The Unwanted Wife's Secret Billionaire Heir
Fiona Ferguson was trapped in a cold, transactional marriage with billionaire Holland Montgomery just to save her dying grandmother.
On their wedding night, he didn't touch her. Instead, he slammed an emergency contraceptive pill onto the vanity, accusing her of drugging him to secure a ring.
She swallowed the bitter pill to appease him. But weeks later, a routine medical checkup revealed the impossible: she was four weeks pregnant. Her grandmother's herbal anxiety medication had secretly neutralized the contraceptive.
Terrified of his ruthless temper, Fiona hid the pregnancy while enduring his constant humiliations. When her grandmother's life-saving heart transplant was suddenly bumped for a VIP patient, Fiona swallowed her pride and begged Holland to use his hospital board influence.
He didn't even listen. Instead, he pulled out a black American Express card and threw it across his massive desk.
"Name your price," he sneered, treating her desperate plea for a life like a cheap shakedown. "One million? Five? Let's just put a number on it."
Staring at the heavy black card, something inside Fiona finally shattered. She had taken his pills, endured his family's mockery, and let him treat her like dirt—all to keep her only family alive. But he truly believed her soul had a price tag.
A chilling calm washed over her. Without touching the card, she looked the billionaire dead in the eye with profound contempt.
"I regret the day I ever met you," she said, her voice like ice. "As soon as the surgery is over, we are getting a divorce. And I am walking away with absolutely nothing."
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Chapter 3
The dining room at the Montgomery estate in the Hamptons was a cavern of polished mahogany and quiet judgment. A crystal chandelier dripped light onto a table long enough to land a small plane on. Fiona sat beside Holland, the space between them a frozen tundra.
This was their first official family dinner as a married couple, and the weight of a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes was a physical pressure on her shoulders. Millicent Montgomery, the family's elegant, iron-willed matriarch and Holland's grandmother, sat at the head of the table, her gaze as sharp as the tines of her silver fork.
A butler, silent as a ghost, placed a plate of Lobster Thermidor in front of her. The scent of rich butter and broiled seafood hit her first. Her stomach lurched violently. A wave of nausea, hot and acidic, surged up her throat.
She gripped the thick linen of the tablecloth under the table, her knuckles straining. Breathe. Just breathe.
Holland noticed her stiffen. He shot her a look-not of concern, but of cold warning. He thought this was another one of her acts, a play for sympathy in front of his family.
"Fiona, dear," Millicent's smooth voice cut through the low hum of conversation. "You look a bit pale. Is the food not to your liking?"
Fiona forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster. "No, Mrs. Montgomery, it's delicious. I'm just... not very hungry tonight."
As if on cue, another server presented the next course: black truffle risotto. The earthy, pungent aroma was the final assault.
She couldn't stop it. A gag reflex took over. Fiona slapped a hand over her mouth, pushed her chair back with a screech, and fled towards the powder room.
The dining room fell silent. Every eye turned to Holland.
Millicent's perfectly tweezed eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. She set down her fork and knife, her gaze pinning her grandson to his chair. "Holland," she said, her voice laced with meaning. "What's wrong with Fiona?"
A distant cousin piped up with a laugh. "Don't tell me there's already a bun in the oven!"
Holland's face darkened. The casual joke landed like an accusation, making him look like a fool who'd been easily trapped. He felt the heat of humiliation creep up his neck.
He dabbed his lips with his napkin, his movements sharp and angry. "You're mistaken," he said, his voice dropping to a near-polar temperature. "She can't be pregnant."
The finality in his tone sucked the remaining warmth from the room.
"And why are you so certain of that?" Millicent pressed, her gaze unwavering.
Holland glanced towards the powder room, his expression merciless. He decided to kill any and all speculation right there. "Because our prenuptial agreement stipulates that she is on birth control," he announced to the silent table. He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in. "Our family has certain standards. There will be no... surprises."
The implication was brutal, a public branding. He had just declared his new wife a potential source of trouble, a liability to be managed.
Fiona had just stepped out of the powder room, her face still damp from the cold water she'd splashed on it. His last words hit her with the force of a physical slap.
She froze in the doorway. The blood in her veins turned to ice. She saw it all in a flash-the pity in one aunt's eyes, the undisguised contempt in another's, the morbid curiosity on every face. She felt naked, dissected on the polished floor of this grand, cold house.
