Betrayed And Married To The Billionaire Cousin

Blair Glover watched the man she had secretly loved for five years get abandoned at the altar. To secure his billionaire family's trust fund, Judge Harrell needed a bride immediately, so Blair stepped out of the pews and volunteered. He accepted without hesitation, but his dark eyes evaluated her like a cheap piece of real estate. The consequences of her impulsive sacrifice were brutal and immediate. Right after signing the marriage certificate, Judge abandoned her at City Hall to deal with another woman's emergency. When she moved into his lifeless penthouse that night, she found a fresh, smeared lipstick stain on his collar. Worse, the public backlash was vicious. Her classmates branded her a manipulative gold digger, slashed her paintings, and destroyed her university art studio with red paint. Blair had alienated her fiercely protective family and thrown her peaceful life away just to be near him. Yet, after using his massive wealth to rescue her from the campus mob, Judge simply tossed a leather folder of "Cohabitation Rules" into her lap. "Do not fall in love with me. That is a breach of contract." Staring at the cold, calculating CEO, Blair swallowed her heartbreak and wiped the ruined paint from her hands. If he wanted to treat this marriage as a ruthless transaction, she would gladly play along. She was going to take the Harrell name, build her own empire, and make the untouchable billionaire break his own rules.

I died on the cold delivery table, bleeding out while the heart monitor flatlined. Through the blinding surgical lights, I heard my husband Damon's cold, final order to the doctors. "The child is the priority." He didn't care about my life. To him, I was just a vessel to produce an heir, a tool to fulfill his prenuptial clause and secure his billionaire empire. While I took my last agonizing breath, he was already planning his future with his fragile, theatrical mistress, Jasmin. In my past life, when he first brought her into our home claiming she was a helpless victim, I shattered. I screamed, threw vases, and played the hysterical wife perfectly. My desperate pleas for his affection only gave him the exact weapons he needed to ruin my reputation, isolate me, and ultimately force me onto that fatal delivery bed. Until my very last moment, the suffocating pain in my chest wasn't just physical. I couldn't understand how the man I loved could treat my death like a simple business transaction. Why was my absolute devotion rewarded with a carefully calculated execution? But then, my eyes snapped open. I was sitting on the edge of my king-sized bed, exactly three years before my death. From downstairs, I heard Damon's voice echoing in the foyer, bringing Jasmin into our home for the very first time. This time, the scream building in my chest turned to ice. I didn't cry or throw a fit. Instead, I calmly swallowed a secret birth control pill, smiled at his mistress, and dialed the most ruthless divorce lawyer in Manhattan.

For three years, Alana acted as the sole tactical brain for the Dawnbreaker squad, keeping them alive despite being labeled a useless "Dud" Conduit. But right before the crucial Ascension Trials, squad leader Cash handed her a corporate sponsorship contract. The condition? She had to become the "private companion" to a greasy corporate heir just so the squad could get high-tier gear. When she refused, the teammates she had bled for unanimously voted to kick her out. "You're just window dressing, a liability." They revoked her safehouse access, burned her belongings, and the academy advisor even tried to force her into a state-sanctioned breeding program. They left her to freeze in the slums, betting she would desperately crawl into the rich man's bed. What they didn't know was that her inability to summon an Eidolon wasn't a lack of talent. Her teammate Dallin had been secretly sabotaging her rituals for years, crippling her potential just to keep her chained as their free tactician. Stripped of everything and pushed to the absolute brink, Alana's despair morphed into a deadly resolve. Using a million-credit black market loan and a forbidden blood matrix, she forcibly anchored an Apex-Tier cosmic wolf disguised as a harmless silver pup. When her ex-squad tried to publicly humiliate her and burn her new "pet" alive in the cafeteria, a flash of silver light severed Dallin's hand instantly. Looking at her screaming former teammates, Alana finally smiled.

At her lavish engagement party, everyone whispered that Amberly Carson, the fallen socialite, was the luckiest woman in New York for sinking her hooks into the billionaire heir, Calvin Henry. But right before the vows, Calvin received a phone call, his face turning pale with horror. He pointed a trembling finger at Amberly in front of all the elite guests. "It's you! You drove her to this!" he roared, publicly accusing her of pushing his true love to suicide before abandoning the wedding. The polite smiles in the ballroom instantly melted into expressions of shock and delicious pity. Calvin's reckless devotion to his manipulative sidepiece soon triggered a chain of disastrous events. He was nearly killed in a staged car crash, and the shock gave his father a massive stroke, leaving the Henry Group completely headless and vulnerable to a hostile takeover. Calvin's best friend cornered Amberly in the hospital, blaming her for the family's downfall. "You're a curse! You bring nothing but trouble!" In everyone's eyes, Amberly was just a desperate, ruined girl destined to be the scapegoat for a powerful family's destruction. They expected her to hide in shame, weeping over her lost fiancé and shattered reputation. But they didn't know the fragile socialite was just a disguise. Instead of crying, Amberly knocked Calvin unconscious with a single, precise nerve strike and calmly took the stage microphone. "I am officially announcing the cancellation of my engagement." Walking away from the chaos, she pulled out an encrypted phone to contact a dormant shadow network. Phase one was complete, and the real hunt was about to begin.

Emilia desperately needed ten thousand dollars to save her dying father from being thrown out of the hospital. Driven into a corner, she agreed to a black-market egg retrieval "interview" at a luxury hotel. But the buyer, a cold and ruthless billionaire, didn't just take her innocence. He threw a crumpled one-hundred-dollar check at her naked body. "That is your actual market value. Not a penny more." The nightmare escalated when cheap black-market hormone pills nearly killed her. Waking up in the ER, she was horrified to find her buyer was actually Clifton Watson, the hospital's top surgeon. To teach her a twisted lesson, he wired her a massive hundred-thousand-dollar loan, trapping her in a suffocating debt. When she demanded to treat it strictly as a loan and blocked his number, he retaliated ruthlessly. He leaked her confidential medical records to her university, letting the entire campus know she tried to sell her eggs. Cornered in a dark alley by frat boys waving cash and demanding to buy her body, Emilia felt a freezing terror and absolute violation. She didn't understand why a billionaire doctor, a man who had already used and humiliated her, would go out of his way to completely destroy a desperate college student's dignity. Kneeing her attacker to the ground, Emilia escaped the alley and made a silent vow. She would work until her fingers bled to pay off every single cent, and never let this monster control her life again.

I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me. But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest. The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me. They didn't. Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her. They let me burn to keep her warm. When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages. That was the moment Elena Vitiello died. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York. By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring. "You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them. "Burn for it."