The Tycoon's Contract With A Vicious Beauty
My husband Hubert threw a stack of faked, compromising photos at my bleeding face.
He crushed my hand under his leather shoe and threatened our five-year-old son's life, forcing me to sign away my company shares and full custody.
Then, my younger sister Ara walked into the room, stepping carefully to avoid my blood, and kissed my husband deeply.
"You really are a stupid stepping stone, Amelie. I paid a lot of money to have those photos photoshopped."
She sneered at me, admitting she had orchestrated everything just to steal my fashion brand and my life.
Before I could fight back, Ara injected a paralytic directly into my neck.
They stuffed me into a duffel bag and dumped me in the freezing mud of a secluded hunting estate.
Ara waved a forged suicide note in my face, claiming I had drowned myself out of shame, before giving her bodyguard a sharp nod.
Three massive, starving mastiffs were released from their cages.
As the dogs tore through my flesh and crushed my bones, Hubert watched my bloody massacre live on a video call.
In my final seconds of agonizing pain, a blinding hatred locked into my dying brain.
I didn't understand why the two people I loved most would torture me so ruthlessly, but I made a venomous vow.
If I ever come back, I will make you both drown in your own blood.
Opening my eyes again, I wasn't dead in the mud.
I had awakened in the young body of a girl named Gena, and fate had just dropped the perfect weapon for my revenge right into my lap: Hubert's ruthless billionaire uncle.
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Chapter 7
The harsh morning light sliced through the broken plastic blinds, hitting Gena right in the eyes. She woke up with a start, realizing she had slept the entire night curled tightly against Claudio's chest. She scrambled off the bed as if she had been burned.
Claudio woke at her sudden movement. He sat up slowly, wincing slightly, but his eyes were clear and sharp. The vulnerability of the night before was completely gone, replaced by the calculating gaze of a predator.
His custom phone, sitting on the nightstand, began to vibrate violently. He picked it up. His assistant, Dexter, was on the other end, his voice loud enough for Gena to hear.
"Mr. Pierce, the tabloids got wind of the shootout last night. They're saying you were involved in a gang war. The company stock is taking a hit, and your father is threatening to strip your board seat."
Claudio's face turned to stone. His brain processed the crisis in seconds. His dark eyes slowly shifted from the wall and locked onto Gena, who was folding the blanket on the floor.
He hung up the phone. He stood up, buttoned his ruined shirt over his bandaged torso, the torn fabric giving him a rakish, dangerous look. The aura of a billionaire CEO filled the tiny room.
"I need a cover story," Claudio said, his voice all business. "You are going to be my girlfriend. We were out together last night, and we got caught in the crossfire of a random mugging. You corroborate my story, and I pay you."
Gena stopped folding the blanket. She stood up, her face completely unreadable. "What do I get out of this?"
Claudio smirked, assuming she was just like every other woman he dealt with. He pulled a checkbook from his jacket, signed his name, and held out the blank check. "Write whatever number makes you happy."
Gena walked over, took the check from his fingers, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it into the trash can. She looked him dead in the eye, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass.
"I don't want your money," Gena said, her voice dropping to a low, intense register. "I want you to take me into the Pierce family's inner circle. I want to attend every dinner, every gala. And I want your absolute protection."
Claudio's smirk vanished. He studied the girl standing in front of him. "Why does a girl from Flushing want to walk into a shark tank like my family?"
"Because the people who sold me to that loan shark belong to your world," Gena lied smoothly, her nails digging into her palms. "I want to watch them burn, and I need a ladder to reach them."
Claudio stared at her for a long moment. He didn't fully believe her, but the raw, violent ambition in her eyes was undeniable. She was the perfect shield.
Claudio held out his right hand. Gena gripped it firmly. In that cramped, filthy bedroom, a contract was forged.
Thirty minutes later, a heavy knock rattled the apartment door. Dexter stood in the hallway, flanked by two massive bodyguards carrying several large garment bags.
Bulah and Leland cowered in the kitchen, terrified by the men in black suits.
Dexter handed Claudio a fresh, tailored suit. He then handed Gena three bags stamped with luxury logos.