She took a breath, then another, forcing her legs to move. She walked back to her seat, her head held high. Her voice was hoarse but steady when she spoke. "I apologize for the interruption."
She turned to Millicent, offering a plausible, if flimsy, excuse. "I think I have a bit of a stomach flu. Rich foods seem to be upsetting it."
The explanation was logical enough. It seemed to satisfy most of the table, who quickly busied themselves with their food, eager to move past the excruciating moment.
Millicent gave her a long, unreadable look, then nodded to the butler. "Bring Mrs. Montgomery a glass of warm water with lemon."
The rest of the dinner passed in a thick, suffocating silence.
Back in the guest suite they were assigned, the facade shattered. Holland slammed the door shut and grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. He pushed her against the wall, his face inches from hers, his eyes burning with rage.
"You had better have the goddamn stomach flu," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "If you ever, ever try to pull a stunt like that again, I will make you regret the day you were born."
Fiona didn't struggle. She didn't flinch. She just looked at him, her eyes a dead, empty expanse.
"Holland," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "Believe me. No one wants an accident to happen less than I do."
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9.7
For three years, I hid my identity as the sole heiress of a multi-billion dollar tech empire to live in a cramped apartment and support my boyfriend, Ben.
But the day before our engagement, I stood outside a meeting room and overheard him talking to his wealthy boss, Haylie.
"She's just a stepping stone," Ben laughed, his voice full of contempt. "A poor, ambitionless distraction while I work my way up to where I really belong."
He mocked the cheap silver ring he gave me, calling it a necessary prop to keep a naive fool happy.
He bragged about the multi-million dollar merger proposal he was presenting, planning to use it to secure his promotion and build a future with her.
He had no idea that I had secretly negotiated that entire deal using my real connections just to give him his big break.
I had sacrificed my family's comfort, my true identity, and my own career just to watch him rise.
I poured my heart and soul into our humble beginnings, only to realize he saw my love as a pathetic joke and me as disposable trash.
I calmly picked up a pen and voided the merger agreement, tearing my hard work into tiny pieces.
I went home, slid the cheap ring off my finger, and dropped it into his mug of cold coffee.
"Soon, you'll find out exactly who is nothing."
Walking out the door, I pulled out my phone and texted my billionaire father.
"I'm in. Announce the merger."
9.8
Four years ago, I was drugged on a luxury yacht and ended up pregnant with twins.
I raised them in secret, enduring my stepfamily's daily abuse, until the billionaire West family patriarch cornered us at the airport.
He instantly recognized my son's face—an exact replica of his ruthless grandson, Bernardo West.
My malicious stepmother and stepsister immediately leaked to the press that I was a delusional gold-digger using fake kids to trap a billionaire.
They wanted the West family to destroy me to save their own social standing.
Bernardo himself looked at me with pure disgust, demanding a DNA test.
"If you ever lie to me, I will take the children, and I will make you wish you were never born."
I didn't want his money. I was a victim of that night too, left with a crescent-shaped bite mark on my collarbone and zero memory of who set us up.
Why did someone drug us? And how could I protect my babies from a corporate predator who could crush me with a snap of his fingers?
But when the DNA test came back 99.9999% positive, I didn't cower.
I showed him the scar he left on me, looked the most dangerous man in the country right in the eye, and made my demand.
"If you want to claim your heirs, you have to marry me."
7.2
I thought I was just marrying a middle-class commercial pilot who proposed to me in a Brooklyn cemetery to fulfill his grandmother's bizarre dying wish.
But when an arrogant pilot tried to harass me at the airport, my "ordinary" husband suddenly appeared, his eyes like chips of ice.
"Take your hand off my wife."
With that single cold command, he had the airline's top executives groveling and the man practically fired on the spot.
Everyone called him "Mr. Chandler." He handed me an exclusive black Centurion card, claiming it was just a standard "manager's perk." His retired parents, who supposedly ran a small business, visited me wearing Patek Philippe watches. I ignored all the glaring red flags, foolishly believing I had just lucked into a stable, caring marriage after a lifetime of disappointments.
Yet, despite his constant, suffocating generosity, he kept a physical wall between us. After a kiss so desperate and hungry it felt like he had been starving for it his entire life, he violently pushed me away.
"We should take this slow."
