Too Late For Regret: The Lethal Orphan
For years, I hid my identity as a lethal dark web operative by playing the quiet, submissive charity case of the wealthy Valentine family.
On my seventeenth birthday, their spoiled kids set up a cruel trap to dump industrial glue and paint on my head.
When I dodged it and they tumbled down the stairs instead, my adoptive parents completely lost their minds.
Sterling Valentine slammed emancipation papers onto his heavy oak desk, calling me a dangerous liability and a monster.
He kicked me out into a torrential storm with nothing but a canvas backpack, sneering that I would be eating out of dumpsters in a week.
"You ungrateful piece of trash! We took you out of the gutter and this is how you repay us!"
I looked at the man trying to intimidate me.
He thought he was throwing away a helpless orphan, completely unaware he had just released a predator who could dismantle his entire life with a single keystroke.
I didn't shed a single tear. I signed the papers, walked out the front door, and stepped directly into a waiting armored SUV.
By midnight, I had a new billionaire cover family, hacked a mercenary group for three million dollars, and secured my spot at the city's most elite academy.
"Game on."
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Chapter 2
Amara smoothed the skirt of the blue cotton dress as she walked out of the attic and down the long second-floor hallway.
She reached the top of the grand staircase. A sharp, chemical odor hit the back of her throat. It was the distinct smell of industrial glue mixed with cheap acrylic paint.
Amara stopped walking. Her eyes scanned the massive crystal chandelier hanging directly above the staircase.
A red plastic bucket was wedged dangerously close to the chandelier's load-bearing chain.
Her gaze traced downward. A nearly invisible, transparent fishing line ran from the lip of the bucket all the way down to the seventh step of the stairs, disappearing under the edge of the expensive Persian runner.
Amara shifted her eyes to the shadows of the staircase landing. She saw the toe of a designer sneaker and a sliver of blonde hair. Brandie and her younger brother, Preston, were hiding there.
A cold smirk touched Amara's lips. She lifted her foot and stepped onto the first stair.
She made her footsteps deliberately heavy. One. Two. Three. She planted her foot squarely on the sixth step.
Down on the landing, Preston leaned half his body out of the shadows, his eyes wide with anticipation.
Amara shifted her weight. Instead of stepping on the seventh stair, she slid the toe of her sneaker under the edge of the Persian runner and kicked upward.
The taut fishing line snapped. The sound was a sharp ping in the quiet foyer.
The red bucket tipped over. A thick waterfall of red paint and industrial glue plummeted from the ceiling.
Amara threw her upper body backward at an impossible angle. Her left hand clamped onto the mahogany handrail to anchor herself. The red liquid missed her face by less than an inch.
The paint did not hit the stairs. The momentum of Amara pulling the rug sent the heavy liquid flying forward in a wide arc. It splashed directly onto Preston and Brandie.
Preston took a face full of red glue. He screamed, his hands flying to his eyes. His sneakers slipped on the wet marble. He tumbled backward down the remaining stairs.
Brandie reached out to grab his shirt. Her hands stuck to the glue on his collar. His weight pulled her forward, and she went down with him.
They rolled down the wooden steps like a tangled ball of limbs, hitting the bottom floor with a heavy, sickening thud.
Amara stood perfectly still on the sixth step. She looked down at the mess. Not a single drop of paint had touched her blue dress.
The heavy double doors of the main sitting room flew open. Sterling and Deidra Valentine rushed out.
Deidra saw her two children writhing on the floor, covered in thick red liquid. She let out a shrieking wail that echoed off the high ceilings.
Sterling's face turned a deep, mottled purple. He snapped his head up and glared at Amara standing calmly on the stairs.
Brandie lifted her head from her mother's lap. She pointed a sticky, red finger up at the stairs. "She pushed us! Amara pushed us down the stairs!"
Preston clutched his twisted ankle and wailed louder. "She's a psycho! She tried to kill us!"
Deidra jumped up and ran to the bottom of the stairs. She pointed her finger right at Amara's face. "You ungrateful piece of trash! We took you out of the gutter and this is how you repay us!"
Amara did not open her mouth. She looked at the two adults. The last microscopic trace of hope she had for this family evaporated from her chest.
Sterling stomped up the stairs. He raised his large hand, aiming a backhand strike right at Amara's jaw.
Amara tilted her head two inches to the left. Sterling's hand missed her face and slammed hard into the solid mahogany handrail. He grunted, his face contorting in pain.
"There is a security camera right above the front door," Amara said. Her voice was ice.
Sterling froze. He looked over his shoulder at the small black dome mounted on the wall. The color drained from his face as his brain calculated the scandal of a police investigation.
He lowered his throbbing hand. "Get to my study," he barked. "Wait there until I decide what to do with you."
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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.
8.8
I discovered I was pregnant with twins from my marriage to Ell Steele, the ruthless CEO of the Steele Group. But he saw me as a gold-digging nobody, unworthy of his heir.
He stormed into our penthouse with his lawyer, slamming down abortion consent forms and a divorce NDA, offering five million to terminate and vanish. "You're not fit to carry my child," he spat, gripping my jaw.
I refused the abortion, signed the zero-payout divorce to keep my company insurance for my dying mom's ICU bills, but stayed on as an admin assistant. Brittany, his mistress, spilled coffee on my reports, got me demoted to the dusty sub-basement sorting old files.
She framed me for attacking her, security dragged me out, slamming me into doorframes that cramped my belly. Trapped in a sabotaged freight elevator, I nearly miscarried in the dark, gasping for air while Ell rescued me—only to find my prenatal pills and rage.
