Undercover Heiress: The Ruthless CEO's Trap
Eleonore was the secret apprentice of a master jeweler and the hidden heir to the Pierce family legacy.
She spent two years in brutal training, hiding her immense talent from the world.
But just as she was ready to step out of the shadows, her grandfather's final masterpiece—the lost symbol of her family—surfaced at an auction.
Before she could even place a bid, it was bought in a private sale by Keaton Kaufman, the ruthless CEO of the Carlyle Group and her mentor's greatest enemy.
Eleonore desperately tried to buy it back, offering double the price through powerful connections.
Keaton coldly refused all offers.
Instead, he went on live television and announced that the priceless Pierce family artifact would be used as a mere corporate carrot.
"This piece will be the grand prize for our internal design competition," Keaton declared to the cameras.
Eleonore's fingernails dug into her palms until they bled.
He didn't care about the craftsmanship or her family's history; he was just using her grandfather's legacy as a pawn to stress-test his own employees.
The wall between her and her family's heirloom was made of billions of dollars, and she had no way to break it down from the outside.
So, she made a reckless decision.
She deleted her elite background, stripped away her protective armor, and created a fake resume as a desperate, entry-level nobody.
She clicked send on her job application to the Carlyle Group.
If she couldn't buy her family's legacy back, she was going to infiltrate his empire and win it back herself.
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Chapter 2
Eleonore slid into the passenger seat of Kierra's red sports car.
She smoothed down the champagne velvet skirt over her knees.
Kierra's phone buzzed incessantly in the cup holder. She kept glancing at the screen, her jaw tight, but she aggressively swiped the notifications away before slamming her foot on the gas pedal.
The engine roared.
The car shot out of the underground garage and merged into the heavy, neon‑lit traffic of Manhattan.
Twenty minutes later, the tires screeched slightly as Kierra pulled up to the fountain outside the Plaza Hotel.
A valet in a crisp uniform rushed over and pulled the passenger door open.
Eleonore grabbed the hem of her dress and stepped out onto the pavement.
Instantly, a wall of flashing white lights exploded around her.
The paparazzi lined the red carpet. The flashes felt like physical slaps against her retinas.
Eleonore immediately raised her hand to shield her eyes. Her stomach twisted with anxiety.
Kierra hooked her arm through Eleonore's. Kierra smiled brightly, waving at the cameras like she owned the city.
They walked quickly through the revolving glass doors and stepped into the massive banquet hall.
The air inside was thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of hundreds of conversations.
A giant crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the crowd.
Before making her way toward Bradley, Eleonore excused herself for a moment and slipped through a side door into the hotel’s rear garden. The night air was cool, and she walked a few paces along the stone path, just to steady her nerves. Then she turned back and re‑entered the hall.
She scanned the room. Her eyes darted past the politicians and actors.
She found him standing near the center of the room.
Bradley Michael. His silver hair caught the light. He stood tall and elegant, surrounded by a tight circle of industry elites.
Standing directly in front of him was Cherie Washington.
Cherie was wearing a skin‑tight red dress. She was holding out a thick, leather‑bound design portfolio with both hands.
Eleonore slowed her pace. She stopped at the edge of the crowd, keeping her distance.
"Please, Mr. Michael," Cherie said. Her voice was high and desperate. "I will drop everything. I just want to learn from you."
The people around them stopped talking. Everyone turned to watch the scene.
Bradley did not reach for the portfolio. He kept his hands clasped behind his back.
His face was a mask of polite indifference.
"My energy is limited, Ms. Washington," Bradley said. His voice was flat. "I am not taking any new apprentices."
Cherie's smile froze. Her hands stayed suspended in the air, holding the heavy book.
Her knuckles turned white.
"But I just won the National Emerging Designer Award," Cherie pushed, her voice cracking slightly.
Bradley nodded once. "Congratulations. But my answer is no."
He looked bored. He shifted his weight, clearly wanting to leave the conversation.
Eleonore saw the tension in his jaw. She decided to step in.
She pushed gently past a man in a tuxedo and walked straight toward Bradley.
The moment Bradley saw her standing at the periphery, the coldness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a microscopic softening only she could detect. He didn't raise his voice or make a grand spectacle. Instead, he took a subtle step backward, distancing himself from the sycophants, and closed the gap between them. He placed a discreet, warm hand on Eleonore's shoulder, shielding the movement with his body.
"There you are," Bradley murmured so only she could hear. "Have you been slacking off on your sketches again?"
Eleonore smiled softly. She looked down at the floor.
"I was just cutting a rough stone in the studio," Eleonore said quietly.
Bradley sighed. He squeezed her shoulder with pure affection.
"You have all the talent in the world, and zero ambition," Bradley teased.
A few feet away, Cherie pulled her portfolio back to her chest.
Cherie's face turned a dark, ugly shade of red.
She stared at the side of Eleonore's face. Her eyes were burning with pure hatred.
Kierra walked up behind Eleonore, holding two glasses of champagne.
Kierra stopped. She looked at Cherie, feeling the heavy, toxic energy radiating off the woman in the red dress.
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9.7
Eighteen months ago, the man I loved shattered my heart, claiming everything between us was a mistake. Now, he's back, a ghost of his former self, a rookie tryout in my pro esports team. And I will make him regret crawling back.
Clifton, captain of a legendary esports team, was secretly battling a severe wrist injury that threatened his career, every match a fight against his own body. He pushed through the pain, ignoring doctors' warnings, desperate to maintain his god-like status.
