Wild Heiress, Tamed Billionaire
When I called my husband while trapped in a kidnapper's warehouse, he laughed. "Stop faking," he said, "my delicate mistress needs her sleep." He hung up. I signed the divorce papers drenched in my own blood, giving up everything just to escape the monster I married.
His mother threw a broken umbrella at me in the rain. I had nothing-no money, no identity, no hope.
But the moment I turned away, eight black Escalades encircled the street. A man in a tailored suit stepped out of a Rolls-Royce, shielding me with an umbrella. In his hand was a DNA test-and twenty-three years of relentless search.
"Your last name isn't Smith," he said, wiping blood from my wrist with his handkerchief. "It's Wilder. The Wilder family. And the man who left you to die?" He smiled, icy. "He owes us nine billion dollars."
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Chapter 8
At midnight, Kinsley walked into Ethan's massive server room. The walls were lined with glowing monitors and cooling fans humming loudly.
Ethan sat in a leather gaming chair, wearing noise-canceling headphones, his fingers flying across his mechanical keyboard.
She set a glass of iced Americano on his desk. She dropped a small, encrypted USB drive next to it.
"Do it," she said.
Ethan plugged the drive into his terminal. High-resolution security photos popped up on the center screen.
They showed Joaquin and Ember walking into a luxury hotel room, timestamped three months before the divorce.
Next to the photos was an audio file.
It was the recording of Julianne screaming at her in the rain, calling her "trailer park trash."
Ethan smirked. "If we send this to the New York Times, Stafford's PR team will bury it with money."
"Then do not use traditional media," she said, her voice devoid of mercy.
Ethan cracked his knuckles. "I am deploying a botnet. Decentralized posting on X. They will not be able to delete it."
She leaned over and pressed the Enter key herself.
At 3:00 AM, a thread titled "The Fake Deep Love of Wall Street's Golden Boy" exploded on X.
The botnet tagged the SEC, major financial news outlets, and every prominent gossip influencer.
Within ten minutes, the post hit one hundred thousand retweets. The internet woke up.
The photos proved Joaquin violated his own morality clause. But it was Julianne's audio that lit the fire. The sheer classist hatred in her voice triggered massive outrage across the country.
At 7:00 AM, pre-market trading opened. Stafford Holdings stock immediately crashed 15%.
Joaquin was jolted awake in his penthouse by his phone ringing endlessly.
He stared at the trending hashtags on his screen. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale and terrified.
Ember woke up beside him. She saw the thousands of comments calling her a homewrecker. She screamed, clutched her chest, and fell back onto the pillows, faking a heart spasm.
"Get my pills!" Ember cried.
Joaquin scrambled for her medicine while screaming at his PR director on speakerphone. "Take it down! Pay whatever it costs!"
"We cannot, sir!" the PR director cried. "It is a coordinated cyber attack. The platform refuses to intervene."
Julianne called on the other line, screeching that her country club friends were laughing at her.
Joaquin realized only one person had the motive. He dialed Kinsley's number, his hands shaking with rage. The automated voice told him he was blocked.
He threw his phone against the wall, shattering the screen. He ordered his security team to search every cheap motel in the city to find her and shut her up.
Back at the Wilder estate, Kinsley sat in the sunroom, elegantly slicing a piece of Eggs Benedict.
Hubert drank his coffee, watching the red lines dive on his financial tablet. He gave her an approving nod.
Amiyah walked in. She saw the news. Her face turned pale.
Her phone buzzed. The tabloid journalist texted her: The whole country loves Kinsley right now. If I post your fake dirt on her, my career is over. Deal is off.
Amiyah gripped her toast so hard it crumbled into pieces in her fist.
Charles stepped into the room. "Miss Kinsley, Mr. Brady's car is waiting outside."
She wiped her mouth with a linen napkin. It was time for her date.
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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.
7.4
Evelina Barrett was the legitimate daughter, yet she was framed for a disgusting sex scandal, expelled from the Ivy League, and locked out of her late mother's massive trust fund.
While she was thrown out to rot on the streets with a jagged, hideous red scar covering half her face, her father and step-family were throwing a lavish charity gala to celebrate her total ruin.
They laughed as they officially published her disownment notice in the Times to cut her off forever.
"Without the school halo, that ugly freak will be begging on the streets by tomorrow," her sister Aspen sneered.
Her stepmother Annabella toasted to taking out the trash, perfectly happy to steal Evelina's inheritance while ignoring the fact that Evelina knew exactly how they had murdered her mother.
For years, Evelina had been locked in a dark basement, abused by bodyguards, and treated worse than a stray dog.
Why should she, the true heir, suffer in the gutter while the leeches who destroyed her life enjoyed the wealth that rightfully belonged to her?
She refused to be their victim anymore.
Washing away her fake scar to reveal her true, breathtaking face, Evelina blackmailed New York's most lethal billionaire into marriage to secure the ultimate shield.
Then, she put on a black mourning dress, ordered a dark web ghost crew, and climbed into a heavy semi-truck.
