Too Late, Billionaire: Watch Me Leave
For three years, Ciara played the perfect, invisible protocol wife to billionaire Jordon Webb.
But on the day she finally held a positive pregnancy test, he abandoned her mid-sentence to rush to the side of his ex-lover, Jasmine.
Seeking answers, Ciara went to his Wall Street office, only to be publicly humiliated by his family. His cousin intentionally poured scalding espresso over her hand, leaving her skin blistered and raw.
"She's a protocol wife. She knows her place. She's replaceable."
Hearing Jordon's cold words to his friends shattered her. When he finally appeared, instead of defending his injured wife, he furiously scolded her for causing a scene and ruining his company's image.
That night, while Jordon stayed at the hospital holding a perfectly fine Jasmine in his arms, Ciara was left completely alone in their dark, empty penthouse.
A sudden, agonizing cramp ripped through her abdomen. She suffered a devastating miscarriage, bleeding out on the cold marble floor with no one to answer her cries.
A decade of loving him had left her with a dead baby, a ruined hand, and absolute despair.
Why did she have to lose her child while he fiercely protected the woman who mocked her existence?
The next morning, her sorrow burned away into cold, hardened ash.
Ciara signed the divorce papers, waiving all alimony, and left them behind.
Jordon had no idea that his docile, charity-case wife was actually LUNA, the world-famous anonymous couture designer.
She packed her bags, walked out of the penthouse, and prepared to take her life back.
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Chapter 4
Taryn took another step, closing the distance between them. The malicious glint in her eyes was unmistakable.
"You don't get to give orders here," she hissed, her voice a low, ugly whisper. "You are nothing."
Ciara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The nausea was back, a bitter, acidic wave of humiliation.
"I am still Jordon's wife," she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "And you will show me respect."
That was the spark that lit the fuse. Taryn's face contorted with fury. With a deliberate, almost theatrical flick of her wrist, she tilted the cup.
Scalding hot espresso shot out, landing directly on the back of Ciara's right hand.
The pain was instantaneous and sharp, a thousand tiny needles stabbing into her skin. A dark brown stain bloomed on her white skin, and the fabric of her blazer was ruined.
Ciara gasped, pulling her hand back. A few executives winced, but no one moved. They just watched.
"Oh, clumsy me," Taryn said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. A cruel, triumphant smile played on her lips.
The skin on Ciara's hand was already turning an angry red, a blister beginning to form. The physical pain sliced through the fog of her emotional shock, igniting a pure, white-hot rage.
Ciara didn't wipe away the coffee. She didn't cry out.
She raised her left hand.
The sound of the slap was sharp and loud, a crack of thunder in the silent, carpeted hallway.
Taryn's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed on her perfectly made-up cheek.
For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Everyone stared, mouths agape, at the quiet, unassuming wife who had just struck a Webb.
Then Taryn shrieked, a raw, animal sound of outrage. She lunged at Ciara, her manicured nails aimed for her face.
At that exact moment, the mahogany doors to Jordon's office were thrown open with a deafening bang.
Jordon stood there, his face a thundercloud. His presence was a physical force, instantly silencing the chaos.
His sharp gaze swept the scene. He saw Taryn, clutching her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. He saw Ciara, standing tall and defiant, her chest heaving.
From his angle, with Taryn partially blocking his view, he initially missed the damage. But as he stepped forward, his sharp gaze caught the angry, blistered skin and the dark coffee soaking Ciara's right hand. A sudden, sharp pang tightened his chest, an instinct to reach out and inspect the burn. Yet, surrounded by his top executives, he forced his jaw to clench, suppressing the urge. He couldn't show weakness here; he had to maintain the ironclad, cold authority that kept the family sharks at bay.
His eyes, cold as a winter sky, landed on Ciara.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "This is a place of business. We don't air our petty dramas here. You clearly don't understand the rules."
The words hit her harder than the slap, harder than the hot coffee. She looked at him, searching his face for a flicker of concern, of support, of anything.
