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 7
The force of her slap, of her defiance, hung in the air between them. Ciara took a half-step back, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
The adrenaline that had fueled her, the anger that had been her armor, suddenly drained away. The day's events-the rain, the stress, the emotional trauma-crashed down on her all at once.
The room began to spin. Jordon's furious face blurred into a distorted mess of color.
Her legs gave out. She was falling, a puppet with its strings cut, toward the cold, hard floor.
Jordon's eyes widened. The rage vanished, replaced by a primal, gut-wrenching panic.
He moved faster than she thought possible, lunging forward and catching her before she hit the ground. He scooped her limp body into his arms.
The moment his hand touched her forehead, he flinched. She was burning up.
"Get the car ready! Now!" he roared at the guards still standing in the doorway.
Jordon carried her down the stairs, his long strides eating up the distance. He carefully placed her in the back of the armored SUV and climbed in beside her, pulling her close.
"Go," he ordered the driver. "Break every damn law you have to."
The car shot into traffic. Jordon held her shivering body, his mind racing. He felt a terror so profound it almost choked him.
Back at the Fifth Avenue penthouse, Jordon carried her straight to the master bedroom, laying her gently on the massive bed and covering her with a thick down comforter.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Alistair Finch, the Webb family's private physician, arrived, breathless and carrying his medical bag. He began his examination immediately.
"High fever, signs of dehydration and shock," he murmured, listening to her heart with a stethoscope. "I need to draw blood, run a full panel. Find the source of the infection."
He pulled out a rubber tourniquet and wrapped it around her left arm, the uninjured one.
The sharp, sterile sound of a needle being unwrapped from its plastic casing filled the quiet room. The cold tip of the needle touched her skin.
That cold prick was enough to slice through the fog of her fever. Ciara's eyes flew open. She saw the needle, the syringe, the doctor's focused expression.
Blood test.
HCG levels.
They would know. They would know about the baby. The family trust, the pre-nup, the clauses about heirs... they would take her child. They would rip it from her arms and she would be powerless to stop them.
A surge of pure, animal terror gave her a strength she didn't know she possessed.
She screamed, a raw, ragged sound, and thrashed wildly, knocking the doctor's hand away.
The metal tray beside the bed crashed to the floor, scattering vials and sterile wipes across the expensive rug.
"Get away from me!" she shrieked, scrambling to the far corner of the bed, pulling the sheets around her like a shield. Her eyes were wild, dilated with absolute panic. "You all want to hurt me! I don't trust you! I won't let any of you touch me! Get out! Get out!"
The doctor stared, shocked and confused.
She began to hyperventilate, her breath coming in short, panicked pants. It was a terrifying display of a complete emotional breakdown, fueled by genuine, trauma-induced terror that the doctor couldn't possibly dismiss as mere hysterics.
Jordon looked at her, at her pale, tear-streaked face, at the wild fear in her eyes. He saw the raw, angry burn on her other hand. A wave of guilt, sharp and suffocating, washed over him. He had done this to her.
Jordon turned to the bewildered doctor. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of absolute command.
"Get out."
Dr. Finch didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to pick up his supplies and fled the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Now they were alone.
Jordon slowly approached the bed, his movements careful, as if approaching a wounded, terrified animal.
---
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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.