Gena took the bags into the tiny bathroom. She stripped off her cheap clothes and pulled on a custom-tailored, black velvet Tom Ford gown. The fabric clung to her curves like a second skin. She applied the high-end makeup quickly, her hands moving with practiced ease.
When Gena opened the bathroom door and stepped out, the air in the room seemed to stop.
Claudio, who had been adjusting his cufflinks in front of a cheap full-length mirror hanging on the bedroom wall, turned and looked at her. His eyes widened slightly, a flash of genuine shock breaking through his cold exterior. The girl from the slums was gone. The woman standing before him radiated a dark, aristocratic elegance that put actual heiresses to shame.
Claudio walked up to her, his gaze intense. He pulled a heavy diamond necklace from a velvet box. He stepped behind her and fastened the clasp at the nape of her neck. His warm fingertips brushed against her cold collarbone, sending a shiver down her spine.
"Once we walk through the doors of my family's house, there is no turning back," Claudio whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. He gestured with his chin toward the cheap full-length mirror. "Look at us."
Gena looked at their reflection. The image was jarring—two predators in flawless attire, set against the backdrop of a peeling, mildew-stained wall. A cold, terrifying smile touched her lips. Let them try, she thought. I've already been torn apart.
They walked out of the apartment, completely ignoring the slack-jawed stares of her adoptive parents.
A massive, black Rolls-Royce Phantom sat idling on the dirty street. A bodyguard opened the heavy door.
Gena lifted the hem of her velvet gown and slid into the plush leather seat with perfect grace. Claudio sat beside her.
Dexter handed Gena an iPad with the guest list for the family dinner they were attending tonight.
Gena scrolled down. The very first name on the list was Hubert Pierce.
Her fingers clamped onto the edges of the iPad so hard her knuckles turned white. Her stomach twisted into a violent knot.
The Rolls-Royce pulled away from the curb, gliding smoothly toward the destination. The game had begun.
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8.4
For twenty years, I lived as the adopted daughter of the wealthy Hill family.
But today, they forced me to sign a severance agreement and kicked me out so their precious biological daughter, Malia, could marry my fiancé.
To ruin me completely, they framed me for stealing Malia's engagement bracelet, threatening me with prison.
I calmly exposed the "sapphire" as cheap glass, then rolled up my sleeves to show the reporters my scarred, punctured arms.
For two decades, I wasn't a daughter. I was Malia's living blood and bone marrow bank.
They drained my health to keep her alive, even ordering doctors to ignore my failing organs just so she could attend a gala.
"Take this million dollars and shut your mouth," my adoptive father sneered, throwing a check at my feet.
My ex-fiancé looked at me with disgust, and Malia screamed that I was a crazy, vindictive liar.
They had stolen my life and my health, yet they still looked down on me like I was garbage.
I ripped the check into pieces and threw it in their faces.
Just as they ordered the butler to drag me out, a group of men in black suits shattered the chaos.
The heir of the untouchable Montgomery dynasty stepped through the door, ignoring the Hills' fawning, and handed me a DNA report.
I wasn't a disposable blood bag. I was the long-lost true heiress of old New York money.
And now, I was going to take back everything they stole from me.
9.3
Chandler was the secret wife of Avery Osborn, a powerful media heir who kept their marriage hidden to avoid the scandal of her illegitimate birth.
After catching him openly flirting with a rival at a gala, Avery mocked her low status and told her she was nothing without his money.
Instead of crying, Chandler immediately signed a zero-payout divorce agreement, left her wedding ring on his glass table, and walked out.
To numb the pain of her shattered life, she went to a notorious underground club.
Drugged by a bartender, she lost her mind and ended up having a wild night with a handsome stranger she mistook for a high-end male escort.
Panicking the next morning, Chandler transferred her entire life savings of $50,000 to the man to buy his silence, then fled to her corporate job.
But at the afternoon executive meeting, her blood ran cold.
The man she had paid off was standing at the head of the boardroom table. He wasn't a gigolo. He was Brennan George, the ruthless new COO of her company.
Cornering her in the women's restroom, Brennan held up a printed copy of her $50,000 wire transfer.
"Wiring a massive sum of cash to your direct superior after a night together is classified as commercial bribery and solicitation," he whispered dangerously.