She found nothing but ice.
Ciara slowly, deliberately, hid her injured hand behind her back. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, hidden by the dark lens of her sunglasses.
She didn't say a word. She didn't defend herself.
A bitter, broken smile touched her lips. She took a step back, creating a chasm between them.
She gave him one last look, the look you give a stranger you never want to see again. Then she turned and walked toward the elevator.
The doors slid open as if on cue. She stepped inside, pressing the button for the lobby, and the doors closed, shutting out the whispers, the stares, and the man who had just shattered the last piece of her heart.
Jordon watched the numbers above the elevator descend. A strange, unfamiliar tightness gripped his chest. His gaze fell to the floor, to a dark, ugly stain on the pristine carpet.
Coffee.
As the elevator dropped, Ciara leaned against the cold metal wall. She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, a silent promise to the life growing inside her.
This marriage was over.
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7.6
Jocelyn Yang lived in the grand Turner Mansion, not as a guest, but as a prisoner. Ever since her father's death, the ruthless billionaire Elam Turner forced her to atone for sins her father never committed.
On her nineteenth birthday, a male classmate secretly sent her a diamond necklace. Elam, who had flown back from London overnight, flew into a psychotic, jealous rage at the sight of another man's gift.
He mercilessly crushed the delicate necklace into the marble floor with his custom leather shoe.
"Did you forget what you are?" Elam hissed, dragging her into a pitch-black storage room. "You take gifts from other men behind my back?"
He pinned her to the dusty floorboards and violently assaulted her. The next morning, a wire transfer of $500,000 hit her bank account. He had humiliated her, broken her spirit, and was now casually trying to buy her silence. Later, when a broken bike left her walking miles through a freezing rainstorm, he just shoved scalding tea into her bleeding hands.
"Look at you," he sneered. "You look like a stray dog ruining my floors."
Jocelyn curled up in the cold, her lips bleeding and her heart shattered. She couldn't understand his terrifying obsession. If he hated her so much, why did he refuse to let her go? Why did he look at her with such manic hunger while systematically destroying her life?
Staring at the massive sum of hush money on her phone, a desperate spark of vengeance flared in her chest. Jocelyn wired every single cent back to Elam's account. She picked up her charcoal pencil, vowing to win the upcoming art competition and buy her escape from this monster forever.
9.5
On the day she discovers she is pregnant, Amara is handed divorce papers by the man she loved for three years. Betrayed by her husband and her best friend, she walks away with nothing-except the secret growing inside her.
But what Ethan Cole doesn't know is that the woman he abandoned is not weak... and not alone.
When Amara returns as a powerful heiress, no longer the woman he could control, Ethan begins to regret everything. But as secrets unravel and the truth about her pregnancy comes closer to light, one question remains-
When he finally finds out the child is his... will it already be too late?
9.5
I woke up gasping from a nightmare of flames devouring Chandler Finch's estate, my body wrapped in burning curtains as I died alone.
But my eyes opened to silk sheets in his penthouse master bedroom. He was alive beside me, his cedarwood scent real. This was my second chance—I'd been reborn.
His phone buzzed: Eugenia Stewart's "emergency." Her security detail reported her refusing meals, unstable. Chandler bolted without a glance, rushing to her side.
I signed the brutal cohabitation contract binding me to him, but Temperance had planted birth control pills in the trash—a trap to frame me. Chandler found them, exploded in jealous rage, crushing the pills to dust. "No child unless it's mine," he growled, possessive fire in his eyes.
Brett, Eugenia's lapdog, stormed in later, accusing me of manipulation. I fired back: Chandler demanded my womb for his heir. Brett paled, fled to tattle.
Then the storm hit—power outage, locked on the terrace in pouring rain, freezing as Eugenia faked an asthma attack on Chandler's line, stealing his focus again. I hung up, huddled with a stray puppy, nearly dying from hypothermia.
