Too Late To Beg The Heiress
For eighteen years, Arielle was raised in a cramped trailer park, treated as nothing more than a walking blood bag to keep her sick sister, Kimora, breathing.
But today, her adoptive family hurled her belongings into a muddy pothole and kicked her out into the freezing rain.
"Get the hell out, you ungrateful parasite! You'll rot in the gutter!"
Kimora’s wealthy biological mother threw a check at her chest, warning her to stay away, while Kimora stepped out of a Porsche to mock her in the mud, flaunting her upcoming violin solo at Lincoln Center.
They didn't care that Arielle was the one locked in a basement, forced to write that very violin piece until her fingers bled.
They had drained eight hundred milliliters of her blood every month to keep up the illusion of Kimora's health, and now that they were done using her, they threw her away like garbage.
Did they really think she was just a fragile, broken country girl who would starve without them?
They had no idea she was a top-tier hacker who had just frozen a third of their offshore assets with a single keystroke.
As a massive, armored Maybach pulled up to take her back to her true bloodline—the ultra-wealthy Chandler empire—and her terrifyingly powerful billionaire fiancé, Arielle wiped the mud from her face.
Manhattan was waiting, and she was going to burn their world to the ground.
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Chapter 9
The dinner plates were cleared, replaced by the heavy scent of espresso and Cuban cigars in the lounge.
The family sank into the plush velvet sofas. The victory at the dinner table had warmed the room, but Curtiss still sat forward, his brow furrowed in deep anxiety.
"The gala is a wonderful idea, Mother," Curtiss said, rubbing his temples. "But Vivian was right about one thing. Arielle's education. The curriculum in Manhattan prep schools is brutal. I need to hire a team of retired Ivy League professors immediately to tutor her. I won't have her struggling."
Dianna, sulking in a corner armchair, let out a quiet, bitter scoff. "You can hire all the professors you want, Uncle Curtiss. You can't force a public school brain to understand advanced calculus."
Arielle didn't react to the insult. She simply stood up from the sofa.
She walked over to the entryway console, where the butler had placed her ruined canvas bag. She picked it up by the strap and carried it back to the center of the room, dropping it onto the glass coffee table. The dirty canvas looked offensive against the luxury.
She unzipped the main compartment, reached past her clothes, and slid her fingers into the padded inner pocket she had sewn against the back panel. The waterproof lining had done its job.
She pulled out a thick stack of heavy, cream-colored envelopes, all stamped with gold-foil crests.
Arielle tossed the stack onto the table in front of her father.
Curtiss frowned, picking up the top envelope. He broke the wax seal and pulled out the thick parchment. His eyes scanned the text.
He stopped breathing.
"This..." Curtiss's voice shook violently. "This is an unconditional acceptance letter from Phillips Exeter Academy. With a full-ride merit scholarship."
He flipped to the second page. "Her SAT score is attached. It's... it's a perfect 1600."
The silence in the lounge was absolute. The crackle of the fireplace sounded like gunshots.
Kevin lunged forward, snatching the rest of the envelopes. He ripped them open one by one, his eyes growing wider with every letter. "Lawrenceville. Groton. Deerfield. They all accepted her. Full scholarships."
Vivian shot up from her seat, her face twisted in denial. "That's impossible! Let me see those!" She snatched a letter from Kevin's hand, scrutinizing the signature. "These have to be forged. A girl from a trailer park doesn't get a perfect SAT score!"
Arielle leaned back into the sofa cushions, crossing her legs. She looked at Vivian with mild boredom.
"The Tysons never knew. I used a fake ID to register for the test at a center three towns over," Arielle lied smoothly, not a single muscle in her face twitching. "I told them I was at a library study group."
She dismissed a genius-level intellect as a casual favor. The sheer arrogance of the statement made her seem infinitely more dangerous.
Beth clutched her chest, tears of joy spilling over her wrinkled cheeks. "A genius. We have a true genius in the family."
"Which one do we choose?" Kevin asked, pacing the room excitedly. "Exeter is incredible, but it's in New Hampshire. We can't send her away."
In the corner of the room, a sharp, grinding sound cut through the chatter.
