The True Heiress Returns After Divorce
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For two years, Emmie’s marriage to Daxton Ellis was nothing but a cold medical contract. She was merely a living vessel, kept around to provide a bone marrow transplant for his true love, Hortensia.
When Emmie's grandfather was dying in the ICU, she desperately begged Daxton to save him. Instead, he coldly refused, ordering his bodyguards to trap her so her surgery wouldn't be delayed.
To completely destroy Emmie, Hortensia maliciously faked a severe allergy attack and then intentionally threw herself down a steep flight of iron stairs.
She perfectly framed Emmie for attempted murder right in front of Daxton's eyes.
Believing his lover's lies, Daxton violently choked Emmie and locked her in a pitch-black room, cutting off all her communication with the outside world.
Trapped in the freezing darkness, Emmie received a secret call from the weeping butler.
"Master Silas... his heart stopped. He was calling your name. He died calling your name."
The phone slipped from her fingers, the agonizing realization hitting her that because of Daxton, she didn't even get to say a final goodbye to her only family.
The raw, guttural scream that tore through her throat marked the absolute death of her six years of unrequited love. Clutching the signed divorce agreement and the key to her grandfather's hidden billionaire trust, Emmie wiped her bloodstained hands and prepared to make them pay.
The True Heiress Returns After Divorce Chapter 1
A jagged blade of agony twisted deep inside Emmie's lower abdomen.
Her fingers dug into the cold edge of the marble island in the penthouse kitchen. The pristine white stone offered no comfort.
The pain ripped through her again, sharper this time. Her knees buckled.
She hit the hard ceramic tile floor with a heavy thud. The impact sent a shockwave up her spine, but it was nothing compared to the tearing sensation in her gut.
Her vision blurred into a mess of gray shadows. Cold sweat instantly soaked through the thin silk of her nightgown, clinging to her spine like a layer of ice.
Her hand trembled violently as she reached out. Her fingers brushed against the cold screen of her phone lying on the floor.
She pressed the speed dial button for Daxton. Her chest heaved as she waited.
"Please," she gasped to the empty room.
A cold, automated female voice filled the silence. Please leave your message after the tone.
Her fingers went completely numb. The phone slipped from her weak grasp.
It hit the tile with a sharp crack.
The edges of her vision turned black. The darkness rushed in, swallowing the pain, the cold floor, and the suffocating silence of the penthouse. Emmie closed her eyes and let it take her.
The sharp, chemical stench of bleach burned Emmie's nostrils.
She forced her heavy eyelids open.
The blinding white ceiling lights of a hospital room pierced her eyes. The steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a heart monitor echoed in the sterile space.
She slowly turned her head.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. The bespoke charcoal suit fit him perfectly. Daxton Ellis. Her husband.
Emmie's dry, cracked lips parted. She tried to push his name out of her throat, but no sound came.
Daxton turned around. His deep, dark eyes locked onto hers. There was no warmth in them. No relief. He looked at her the way a mechanic looks at a broken machine.
The heavy wooden door pushed open. Dr. Evans walked in, a metal clipboard in his hand, breaking the suffocating silence.
"Mr. Ellis," Dr. Evans said, his voice professional and tight. "Mrs. Ellis suffered a severe shock induced by acute stomach cramps. Her body is under immense stress."
Daxton's brow furrowed slightly. He didn't look at Emmie.
"Will this affect the bone marrow transplant next month?" Daxton's voice was a flat, emotionless line. He cut the doctor off completely.
Emmie's heart violently contracted in her chest. The tiny spark of hope that had just ignited in her chest instantly turned to ash.
Dr. Evans flipped a page on his clipboard, clearing his throat. "As long as she rests and follows the nutritional plan, the hematopoietic stem cell activity will not be compromised."
The tight line of Daxton's jaw visibly relaxed. He gave a short, cold nod. "Understood."
Dr. Evans turned and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a soft click.
The room fell dead silent again.