I couldn't understand why a man who looked at me with such intense, possessive devotion would treat our marriage like a sterile business deal. Why was he orchestrating every perfect detail of my life while refusing to even share a bed with me?
I had no idea that the man sleeping in the guest room wasn't a pilot at all. He was Harmon Chandler, the ruthless billionaire emperor of the Chandler Group. And he had been secretly monitoring my every move for ten years.
9.1
For ten years, Ran hid in the shadows as Hollywood star Jincheng Lu's secret girlfriend and assistant, starving herself to pay for his acting classes.
On their tenth anniversary, she sat in a cheap apartment with $9.87 in her bank account, watching him slide a massive diamond ring onto a wealthy heiress's finger on live television.
When she called the number she had memorized for a decade, she only heard a cold busy tone. He had blocked her.
Despair swallowed her whole. She forced down a handful of sleeping pills with stale whiskey and died alone on the cold bathroom tiles.
His mother found her rotting body three days later, calling her a "filthy bottom-feeder" before ordering a cleanup crew to dispose of her existence like industrial waste.
Jincheng didn't even ask if she suffered. He just ordered his PR team to digitally erase her ten years of sacrifice from the internet.
"Make sure the press release is airtight. She was an unstable former assistant. She had a history of mental illness. That's it."
Until her heart stopped completely, she didn't understand. She had abandoned her status as the hidden heiress of the wealthy Qin family to build his empire from the ground up.
How could he erase every trace of her without a second thought, using her corpse as a PR shield for his perfect new life?
Opening her eyes again, the sharp smell of hospital antiseptic burned her lungs.
She hadn't just died. She had woken up in the body of a notorious, D-list reality TV influencer who shared her exact name.
Looking at her new face in the mirror, a cold smile spread across her lips. She was going to tear his perfect life apart, piece by bloody piece.
8.3
Alena landed at JFK, eager to call her fiancé of three years.
But a sudden message from her best friend shattered her world: a high-resolution photo of Darrin passionately kissing another woman. The woman was Katrina, her older sister.
Alena rushed to the grand ballroom and confronted them in front of New York's elite. Instead of an apology, her own mother slapped her across the face.
"You jealous, spiteful girl. Trying to ruin your sister's happiness because you can't handle your own failures."
Darrin coldly wrapped a protective arm around Katrina. The nightmare worsened when they ambushed Alena at her apartment, demanding she sign an NDA to cover up the affair and save their family's failing business. If she refused, her father threatened to tell her frail grandfather the truth, knowing the shock would trigger a fatal heart attack.
Alena was suffocated by the sheer magnitude of the betrayal. Her family was weaponizing the only person who truly loved her, treating her like a disposable pawn to protect the sister who stole her life. How could her own flesh and blood be so sickeningly cruel?
Cornered and entirely out of options, Alena pulled a matte-black business card from her pocket.
It belonged to Andrew Spencer, the ruthless billionaire who had rescued her from the freezing rain, and the apex predator Darrin feared most. He had offered her a transactional marriage. If her family wanted to destroy her, she would become their worst nightmare. She picked up her phone and dialed his number.
8.6
Genevieve was heavily pregnant, holding the legal papers that would transfer her massive family trust fund to her loving husband, Clinton.
But as she approached his study, she heard a familiar giggle. Through the cracked door, she saw her cousin Carolynn sitting on his desk, her skirt hiked up, while Clinton smirked and poured bourbon.
"Once she signs those papers, we don't need her anymore," Clinton laughed coldly. "The kidnapping is staged for tomorrow. She and the brat disappear permanently."
Genevieve gasped, and he spotted her. When she frantically tried to run, her trusted housekeeper blocked the stairs. Clinton dragged her back, beat her mercilessly, and locked her in a freezing, underground cellar.
Denied any medical help, she endured agonizing hours of labor alone in the dark, only to deliver a stillborn child. Clinton then walked in, ruthlessly tossed her dead baby's tiny body into a pile of dirty rags, and brutally strangled her.
As her lungs burned and the world faded to black, her heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. She had given him everything. How could they be so monstrous as to murder her and her innocent child just for money?
Opening her eyes again, the freezing cellar was gone.
She was standing in an emerald silk gown at an elite charity gala—the exact night their original kidnapping plot began, a month before she even announced her pregnancy.
This time, the naive socialite was dead, and she was going to make them pay in blood.