Ellis stood up. He pressed the cherry of his cigar into the crystal ashtray, crushing it with unnecessary, violent force.
He walked slowly toward the center of the room, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the coffee table.
"She will attend St. Jude's Ivy Preparatory," Ellis said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an absolute command.
He looked at Curtiss. "The Burnett Consortium fully funds St. Jude's. I own the board. No one will dare look at her sideways, let alone touch her."
Curtiss nodded slowly. "That... that makes sense. The security there is unmatched."
"Furthermore," Ellis continued, his voice dropping an octave, "the Chandler estate is currently undergoing a massive security overhaul. The perimeter is compromised. Until the upgrades are finished, Arielle will live with me in my penthouse."
Kevin froze. "Absolutely not! Are you out of your mind? I'll buy a condo next to the school. She stays with me!"
Ellis ignored Kevin completely. He stepped around the coffee table, stopping right in front of Arielle. He leaned down, placing his large hands on the armrests of her chair, trapping her.
His face was inches from hers. She could smell the tobacco and mint on his breath. His dark eyes bored into hers, stripping away her layers, searching for the hacker, the genius, the liar beneath the surface.
"What do you think?" Ellis asked softly, the word dripping with possession. "Fiancée."
Arielle's lungs burned. He was boxing her in. If she fought him too hard, he would dig deeper into her secrets. She had to play the game.
She lowered her eyelashes, forcing a timid nod. "If... if you think it's safest."
Beth smiled in relief. "It is settled. Ellis will protect you."
Ellis straightened up. The corner of his mouth curled into a dark, victorious smirk. He had the prey exactly where he wanted her.
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7.2
After a one night stand with the woman whose house Jason broke into, his life has never been the same. Like a siren's call, he can't get the nymphomaniac woman off his mind. Weeks later, while getting intel for the crew's next heist, Jason lays eyes upon the woman and follows her into a secret strip club. She appears to lead a double life. One where she's the CEO of a multimillion company and her father's golden child. The other side of her life is that she owns a strip club and is extremely erotic. Can Jason learn to live with her as she is? Will he put his pride aside to be with the woman? ... especially when his crew is hired to kidnap a woman who turns out to be the love of his life.
9.7
I secured the lifeline investment for my fiancé's company and went to his office to surprise him.
Instead, I caught Preston sleeping with his top actress—the woman he publicly claimed as his stepsister.
Through the cracked door, I heard him call me his "scarred, ugly bitch shield" to hide their sickening affair.
I didn't cry. I hacked the live broadcast of the Star Awards and played their sex tape to two thousand people.
But that night, drunk and reeling from the agonizing nerve pain in my facial scar, I stumbled into the wrong hotel penthouse.
I was pinned down by a drugged billionaire, Josephus Hodges.
The next morning, he left me a million-dollar check and a Plan B pill.
When he later tracked me down to offer a cold, calculated fake marriage just to absorb Preston's ruined empire, I threw the contract at his chest and told him to go to hell.
But when I got home and looked in the mirror, the chronic, burning torture in my scar was completely gone.
His touch during that terrifying night had somehow cured the agony that had ruined my life.
I had just declared war on the only man on earth who could heal me.
Just then, my ruined ex-fiancé called, begging me to save him with a PR press conference.
"I'll do it, but I control the venue."
I booked it at Josephus's heavily guarded hotel. I was going to slaughter my ex on live television, and force the apex predator to look at me again.
8.2
Justine abandoned her career as a top trauma surgeon to marry Congressman Carl McConnell. She did it to fulfill her dying sister's last wish: to protect her son, Leo, from this ruthless political family.
But the seven-year-old boy she swore to protect shoved her into a freezing koi pond, then cried to his father that Justine tried to drown him.
Carl didn't even check the security cameras. He hugged his precious heir and looked at his freezing wife with pure disgust.
"Are you out of your mind? Trying to hurt the heir to the McConnell family!"
He locked Justine in a 55-degree wine cellar while she was burning with a 102-degree fever. When she finally told him the truth, Carl flew into a rage and hurled a heavy brass-cornered book at her face, slicing her cheekbone wide open.
His mother even ordered the staff to starve her for seven days to reflect on her sins.