Emmie dug her elbows into the mattress, forcing her weak, trembling body to sit up against the headboard. Her breathing was shallow.
Daxton didn't move an inch to help her. He stood exactly where he was, his gaze sweeping over her pale face, assessing her like a medical asset.
"Is Hortensia's life the only thing you care about?" Emmie asked. Her voice was a broken, raspy whisper.
Daxton casually lifted his arm and adjusted the cuff of his expensive suit.
"Yes," Daxton said brutally. "Do not forget that is the only value this marriage holds."
Emmie's fingers gripped the white hospital bedsheets. She squeezed so hard her knuckles turned stark white.
She lifted her chin, looking at the man she had loved for a decade. "I have been by your side for six years, Daxton. Two years as your wife. Can you not give me even a fraction of a second of your concern?"
Daxton let out a low, mocking scoff. He took two slow steps toward the bed.
He looked down at her, his expression a wall of solid ice. "Do not beg for things that do not belong to you, Emmie. It is pathetic."
He lifted his wrist, glancing at his Patek Philippe watch.
"I'll be in the waiting room," he stated. "The board can wait."
He turned on his heel. His long legs carried him toward the door without a single moment of hesitation.
The door slammed shut. The sound echoed in the room, leaving Emmie entirely alone in the suffocating silence.
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The True Heiress Returns After Divorce of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6Chapter 7 Ch. 7Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.3
I was the long-lost Donovan heiress, finally brought home after a childhood in foster care. My parents adored me, my husband cherished me, and the woman who tried to ruin my life, Kiera Reese, was locked away in a mental facility. I was safe. I was loved.
On my birthday, I decided to surprise my husband, Ivan, at his office. But he wasn't there.
I found him at a private art gallery across town. He was with Kiera.
She wasn't in a facility. She was radiant, laughing as she stood beside my husband and their five-year-old son. I watched through the glass as Ivan kissed her, a familiar, loving gesture he’d used with me just that morning.
I crept closer and overheard them. My birthday wish to go to the amusement park had been denied because he’d already promised the entire park to their son—whose birthday was the same day as mine.
"She’s so grateful to have a family, she’d believe anything we tell her," Ivan said, his voice laced with a cruelty that stole my breath. "It's almost sad."
My entire reality—my loving parents who funded this secret life, my devoted husband—was a five-year lie. I was just the fool they kept on stage.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ivan, sent while he stood with his real family.
"Just got out of the meeting. So exhausting. I miss you."
The casual lie was the final blow. They thought I was a pathetic, grateful orphan they could control.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
9.0
I am the undisputed ice queen of the ER, a doctor whose life is built on absolute control. A month ago, I impulsively married a stranger to create a legal shield against my ex-mentor's betrayal.
Our prenup had one strict rule: a fake marriage with zero interference in each other's lives. But tonight, my "husband on paper" was wheeled into my ER, unconscious, reeking of cheap whiskey, and suffering from a bleeding ulcer.
To authorize his emergency surgery, I had to sign the consent form as his wife, detonating a gossip bomb among my colleagues. Worse, his overbearing family found out he was hospitalized. To stop his terrifying mother from flying in and exposing our sham marriage, I had to lean over his hospital bed and take a fake, loving couple's selfie.
I didn't understand why this disciplined math professor was suddenly drinking himself to death, nor why my chest tightened when he looked at me with exhausted eyes and begged for homemade soup. My perfectly ordered, untouchable life was crumbling into a chaotic mess, and I was losing my grip on the narrative.
"We should probably spend some time together beforehand. We could be roommates."
To prepare for an unavoidable family dinner and a wedding, my stranger husband just asked me to move into his apartment. The ultimate uncontrolled variable has just crossed the line, and our fake marriage is about to become dangerously real.
8.3
On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news.
He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city.
The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.”
For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets.
My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me.
So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts.
He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked.
He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree.
He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.