At exactly 6:00 PM, she smashed through the iron gates of her family's elegant gala, delivering three pure black coffins directly to the lawn.
8.4
Everly spent four years playing the perfect, accommodating wife to Carson Moss, swallowing every grievance just to secure medical treatments for their sick daughter.
But at a high-society banquet she exhausted herself organizing, Carson's pregnant mistress crashed the party.
The woman shoved an ultrasound of Carson's "real heir" directly into Everly's frail grandfather's face.
The shock triggered a massive heart attack.
Carson refused to use his private helicopter to save the dying old man, choosing to protect his mistress and his company's IPO instead. Her grandfather died on the hospital table.
Instead of remorse, her mother-in-law demanded Everly publicly cover up the murder.
"You will do exactly as I say, or I will freeze every single cent of the medical trust fund paying for your crippled daughter's treatments."
When a battered Everly returned to the estate, she discovered her three-year-old daughter covered in dark bruises and pinch marks. Her in-laws were deliberately torturing her disabled child.
Everly couldn't comprehend how a family could be so utterly heartless. Her only family was murdered, her child was abused, and her husband threw a five-million-dollar check at her face as hush money.
They thought she would just break and quietly disappear.
But when a terrifyingly powerful billionaire unexpectedly blocked Carson's security team from locking her up, Everly finally saw her window.
She grabbed her sleeping daughter and ran out into the freezing storm, making a blood-bound vow to make the entire Moss family bleed.
7.3
I woke up in a sweltering attic, my body covered in overlapping whip scars.
I was Alice Morrow, a top-tier occultist, but now I was trapped in the body of a girl who served as a human punching bag for the wealthy Wallace family.
Before I could even catch my breath, my adoptive sister Britney Wallace kicked the door open.
She pointed a silver revolver right at my forehead.
She had been siphoning my luck through a parasitic karmic tether, using me as a sink for all her misfortune.
"Go to hell, you useless freak," she screamed, pulling the trigger.
But she didn't know the absolute rule of the tether: any malicious attack reflects back to the sender.
The massive recoil blasted backward, snapping her wrist in half.
I walked out of that hellhole and was found by my biological family, the incredibly powerful Morrows.
But Britney wasn't done. She sent them deepfake photos to frame me for cursing them, and even planted a deadly amulet to kill my biological grandfather.
My own uncle threw the photos at me, his eyes full of disgust.
"She's a rabid dog raised by the Wallaces! She's been cursing her own blood!"
I didn't argue. I simply rolled up my sleeves to reveal the mangled flesh, burn marks, and protruding bones the Wallaces had left me with.
As my real family broke down in tears of agonizing guilt, I smiled and gripped my ancient copper coin.
It was time to show the Wallaces what real karma looked like.
9.6
I woke up alone in a cold hospital room after a near-fatal car crash.
My husband of three years, Bryant, claimed he was too busy with back-to-back meetings to visit me.
But when I dragged my bruised body into the hallway, I caught him pinning his pregnant mistress against a vending machine.
"As soon as my company IPOs next month, I'm dumping my useless wife."
"She's so pathetic. She'd be living on the streets if it wasn't for my charity."
For three years, Bryant and his mother had humiliated me for being an orphan, treating me like a penniless burden while he secretly bought a multi-million-dollar townhouse for his new family.
A cold knot formed in my stomach. I had almost died in that wreckage, yet my husband was disgusted by my very existence, eagerly waiting to throw me away.
But Bryant didn't know about the damp, sealed envelope the paramedics had recovered from my wrecked car.
The DNA report inside proved I wasn't a nobody from the gutter.
I was the biological daughter of the Beaumonts—New York's wealthiest, most ruthless billionaire dynasty.
I didn't scream or confront them.
Instead, I calmly pulled out my phone, recorded their affair in high definition, and dialed a Wall Street financier I hadn't spoken to in years.
"I'm done playing the happy housewife. Pull his algorithmic backdoors and drain the accounts."
9.5
After being locked in a mental institution for two years, Arlie was finally brought back to the Mccormick estate.
But her billionaire husband, Killian, didn't bring her home out of guilt or love. He handed her a cold surrogacy contract.
Her biological son, Julian, now looked at her with terror, calling her a monster while clinging to Kaelynn—the very mistress who had framed Arlie and stolen her life.
Killian froze Arlie's assets, locked her in a high-rise penthouse, and threatened to send her back to the asylum forever if she refused to undergo IVF.
He claimed they desperately needed a new baby's umbilical cord blood to cure Julian's terminal illness.
But Arlie secretly contacted her doctor and uncovered a horrifying truth.
The experimental gene therapy she had received years ago meant any attempt at pregnancy would trigger a fatal organ shutdown.
Killian didn't care if the procedure killed her in agony; he just wanted to use her as a disposable breeding machine to harvest a "spare part."
Watching the media brand her a selfish mother who wanted her son to die, the last trace of the obedient wife vanished.
Arlie pulled out a hidden satellite phone and dialed a number she hadn't used in years.
"Ronan, it's Li," she said coldly. "Wipe my name from their servers and prepare a full-scale assault. It's time to destroy them."