
Grace shoved the gray door open, dragging the boys into the bleach-scented, dusty dark.
Behind them: the VIP lounge doors crashed open.
“GONE!” a voice roared.
Grace ran.
Boots slapped concrete. She half-carried, half-dragged the boys down the narrow hall.
The boy in her arms wasn’t crying. He was laughing. Soft, breathless giggles vibrated against her neck – a bizarre counterpoint to the pounding of her heart and the roar of blood in her ears.
Grace clamped her hand over his mouth. “Shh!” Cold sweat snaked down her spine.
The heavy metal fire door loomed. Green EXIT sign glowed.
She hit the crash bar with her shoulder.
The door flew open. Cold, damp garage air slapped her face.
She stepped onto concrete.
Two blinding beams SNAPPED on – searing her retinas. She flinched violently, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away, the sudden agony a white-hot spike through her fragile nerves.
A massive, armored black Maybach glided forward in absolute silence.
It stopped inches from her knees, blocking the exit.
The rear passenger door and the front passenger door popped open simultaneously.
More men in black suits poured out, forming an impassable wall around Grace and the boys.
The tinted window of the still-closed rear driver’s side door began to lower silently.
A man sat in the shadows within.
His side profile was carved from arctic ice. Cold. Brutal. Terrifyingly still.
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8.9
I was tossed into a dark alley like rotting garbage, bleeding and grieving the child I had just lost.
When I was finally brought back to my fiancé Angelo's penthouse, instead of comfort, I was met with absolute disgust.
His family declared me "unclean" after the kidnapping. Angelo coldly announced he was burying the scandal by marrying my sweet, innocent cousin, Carissa.
When we were alone, Carissa stood over my bed, her voice dripping with venomous delight.
"My father arranged the kidnapping. And now, Angelo and I can finally be together."
Before I could react, she forced a silver letter opener into my hand, deliberately stabbed her own shoulder, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Angelo stormed in, struck me across the face, and gathered a sobbing Carissa into his arms, looking at me with absolute revulsion.
The family matriarch appeared at the door, her cold eyes sweeping over the scene before she gave a chilling order to the maids.
"Clean this up."
They pinned me down and brutally drove the blade directly into my chest.
I choked on my own blood, staring at the man who had promised me the world as he turned his back, calling my murder a "mercy."
As my heart beat its final agonizing rhythm, I made a silent vow to the shadows that if there was a next life, I would have my vendetta.
When I opened my eyes again, there was no blood, only the soft silk of my nightgown.
I had returned to the day before my eighteenth birthday.
This time, I wouldn't play the desperate victim. I was going to ally with the Devil of Chicago and burn them all to the ground.
9.6
To escape my sister-in-law selling me off to a local thug, I married a complete stranger I met at City Hall.
My new husband, Drake, claimed to be a broke Uber driver who could barely make rent.
He even made me sign a brutal ten-page prenup just to ensure I wouldn't take his rusted, beat-up Ford sedan if we ever divorced.
I thought I was just sharing a decaying Brooklyn apartment with a struggling man at the bottom of the ladder.
But things quickly stopped making sense.
When that local thug cornered me at a restaurant, my "weak" husband didn't cower.
Instead, he dismantled three massive mobsters in ten seconds with the terrifying, fluid speed of an apex predator.
"I used to be a human punching bag in an underground boxing gym to pay off debts."
I believed his excuse, until his supposedly homeless grandfather showed up at our door in a moth-eaten sweater, begging to sleep on our lumpy sofa.
Before going to sleep, the old man casually pressed a heavy, intricately engraved pocket watch into my hand as a wedding gift.
He claimed it was a cheap flea market find that didn't even keep time.
But the sheer weight of the solid rose gold and the flawless mechanical gears inside screamed otherwise.
Why did a destitute driver have the aura of a man who controlled empires?
And what kind of homeless old man casually hands over a priceless, museum-grade antique?
I had no idea the "broke driver" sleeping on my floor was actually a ruthless billionaire CEO, and I had just walked straight into his trap.
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.
9.2
Arla was supposed to marry Clinton Freeman, the perfect fiancé who had promised to love her and protect her five-year-old son.
But instead, the cold steel of a dagger pierced her chest.
As she collapsed onto the freezing basement floor, she watched her adoptive sister Blair laugh.
"Look at her," Blair sneered, kicking her son's small, blue, lifeless body.
Clinton stood there, calmly wiping the bloody blade on a pristine handkerchief.
In her dying moments, the horrifying truth became clear. Her fiancé and her adoptive family had been plotting all along to steal her massive trust fund.
To break her, they had secretly tortured her child. Clinton had watched Blair pierce the little boy's arms with sewing needles, rewarding him with candy to keep him silent.
Arla's lungs burned with the taste of copper and ash.
She couldn't understand why the family she trusted could be so monstrous, or why they had to brutally murder an innocent child just for money.
The darkness swallowed her whole, drowning her in suffocating hatred and absolute despair.
Then, she gasped for air.
The concrete floor was gone, replaced by the silk sheets of a hotel penthouse suite.
Arla had been reborn to the exact night six years ago—the very day Blair first dragged her son into the dark attic.
This time, she picked up a solid silver letter opener, ready to burn them all to the ground.
8.4
To save my toxic family's bankrupt company, I was sold for fifty million dollars to marry Arch Rush III, a notoriously ruthless and paralyzed billionaire.
Because of my severe face blindness, I couldn't even recognize my new husband. I was just a cheap, replaceable pawn. Yet, while my own parents physically abused me and treated me like livestock, my terrifying new husband actually protected me.
But entering the Rush family estate was like stepping into a snake pit. His aristocratic relatives mocked my cheap clothes and even tried to disfigure me with boiling tea.
To further humiliate me in front of a world-renowned neurologist, his grandmother pointed a bony finger at me.
"Go massage his muscles, this is your daily duty now."
Arch glared at me with a lethal warning, but I had no choice. Trembling, I pressed my hands into his thigh.
My heart instantly dropped. Beneath his expensive suit, there was no soft, withered flesh. The muscle contours were tight, dense, and incredibly firm.
How could a man completely paralyzed from the waist down have the legs of an athlete?
Before I could process the terrifying truth, my strong fingers dug into a nerve cluster. Under my touch, his "dead" muscle violently twitched.
The doctor dropped his pen in absolute shock, and I realized I had just accidentally exposed the ruthless billionaire's deadliest secret.
8.1
My billionaire husband, Cooper, was thirty minutes late to my father's funeral.
When the heavy cathedral doors finally opened, he wasn't there to comfort me. He was tightly shielding his mistress, Celeste, under his umbrella, treating her like a fragile lily while I stood alone in my black mourning dress.
The whispers in the pews were deafening, but they were nothing compared to the truth I soon uncovered.
Cooper hadn't just humiliated me—he had secretly taken my father's life-saving spot in a medical clinical trial and given it to Celeste's family. My father died gasping for air because of him.
Days later, while I was shivering in the ER with a 103-degree fever, I saw Cooper sneaking into the VIP maternity ward. He was holding Celeste, his face glowing with the ecstatic joy of a man about to become a father.
For three years, I swallowed my pride to be his perfect, obedient wife, only to let his elite friends openly mock me to my face.
"You were just keeping the seat warm until the real queen came back."
He let my father die, hid all our marital assets in offshore trusts, and made me take birth control every single morning, claiming he wasn't ready for kids.
I didn't scream, and I didn't let him see me break.
Instead, I hired Manhattan's most ruthless divorce lawyer, smiled sweetly as I handed Cooper his coat at home, and began secretly gathering the evidence to burn his entire empire to the ground.