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Billionaires Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."
While I Was Fighting For My Life, He Chose Her

While I Was Fighting For My Life, He Chose Her

As Lena bled on an operating table struggling for her life, her billionaire husband was eating candlelit dinner with another woman three blocks away. The gossip sites had the pictures up before the anaesthesia wore off. His office confirmed he'd received the emergency call. Confirmed. As if his wife haemorrhaging was a text that would get attended to at his leisure. She lived through surgery. She just didn't survive the woman she used to be. Three years spent contorting and shrinking herself into a marriage with a bedrock foundation she never knew was rotten to the core. Three years of being the docile, altruistic, non-descript wife of Ethan Ashford while underneath all that polish, a name she buried somewhere waited infinitely patiently. Lena Jeon. A name that moves markets. A name that opened doors cash couldn't touch. A name that the Cole family, and specifically, the stunningly predatory Vivienne Cole, spent eight months constructing a conspiracy around, their pawn being Ethan Ashford, their greatest asset, Lena's silence. An empire-level trap designed for a woman they believed was too broken to defend herself. Little did they know they'd actually just woken up. Lena is out of her hospital bed and in her husband's office now, the enemies' expertly crafted scheme already showing hairline fractures of which they aren't yet aware. Vivienne is anxious. Margaret is watching. And Ethan, the man who made the wrong choice on the worst night of her life, stands before his wife and asks the question three years too late. Who are you? The answer will shatter it all. But the true question, the one that will consume your thoughts and leave you staring at the ceiling, isn't about revenge. It's whether Lena can burn it all to the ground without burning herself completely away as well, without destroying the part of her that still, against her every instinct, loves him.