At the gala, I warned Brittany the Angel's Tears necklace—Georgina's flawed design—was cracking. She accused me of theft; Ell ordered me stripped and searched publicly. It snapped anyway, shattering the diamond, but he blamed me, firing and blacklisting me on the spot.
Beaten down, humiliated, body aching from their cruelty—how could my husband, who I once loved, destroy me without a shred of doubt? What made him so blind to my pain?
Dragged from our home in the rain, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up. The butler bowed: "Madame Aura, your suite awaits." As Ell watched from his Maybach, I initiated the hostile takeover—time to bankrupt them all.
7.2
Elmore Thomas rushed into the emergency room, clutching his feverish seven-year-old son, Buddy, tightly to his chest.
When the privacy curtain was pulled back, the air in Elmore's lungs vanished. The attending physician standing under the harsh lights was his wife, Kendal—the woman everyone believed had burned to death eight years ago.
But there was no tearful reunion. Kendal looked at him, and her eyes froze into impenetrable ice. She treated him like a biohazard, strictly referring to him as the family member.
Worse, she didn't recognize Buddy. She comforted their crying son with the same gentle warmth she used to reserve for Elmore, completely unaware she was soothing the baby she thought had died.
Days later, Elmore watched from the shadows as she picked up another boy outside a prep school, her left hand flashing a massive diamond engagement ring.
When his butler accidentally recognized her, Kendal shielded her new stepson with pure disgust in her eyes.
"Tell that psychopath to sign the divorce papers immediately. I have a new family now."
The words 'new family' echoed in Elmore's skull, tearing him apart. For eight years, he had lived in a hell of guilt and madness, raising their son in the shadow of her ghost. How could she just erase their past? How could she give her tender smiles to a stranger and look at him with absolute revulsion?
Standing in a luxury ballroom, Elmore squeezed his hand until his crystal champagne flute shattered, thick blood dripping onto the rug. The murderous obsession in his dark eyes returned as he called his lawyer.
"Freeze her divorce application. Use every dirty trick in the book. She isn't leaving."
7.9
Valerie Ashford, a girl who had just turned twenty-one, was introduced by her father to his business associates at a grand party, where she met a frightening, cold-blooded man.
That man was none other than her father's business partner, the CEO of a major corporation. He was taken with Valerie and had wanted her from the moment he first laid eyes on her.
For Rovano Morvane, whatever he desired was absolute and he had to have it, even by the worst means possible.
That night Valerie vanished without a trace and Rovano became the prime suspect, yet the Ashford family could not prove their allegations.
"P-please, I don't want to die, sir..." Valerie whispered so softly that Rovano had to bend down even lower.
"Didn't you just say you didn't care whether you were kidnapped or not? So shut your mouth." Rovano ordered.
Cold, Valerie felt the other side of the folding knife pressed against her cheek.
Rovano was going to mark Valerie.
It felt like something was missing if Rovano didn't take out his psychopathic urges on someone.
And this time, for the first time, he wanted a girl: Valerie Ashford.
Would Valerie's life end here?
8.0
Eloise Ferguson was the legitimate daughter of a powerful Senator, yet she was treated like a hysterical burden by her own family.
In her past life, her parents forced her to marry a sadistic billionaire for political funding.
When she resisted, they locked her in a psychiatric facility, drugged her, and left her to die in restraints while her "fragile" cousin Jaylene stole her life.
She never understood why her mother hated her so fiercely.
Why did her mother treat her brother Cortez and her cousin Jaylene like absolute royalty, while throwing her own flesh and blood to the wolves?
Opening her eyes again, Eloise found herself back at age twenty-two, trapped in a restroom at a charity gala.
Escaping her abuser, she used her awakened mystic abilities to look at her family's life forces.
What she saw made her blood run cold.
Thick, red biological cords connected her mother directly to both Cortez and Jaylene, intertwining in a perfect symbiotic bond.
They weren't cousins. They were illegitimate twins born from her mother's secret affair.
Eloise was the only true outsider in her own home.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her entire life of abuse was just a cover-up for a nest of parasites stealing her father's name and her inheritance.
But this time, she refused to be their victim.
Armed with an unchallengeable executive order she blackmailed out of the United States President, Eloise crushed the hidden microphone in her bedroom.
"Game on, Mother."
7.5
Daisy spent her birthday cooking a perfect dinner, waiting in their massive penthouse for her billionaire husband, Emmett.
Instead of coming home, a breaking news alert flashed on her screen: Emmett was at the hospital, protectively shielding his old flame, Eryn. When Daisy rushed to the VIP ward, Emmett physically blocked her to comfort a crying Eryn, completely forgetting it was his wife's birthday.
Heartbroken, Daisy demanded a divorce and fled. In response, Emmett ruthlessly froze all her bank accounts and trust funds, leaving her penniless in the freezing Manhattan rain. When she cornered him with divorce papers at a public funeral, a heavy metal cart slammed into her, tearing her calf wide open. Bleeding onto the marble floor, she begged him to sign. Instead, Emmett violently ripped the bloody papers to shreds.
"Unless I am dead, you are my wife," he snarled, locking her inside a room.
Daisy risked her life to escape through a window, dragging her bleeding leg to a dingy motel. But the real nightmare began when Eryn called. The tragic car crash that killed Daisy's adoptive parents ten years ago wasn't an accident—the brake lines were cut. And Emmett, the man she loved, had been using his vast corporate empire to protect the murderers all along.
Why did Emmett bury the police report? What was the deadly secret behind her true identity and the antique "Venus" necklace? Staring at her blood-stained hands in the cracked mirror, the terrified wife died. Daisy grabbed her coat and limped out into the dark, heading straight for the Navy Yard to burn his empire to the ground.