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 8
The Rolls-Royce Phantom left the city limits behind, speeding along the Long Island Expressway before finally gliding to a stop in front of the Pierce family's historic Hamptons estate. The moment the tires halted on the gravel driveway, a barrage of camera flashes erupted from the press pen, turning the night as bright as day.
A bodyguard shoved the paparazzi back. Claudio stepped out first, adjusting his cuffs. He turned and extended his hand into the dark interior of the car.
Gena took a deep breath, forcing the violent pounding of her heart to slow. She placed her black-lace-gloved hand into Claudio's palm and stepped out onto the pavement.
The cameras went wild. The reporters shouted questions, expecting the mystery girl to cower. Instead, Gena lifted her chin, her face a mask of perfect, icy indifference. She offered the cold camera lenses a single, chillingly beautiful smile that silenced the crowd.
Claudio's hand slid from her palm to the small of her back, gripping her waist firmly. Together, they walked up the marble steps and through the heavy carved-wood doors.
The grand foyer was blinding. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over Renaissance oil paintings. Gena's breath hitched in her throat. Her stomach clenched. This was her house. She had picked out those paintings.
The chatter in the room died instantly. Every eye in the foyer locked onto the notorious Claudio Pierce and the stunning, unknown woman on his arm.
Alistair Thompson, the head butler, stepped forward. His eyes swept over Gena with polite disdain as he reached for Claudio's coat. Gena stared at the man who had helped Hubert cover up his affairs. Her fingers twitched with the urge to slap his face, but she forced her hands to relax.
The crowd parted. Hubert Pierce walked toward them, wearing a bespoke tuxedo and holding a flute of champagne. A sickeningly fake smile was plastered across his face.
Hubert's eyes dragged over Gena's body. A flicker of lust crossed his face before he turned his attention to Claudio, his expression morphing into a sneer.
"I saw the tabloids, Uncle," Hubert mocked, his voice carrying across the quiet room. "Is this the stray you almost got yourself killed over in Queens?"
Gena stood face-to-face with the man who had ordered her murder. The blood roared in her ears. Her fingernails dug into her palms so hard she felt the skin break, using the physical pain to keep her face paralyzed in a polite smile.
Claudio pulled Gena slightly closer to his chest. He let out a dark chuckle. "My taste has always been better than yours, Hubert. I don't dig through the garbage for my women."
The insult hit its mark. Hubert's jaw tightened, the knuckles holding his champagne glass turning stark white.
Gena tilted her head, her voice light and innocent, but laced with poison. "Your suit is tailored beautifully, Mr. Pierce. The cut of the lapel... it looks exactly like the work of that late designer. What a shame she passed."
Hubert's eyes snapped to Gena. The word "late" made the muscles in his face twitch. He stared at her, trying to find a crack in her innocent expression, guilt radiating from his rigid posture.
Before Hubert could respond, Ara Wilkinson glided up to his side. She wore a pristine white couture gown, clinging to Hubert's arm like a proud swan.
Ara looked Gena up and down with absolute superiority. "Welcome to the family," Ara said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "And what exactly is your background, dear?"
Gena looked at the face of the sister who had injected her with a sedative and left her to the dogs. Bile rose rapidly in her throat. She swallowed it down and smiled brightly.
"I'm just a design assistant," Gena replied smoothly. "But Claudio tells me he prefers people who actually work for a living, rather than those who just pretend."
Ara's fake smile cracked. The subtle accusation of being a fraud made her face flush red, but she couldn't snap back in front of the guests.
Claudio felt the rigid tension in Gena's spine. Thinking she was intimidated, his hand squeezed her waist in a gesture of protection.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. Auther Pierce, the patriarch of the Pierce family, descended slowly, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. The room fell dead silent.
Auther's sharp, hawkish eyes scanned the room, landing directly on Claudio and Gena. He let out a loud, disapproving snort.
"Take your seats," Auther commanded, his voice echoing off the marble. He turned to the butler. "Alistair, place Claudio's... guest... at the far end of the table."
It was a blatant, public humiliation designed to put the "commoner" in her place. Hubert and Ara exchanged a look of smug satisfaction.
Claudio's eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as he prepared to argue with his father.
Gena reached out and placed her hand over Claudio's. She looked up at him and smiled. "It's fine," she said loudly enough for the room to hear. "I prefer the end of the table. It gives me a perfect view of everyone's true faces."
Gena turned and walked gracefully toward the very end of the massive dining table, taking her seat like a queen preparing to pass judgment.
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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.