Chandler was terrified, realizing she had handed him the exact evidence needed to destroy her career and sue her into bankruptcy.
"Marry me," Brennan demanded coldly. "It's the only way to make this HR problem disappear."
7.5
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
8.9
For fifteen years, I thought my mother had died in a tragic fire.
Then the wealthy Ross family's butler knocked on my door, revealing she was alive—locked away in the psychiatric annex of their massive estate.
I rushed into the lion's den to save her, only to run straight into Graydon Ross, the ruthless billionaire CEO.
He looked at my cheap clothes with pure disgust, convinced I was a bottom-feeding scammer trying to extort his family.
"Throw this bitch out into the snow."
He ordered his armed guards to drag me away, completely cutting off my only chance to see my mentally broken mother.
But as he violently grabbed my collar to throw me out, I saw a custom eagle-head cufflink hanging from his coat pocket.
My blood turned to ice, and a wave of paralyzing terror crashed over me.
Eight months ago, I accidentally slept with a masked stranger in a pitch-black hotel room and fled before dawn.
That cufflink belonged to him.
The man who took my virginity—the Wall Street tyrant I had been hiding from—was Graydon Ross.
If he ever found out I was that woman, he would literally destroy my life.
But to save my mother, I couldn't be thrown out.
When his grandmother suddenly appeared, I dropped to the floor, exposed the dark bruises Graydon had just left on my wrists, and sobbed.
I framed the billionaire for assault to secure my place in the mansion, forcing myself to live right next door to the monster whose bed I had fled.
8.7
"Sign the papers and leave. My true love is coming home, and this house no longer has room for a placeholder like you."
For three years, Lia Leighton was the perfect, invisible wife to Julian Cohen-the cold-blooded titan of the Port Harcourt business world. She was the one who nursed his wounds, managed his scandals, and endured his family's cruelty, all while he treated her like a piece of furniture he'd forgotten he bought.
But on their third anniversary, instead of a celebration, Julian hands her a cold ultimatum. His "White Moonlight"-the woman who broke his heart years ago-has returned, and Lia is being discarded like yesterday's news.
Julian expects Lia to beg. He expects her to cry for the meager settlement he's tossed at her feet. After all, she's just a penniless orphan he rescued from the gutter... right?
He couldn't be more wrong.
Without a single tear, Lia signs the papers, leaves her wedding ring in the dust, and vanishes.
When she resurfaces, she isn't the quiet wallflower Julian threw away. She is the glamorous, untouchable CEO of the Leighton Global Empire-the very woman who now holds Julian's entire financial future in her hands.
As Julian's world begins to crumble, he realizes too late that he didn't just lose a wife; he lost the most powerful woman in the city. But when he finally falls to his knees to beg for mercy, Lia only offers a cold, devastating smile.
"Mr. Cohen, I don't negotiate with exes. Stay in your lane."
9.4
For three years, I was nothing but a ghost in my marriage, a pathetic stand-in forced to dress exactly like my billionaire husband's dead fiancée.
On our third anniversary, he left me to face armed intruders in our remote estate alone.
When I called him begging for help, he mocked me for faking a home invasion for attention and hung up to comfort his mistress.
The nightmare only got worse. The next night, my stepmother and half-sister drugged me at a family gala, trying to ruin me by handing me over to a sleazy producer.
I escaped into a pitch-black hotel suite, only to be overpowered by a drugged stranger in the dark.
Traumatized and covered in bruises, I secretly took an emergency contraceptive pill.
When my husband found the crumpled receipt on the floor, he didn't ask if I was hurt or where the violent marks on my neck came from.
"You cheap whore. You broke the loyalty contract."
He drafted the divorce papers immediately, stripping me of every penny, and ordered me thrown onto the street.
He thought without his wealth, I wouldn't survive a day in New York and would come crawling back to him like a dog.
I didn't shed a single tear. I calmly signed the papers, dropped my diamond ring on his glass table, and walked out.
What my arrogant ex-husband didn't know was that before I became his obedient shadow, I was "Lan"—the legendary, anonymous fashion designer the entire world was desperately looking for.
Now, I was taking back my empire.