He'd never believed me before—Eugenia's lies always won, dooming me to isolation and fire. Why did her every whimper trump my screams? How could he be so blind?
This time, reborn weeks before the inferno, I wouldn't beg. I'd play his game, shatter Eugenia's web, and make Chandler mine—before the flames returned.
9.1
I was supposed to be celebrating my twenty-first birthday and my engagement to the man I loved.
Instead, I was bleeding out in a crushed car, listening to my fiancé Greggory and my stepsister Alta laughing over the car's Bluetooth.
They had cut my brakes.
As the steering wheel crushed my shattered ribs, they cheerfully clinked their champagne glasses, celebrating their hostile takeover of my family's media empire.
I tried to scream for help, but my lungs wouldn't work.
Then, Alta's sweet voice delivered the final, fatal blow over the speaker.
"Your mother? I took care of her too."
I died in the freezing rain, my heart frozen with absolute hatred as I realized every touch and whispered promise was just a calculated step toward my murder.
I gave them everything, treating them like my closest family.
Why did they have to kill my innocent mother? Why did I blindly trust two vipers who only wanted to drain my blood?
Opening my eyes again, the smell of gasoline was gone.
I was back in my bedroom, safe and unharmed, on the exact day of my twenty-first birthday party.
The day the tragedy began.
Downstairs, my murderers were waiting to spring their trap, expecting me to blindly accept Greggory's proposal.
But this time, I put on a blood-red dress, grabbed the photo of their secret affair, and walked down the stairs to choose a new fiancé—the most ruthless billionaire in the room.
9.3
For three years, Dara endured endless humiliation to be the perfect wife to billionaire Donavon Monroe.
But on their third anniversary, which was also her birthday, Donavon coldly threw divorce papers on the dining table.
He wanted her gone for his returning childhood sweetheart, completely ignoring the blistering burn on Dara's hand—a cruel injury intentionally caused by his brother just hours ago.
When Dara tearfully reminded him how she had bled and almost died to save his life three years ago, Donavon looked at her with pure disgust.
"I have zero interest in looking at the ugly scars you picked up in whatever slum you crawled out of."
He accused her of fabricating a savior complex just to secure a ring, perfectly content to let his mother and brother treat her like a glorified maid.
Dara's heart completely shattered.
She had sacrificed her life and dignity for a ruthless capitalist who viewed her as nothing but disposable trash.
With her last shred of pride, she signed the papers, ready to leave this suffocating nightmare forever.
But that night, a freak lightning storm struck the estate.
When Dara opened her eyes the next morning, she felt incredibly heavy and her center of gravity was completely wrong.
She looked in the mirror and saw Donavon's cold, chiseled face staring back at her in absolute terror.
They had swapped bodies.
Now, she held the absolute power of the Monroe empire, and Donavon was finally going to experience his family's vicious abuse firsthand.
9.5
I joined a brutal wilderness survival reality show, playing the perfect role of a pathetic, uneducated girl from a trailer park.
I needed the five million dollar prize to fund my revenge against the wealthy family that drove my father to his death.
I played everyone flawlessly. I outsmarted the arrogant contestants, ruined a corrupt restaurant owner, and secured enough food to guarantee my absolute victory.
But just as I was dominating the game, a massive black helicopter landed in our camp.
The show's new billionaire sponsor had arrived, and he immediately ordered his tactical guards to confiscate every ounce of food I had earned.
My hard-won advantage was wiped out in seconds. The other contestants cheered, pointing at my empty hands.
"Take that, you greedy bitch!"
But the real nightmare wasn't the stolen food or the sudden rule change. It was the man who stepped out of the chopper.
Glenn Ryan. The ruthless CEO from my past life as an elite heiress.
He took off his sunglasses, his dark eyes locking onto my muddy shoes and frayed flannel shirt with a terrifying, obsessive smirk.
Why was he here? Why did he instantly target me the moment I started winning?
He didn't just know my true identity.
He had bought this entire game just to hunt me down.