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Billionaires Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Night With Mr. Billionaire

Night With Mr. Billionaire

"Bess, let's go home" I said to my friend who was also drunk. "I'll bess later, hmm, I'll go to the bathroom first, huh" he answered and started to walk. Hayst I really felt for his broken heart. My eyes were spinning. "why is that girl taking so long?" I was impatient to wait for her, maybe she left me. Even though I was dizzy, I tried to stand up and decided to look for her. Where did that girl go? I was just holding my head when I felt so dizzy. I leaned against the door without myself, wait, is this the comfort room? I was surprised when suddenly a man appeared in front of me but I couldn't really see his face because it's quite dark. "What are you doing here Ms.?" The sound of her voice was cold, so I was suddenly fixed, but suddenly I was out of balance, I was surprised by an arm wrapped around my waist. I was about to speak when he suddenly covered my lips. .I was about to struggle but he was holding me tightly. I don't know why but I couldn't control my body and just went along with his movements. "shit what happened?" I whispered softly noticing that this wasn't my room. I just pulled out of my head when I remembered what happened. You're G*ga Faye! I turned my gaze to the man by my side who had his back turned to me. I stood up quickly and looked for my clothes. After I got dressed, I immediately went out holding my cell phone. I had many missed calls. I ignored it and immediately hailed a taxi. when you're out "Faye! How many times can you have sex with someone you don't even know?" I tugged at my own hair....... I turned to my cell phone when it rang. Who could it be?. "hello?---" "you may start your work tomorrow, Ms. Sanchez" there was no emotional answer on the other line. wait....the voice seems familiar....hey maybe I just lacked rest so whatever--- "Ms. Sanchez are you still there or I will change----" "No sir, I'm going to work tomorrow morning." My smile finally reached my ears. I finally have a job. My smile disappeared because of this call. .. I looked at my phone when it rang with a message.
No Longer Her Wounded Puppy

No Longer Her Wounded Puppy

The last thing I remembered was the cold concrete against my cheek and the metallic taste of my own blood. Above the ringing in my ears, I heard Olivia, my wife, screaming, not for me, but for Ethan, her charming assistant. I had pushed her out of the way of falling scaffolding, saving her life, only for a steel pipe to crush mine; a minor gash on Ethan' s forehead was treated like a mortal wound while my entire life drained away. As paramedics rushed Ethan onto a stretcher, my vision blurred, and the brutal truth crystallized: all my sacrifices, years working to support her dreams, meant nothing. I was worth less than her lover's superficial cut, and my love for her finally died, just moments before I did. Then, I blinked. Suddenly, the sterile hospital smell was gone, replaced by Olivia' s familiar, expensive perfume, and I was standing whole, pain-free, in the living room of our ridiculously large, empty house. It was the night of our biggest fight, a week before the accident, a fight that had set the stage for the end. "Liam, I' m tired of this," she said, tossing a black credit card onto the coffee table. "Here. A million-dollar credit line. Go buy yourself whatever you want. Just stop acting like a wounded puppy every time I spend time with Ethan. It' s pathetic." In my past life, her words had shattered me, driving me to refuse the card and plead for her love, a futile mistake. But this time, I was reborn. I calmly picked up the card, a chilling question forming on my lips: "So I can spend as much as I want?"
The Runaway Heiress And Her Secret Triplets

The Runaway Heiress And Her Secret Triplets

I opened the door to my penthouse, only to see my stepsister's limited-edition Louboutins discarded on the foyer rug. Walking into the master bedroom, I caught my fiancé and my stepsister tangled naked in my bed. When I went back to the family estate to settle the score, my father didn't even care. Instead, he and my stepmother demanded I take my stepsister's place to save the family's reputation. "You will marry the seventy-year-old billionaire next month. We can't ruin your sister's life," my father ordered. Looking at their hypocritical faces, the last shred of my family affection died completely. They really thought I would just accept being their sacrificial pawn while they stole my mother's legacy. So, I pinned them down with a blackmail video of the affair, extorted my father for my shares, and walked out into the freezing night. To numb the betrayal, I went to an underground club, slept with a terrifyingly powerful stranger, and left a red lipstick note on his forehead. "Your technique sucks. Keep the change." Then, I vanished abroad without a trace. Five years later, I returned to New York with my three children, ready to take back everything that was mine. But I didn't expect that the "cheap gigolo" from that night was actually Kendall James, the most ruthless corporate titan in the city. And he had just spotted my five-year-old son—his exact miniature replica—standing right beside me.
Cannon Fodder No More: A Baby's Plan

Cannon Fodder No More: A Baby's Plan

My name is Madisyn, and my story began in a dirty alley in Los Angeles. I was just a baby, a "cannon fodder" character in someone else's tragic script, destined to be a footnote in the tragic ruin of Ethan and Nicole Clark, the self-destructive heirs to a Hollywood fortune. Their parents were absent figures, leaving them in a gilded cage, completely unaware they were about to be ensnared by Jennifer Chavez and Andrew Morris, two ambitious grifters ready to bleed them dry and turn them against each other. I knew their dark future, how Jennifer would prey on Ethan's buried hero complex, and Andrew on Nicole's desperate need for affection, ultimately leaving them broken and estranged. My tiny, innocent form was supposed to be irrelevant, easily discarded by these teenagers hardened by neglect. But I wasn't just any baby; I was a baby with a plan, a knowing narrator stuck in an infant's body. I screamed and cried to force their reluctant bond, giggled to melt their facades, and strategically withdrew my affection to expose the insidious poison the grifters were injecting into their fragile relationship. When an actress framed Nicole for assault and a musician's charade of heroism was revealed, everyone expected Ethan to side with the "victim." But he remembered my tiny cries of terror whenever the actress touched me, my pointed coldness towards the musician, and Nicole's sudden awareness after my clumsy toddler words: "No owe life, sissy." I had broken the script, and I wouldn't stop until their future was rewritten.