8.9
Ava Kidd just wanted to escape her abusive stepmother when she got drunk at a high-end club and stumbled into the wrong hotel room.
She woke up the next morning in a luxury penthouse, lying naked next to a terrifyingly handsome man covered in her scratch marks.
Recalling rumors of the hotel's secret underground concierge, she immediately assumed she had accidentally slept with an elite male escort.
Desperate to settle the bill, she offered him her only debit card with a pathetic $1,800.
But the man, who was actually Garrison Terry, the ruthless billionaire CEO, was deeply insulted by the cheap plastic.
He trapped her against the bed, coldly demanding a half-million-dollar service fee.
When Ava frantically offered her dead mother's tarnished locket as collateral, he cruelly dismissed it as worthless junk.
Ava was humiliated, her heart pounding with absolute terror.
She didn't understand why this arrogant gigolo was acting like a deranged extortionist, demanding a fortune from a broke girl who had clearly made a mistake.
Furious and refusing to cower, she sneaked out, put on his oversized designer shirt, and aggressively ate his $800 truffle breakfast.
Having no money left, she grabbed her cheap red lipstick, wrote a defiant IOU on his expensive linen napkin, and fled the hotel.
She thought she had escaped a criminal, but upstairs, the billionaire traced her lipstick-stained name with a predatory smile.
"Ava Kidd, I will absolutely find you."
8.8
Clara supported her boyfriend Leo for four years, paying his rent and buying his headshots while working dead-end extra gigs.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, she caught him in their bed with Veronica, a wealthy producer's daughter who constantly stole Clara's roles.
Leo mocked Clara as a "pathetic, poor stepping stone" who was just there until he got his foot in the door.
Veronica threatened to ruin Clara's career forever.
Clara dumped him, packed her bags, and impulsively entered a contract marriage with a cold stranger she met at City Hall.
But her nightmare wasn't over.
When her mother suddenly needed a $200,000 emergency brain surgery, Clara was forced to take a demeaning extra gig to survive.
There, Veronica and her starlet friend cornered Clara.
They mocked her cheap clothes, ridiculed her new wedding ring as fake glass, and intentionally poured scalding coffee on her feet.
"Well, maid, you better clean that up."
Veronica laughed, forcing Clara to her knees to wipe up the burning liquid while snapping photos.
Clara swallowed her burning humiliation, secretly recording their abuse on her phone.
She endured the pain, desperate for the $300 day rate to save her mother's life, feeling entirely crushed by their overwhelming wealth and power.
What she didn't know was that outside the soundstage, her new contract husband—the man she thought was just a struggling, broke tech worker—was sitting in a sleek black Maybach.
He watched his wife kneeling on the floor, and his dark eyes filled with a lethal, terrifying rage.
9.0
Eileen woke up in a trashed hotel room, her head pounding with the pathetic memories of a despised Hollywood actress.
Outside the window, paparazzi were already screaming about her manufactured cheating scandal, but the real nightmare was waiting at her door.
Her paralyzed, billionaire husband, Carlisle Vinson, looked at her with pure disgust while his butler shoved a divorce settlement at her chest.
"Mr. Vinson is offering a severance package of fifty million dollars, provided you sign immediately and vacate the premises."
The original owner had left her an absolute mess.
Her trusted assistant had sold her room number to the press to frame her, and a playboy had scammed her out of her entire two million dollar life savings.
If she signed those papers and lost the Vinson family's protection, the breach of contract fees and her enemies in the industry would swallow her alive in days.
Eileen felt a cold fury override the original owner's lingering panic.
Why should she take the fall and be thrown out on the streets while the parasites who set her up lived out their wealthy fantasies?
She had died once, and she wasn't about to waste her second chance playing the victim.
Eileen slammed the heavy divorce folder shut right against the butler's chest.
"I'm not signing," she said with a terrifying, absolute calm.
She stepped behind her husband's wheelchair, ready to shield him from the cameras, secretly cure his dead legs, and make everyone who betrayed her bleed.
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