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 6
The taxi dropped her off in front of a rundown, red-brick walk-up in Brooklyn. Ciara paid the driver and stepped onto the cracked, wet pavement.
She used an old, slightly rusted key to open the main door, then climbed three flights of stairs. The smell of dust and old books hit her as she unlocked the door to her old apartment.
This was her secret. Her sanctuary. The place where she wasn't Mrs. Webb, but LUNA, the anonymous, sought-after designer behind a cult couture label.
She dropped her soaked blazer on the floor. She walked to the far wall and moved a large, abstract painting to the side, revealing a flush-mounted safe.
She entered the code. The safe clicked open.
Inside were stacks of cash, several fake passports under different names, and the keys to a series of offshore accounts. This was her freedom. Her escape fund.
A sudden, violent banging on the door made her jump. The old wood rattled in its frame.
Ciara's blood ran cold. She slammed the safe shut, pushed the painting back into place, and crept to the door.
She peered through the peephole.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was Jordon. His face was dark, furious. Behind him, two of his bodyguards stood like stone sentinels, completely blocking the narrow hallway.
The banging stopped. "Ciara, open this door right now," his voice was a low, dangerous command. "Don't test my patience."
She took a breath, unlatched the chain, and pulled the door open. She met his furious gaze with a calm, empty stare.
Jordon stormed into the tiny apartment, his large frame making the space feel even smaller. He looked around at the worn furniture with undisguised contempt.
"What is this? What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, turning on her. "Did you really think you could hide from me? I placed a micro-tracker in the lining of your vintage leather bag three years ago, the day we got married. You are my wife; you don't get to have secrets."
Ciara didn't answer. She walked to an old wooden desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a folder.
"You will come back to the penthouse now," Jordon continued, his voice laced with the arrogance of a man who had never been disobeyed. "If this little tantrum of yours affects the Webb family image, I will have our lawyers bury you."
A dry, humorless smile touched her lips.
She turned around and slapped the folder down on the scarred surface of the desk.
The title on the top page was in bold, black letters: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.
Her signature, Ciara Novak, was already scrawled at the bottom, the ink sharp and final.
Jordon's eyes locked onto the words. His pupils constricted. For the first time, she saw a crack in his iron control. A flash of pure disbelief.
He looked up, his gaze searching her face for a sign, any sign that this was a bluff, a game.
He found none. Her eyes were as cold and hard as diamonds.
"I don't want your money," she said, her voice steady. "I'm waiving all alimony. I just want out."
The raw shock on his face was quickly replaced by a possessive fury. He lunged forward, his fingers clamping around her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.
"You don't end this," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "I do. This is my game, my rules."
The pressure on her jaw was immense, but she didn't flinch. She didn't look away.
She raised her right hand, the one with the angry, blistered burn, and smacked his hand away.
The sharp sound echoed in the silent apartment.
"Sign it," she said, her voice a blade of ice.
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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.