His world was already on the edge, but nothing prepared him for seeing Justice Terry again in the team basement. Justice, pale and trembling, his eyes wide with naked terror, was now a rookie tryout.
Clifton had spent a year and a half trying to forget that rainy Chicago alley, the raw revulsion in Justice's eyes, the whispered "it wasn't real" that had left him heartbroken. Justice had vanished, and Clifton had erased every trace. Now, the boy who once looked at him like he was the sun was back, flinching at his touch, displaying a deep, primal fear. Amidst sponsor pressure and whispers of being "washed," Clifton saw Justice's return as a chance for vengeance. He publicly humiliated Justice on a live stream, forcing him into a suicide mission, then coldly benched him.
Yet, the satisfaction never came. Instead, a hollow emptiness and a torrent of questions: What had truly happened in the past? Why was Justice here, and what trauma had carved such fear into his bones?
Clifton, unwilling to be fooled again, swore to uncover every secret and every lie. He would force Justice to explain why he had returned, even if it meant tearing down everything they both had left.
8.7
I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella.
Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark.
But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved.
Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies.
When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel.
While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest.
The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella.
He ordered my father to punish me.
I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth.
That night, the love in my heart finally died.
On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape-the only proof that I was Seven.
Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney.
By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.
7.2
Allie Patterson poured fifteen years into her husband Grayson’s tech startup, living in a cramped San Jose apartment. Every penny, every late night coding session, was for their shared future, built on his constant claims the company struggled, always on the verge of its big break.
Then, a grant deed arrived: a stunning $4.2 million Atherton villa, paid in full, listing Grayson and an unknown Kacey Schmidt as joint tenants.
Her coffee mug shattered as Allie’s world imploded. Driving to the mansion, she found Kacey in silk pajamas, flaunting a massive pink diamond and, beneath it, Grayson’s grandmother’s heirloom ring – the one he’d tearfully claimed to have lost years ago.
Kacey purred, "He's in the shower. We were so tired last night."
The words were a serrated knife, twisting, confirming years of lies.
Humiliation and rage burned out, leaving a terrifying, absolute silence. All her sacrifice and trust were a cruel, elaborate joke, orchestrated by the man she loved.
Allie calmly took photos, then gave herself one minute in her beat-up car to mourn. When it passed, her tears stopped, replaced by cold, calculated murder in her eyes. She typed a text to Grayson:
"Come home early tonight. I have a surprise for you."
7.3
Seven years ago, my fiancé, Don Dante Moretti, sent me to prison to take the fall for my adopted sister, Chiara. He called it a gift-a way to protect me from a worse fate.
Today, he picked me up from prison only to abandon me at my family's estate. His reason? Chiara was having another one of her "episodes."
My parents then informed me I'd be staying in the third-floor storage room, so as not to disturb the fragile girl who stole my life.
They celebrated her "recovery" with a lavish dinner party, while I was treated like a ghost. When I refused to join, my mother hissed that I was ungrateful, and my father called me jealous.
They assumed I couldn't understand their venomous whispers. But prison was my university. I learned Spanish. I understood every word.
It was then I realized I wasn't just a sacrifice; I was disposable. The love I once felt for all of them had turned to ash.
That night, in the dusty storage room, I logged onto an encrypted channel I'd set up years ago. A single message was waiting: "The offer stands. Do you accept?" My hands, scarred and steady, typed back, "I accept."
9.6
When a global anomaly awakens dormant powers within them, a neuroscientist, a physicist, and an artist discover they are connected by a force that defies time itself. Mert sees the memories of strangers. Elena witnesses the fabric of reality crack. Kai paints symbols from a past he never knew. Thrown together by fate, they are not alone. Across the globe, others are awakening too-gifted with extraordinary abilities. But they are not the only ones. A powerful cabal-a ruthless financier, a tech mogul, and a charismatic influencer-sees the anomaly not as a warning, but as a weapon. Their ambition shatters the timeline, scattering the group across history: from the smog-choked streets of Victorian London to a transhumanist future, and into a terrifying parallel present. Broken into three teams, the group must hunt their enemies through time itself. To survive, they must master their new powers and forge bonds of love and loyalty strong enough to bend the laws of physics. Their final battle will not be fought in any single era, but at the crossroads of all realities, where the key to existence-the very heart of time-is at stake.
8.1
On my wedding day, the wedding planner looked at me with pity in her eyes.
She told me the groom had called with a last-minute request. He wanted the name on the floral arch changed from "Elena" to "Sofia."
Five years of loyalty to Dante Romero, and I found out he was planning a "secret" ceremony with his mistress an hour before ours.
He claimed she was dying of cancer. He said it was her final wish to be a bride, and that as a good mafia wife, I should understand. He swore it was just charity.
But I had seen the texts where he called me "furniture."
I had watched him step over my body when I fell down the stairs at a club, just so he could leave with her.
And this morning, I watched Sofia walk into the hotel lobby wearing *my* custom French lace wedding dress, smirking as she clung to his arm.
Dante thinks I'm crying in the bridal suite.
He thinks I will sit in the front row of his "fake" wedding and wait for my turn like a dutiful puppet.
He is wrong.
I wiped my tears and picked up my phone. I didn't cancel the wedding date. I just changed the location to the ballroom next door.
And I changed the groom.
As Dante says his vows to his mistress, I am walking down the aisle to meet the only man the Romero family fears.
The Reaper.