Justine stood in the dark, blood dripping down her face, her heart completely dead. She had sacrificed her brilliant future and her pride for this family, only to be tortured and discarded like garbage. How could they be so utterly devoid of humanity?
She pulled out her old medical kit and stitched up her own face.
Then, she signed the legal documents to permanently relinquish her stepparent rights, threw them at the housekeeper, and calmly looked at her abusive husband.
"I am divorcing you, Carl."
8.2
Trapped in a deadly fire at my own engagement party, my lungs burned as I reached a shaking hand out to my fiancé for help.
He stopped and looked right at me through the thick smoke. But instead of saving me, he wrapped his jacket tightly around my stepsister and ran, leaving me to burn.
I barely survived. But when I woke up in the hospital, my father and stepmother didn't even ask about my injuries.
They threw a stack of legal documents right onto my bed.
"Sign the papers, Avah. Step aside. Jaclyn is far better suited to be Kain's wife."
My fiancé then stormed into the room, publicly humiliating me with false rumors of an illegitimate child and threatening to bankrupt my company.
Four years of swallowing my pride to be the perfect, obedient pawn for our family business, all for nothing.
They threw me to the wolves without a single second of hesitation, expecting me to just lower my head and cry like I always did.
But the fire had burned that pathetic version of me away.
I ripped out my IV, letting the blood drip onto the sheets, and tore their contracts straight down the middle.
"The engagement is over."
I threw my million-dollar ring right at my ex's chest, then picked up the phone to call my trust lawyer. They wanted to take everything from me, so I was going to make them bleed.
9.7
Alya Harrell was the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy Long Island family, treated worse than a stray dog in her own home. Tonight, her family finally found a use for her.
Her stepmother and half-sister, Chloe, forced her into a scandalous, plunging red dress. They were offering her as a bargaining chip to Warren Thorne, a ruthless, sleazy hedge fund manager known for collecting and discarding young girls.
Just to ensure her absolute humiliation, Chloe intentionally "tripped" and spilled a glass of red wine all over the silk dress.
"Now you'll have to wear that hideous little black thing you own," Chloe sneered, leaving Alya to face the high-society dinner looking like a beggar.
When Alya tried to escape Thorne's groping hands, her own father hunted her down. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back, and raised his hand to strike her for embarrassing the family.
She was nothing but a pawn to them, a cheap product to be sold and abused for their financial gain. Alya's heart turned cold as she realized her blood relatives would gladly destroy her just to secure a lucrative business deal.
But when she was sent to the cellar to fetch a $50,000 vintage wine for their billionaire VIP guest, Alya caught her perfect sister hooking up with a personal trainer next to the priceless bottle.
Quietly stealing the vintage wine and burying it in the garden dirt, Alya returned to the ballroom with a dangerous smile.
"I think I saw Chloe carrying a bottle down to the cellar," she told her furious father and the VIP, leading them straight toward the trap that would completely ruin her sister's perfect life.
8.1
My billionaire husband, Cooper, was thirty minutes late to my father's funeral.
When the heavy cathedral doors finally opened, he wasn't there to comfort me. He was tightly shielding his mistress, Celeste, under his umbrella, treating her like a fragile lily while I stood alone in my black mourning dress.
The whispers in the pews were deafening, but they were nothing compared to the truth I soon uncovered.
Cooper hadn't just humiliated me—he had secretly taken my father's life-saving spot in a medical clinical trial and given it to Celeste's family. My father died gasping for air because of him.
Days later, while I was shivering in the ER with a 103-degree fever, I saw Cooper sneaking into the VIP maternity ward. He was holding Celeste, his face glowing with the ecstatic joy of a man about to become a father.
For three years, I swallowed my pride to be his perfect, obedient wife, only to let his elite friends openly mock me to my face.
"You were just keeping the seat warm until the real queen came back."
He let my father die, hid all our marital assets in offshore trusts, and made me take birth control every single morning, claiming he wasn't ready for kids.
I didn't scream, and I didn't let him see me break.
Instead, I hired Manhattan's most ruthless divorce lawyer, smiled sweetly as I handed Cooper his coat at home, and began secretly gathering the evidence to burn his entire empire to the ground.