Dorine Koestler
14 Published Stories
Dorine Koestler's Books and Stories
His Mistress, Her Empire
Billionaires I sat in my Singapore office, thousands of miles from home, my eyes glued to the laptop.
It was Lily's 18th birthday party, a lavish affair I' d planned down to the last detail.
The live stream flickered on, and I saw the magnificent ballroom, just as I' d envisioned.
But then, the MC boomed, "Let' s welcome the heiress to Innovate Solutions, Tiffany!"
My smile froze. Tiffany?
A girl I' d never seen before walked into the spotlight, wearing Lily's custom-made gown and my family' s heirloom sapphire necklace.
Then a woman, Sarah, stepped up, beaming, "As the CEO of Innovate Solutions, it warms my heart…"
CEO? I was the CEO. A cold dread seeped in.
The camera panned, and I saw her. My Lily.
She was near a service table, holding a tray of drinks, head bowed, in a drab server' s uniform.
A group of Tiffany' s friends deliberately knocked a glass from her tray, laughing as she flinched, picking up the pieces in defeat.
A guttural roar escaped me.
I snatched my phone, hands shaking, and dialed Mark, my husband.
"Mark, what the hell is going on? Who is Tiffany? Why is she wearing Lily' s dress and my family' s necklace?"
His response was too casual, too quick.
"A surprise… Sarah' s daughter. My new co-CEO. A PR move."
Co-CEO? Sarah Miller, his old girlfriend?
"A PR move that involves my daughter serving drinks at her own birthday party?" I seethed. "Put Lily on the phone now!"
The line went dead.
A text from Lily' s friend confirmed my worst fears: "They' re treating Lily like a servant. Tiffany and her mom moved in. They told everyone Lily is an illegitimate child and that you abandoned her. Mark is letting it happen."
Moved in. Illegitimate child. Abandoned. The lies were a physical blow.
My daughter, small and broken, flashed in my mind.
Mark wasn't just having an affair; he was erasing my daughter. Erasing me.
I slammed my laptop shut.
Grabbed my purse and passport.
There would be no more calls. No more texts.
I was going home. And I was going to burn their world to the ground. The Betrayed Heiress's Vengeful Flash Marriage
Romance Ashley was tied to a rusted iron pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the noxious fumes of gasoline soaking her clothes.
Her fiancé Devon and her stepsister Brittany stood before her, revealing a horrifying truth. Devon never saved her from that fatal car crash three years ago; he merely stole the credit.
Worse, Brittany smirked and confessed that Ashley's own father had orchestrated her mother's murder. Before Ashley could process the betrayal, Devon callously tossed a lighter. A wall of blistering heat instantly consumed her. Even when Bennett Hawkins, the cold and untouchable billionaire, rushed into the inferno to shield her with his body, they were both swallowed by the explosion.
As the fire melted her skin, Ashley died with agonizing hatred. Why did her own flesh and blood want her dead? What dark secret were they hiding about her mother's tragic death?
Opening her eyes again, freezing saltwater violently flooded her lungs.
She was back at her twentieth birthday yacht party, right after Brittany had secretly pushed her into the freezing Hudson River.
Staring at the hypocritical faces of her family pretending it was an accident, Ashley didn't cry or beg. She calmly snatched a phone and dialed 911.
"Yes. I need to report an attempted murder." The Secret Genius Ex-Wife's Cold Revenge
Modern I spent three years playing the role of the perfect, invisible wife to Dillard Bentley, the billionaire heir of Manhattan. While he graced the tabloids with socialites, I stayed in the shadows of our penthouse, waiting for a man who treated me like a piece of furniture.
One rainy night, the facade finally shattered. Dillard came home smelling of another woman’s perfume, and I handed him the divorce papers he never expected. But before the ink could dry, a violent pain ripped through me during a family lunch, and I collapsed in a pool of blood on the pristine marble floor.
While I was being rushed to the hospital, Dillard’s mother dismissed my agony as a manipulative trick, and Dillard chose to believe her. He didn't follow the ambulance; he went to a gala to protect his mistress instead. I woke up in a cold emergency room only to be told I had lost the baby I didn't even know I was carrying. Because of the toxic "vitamins" his mother had been force-feeding me, my blood wouldn't clot, and I had to undergo surgery without a single drop of anesthesia.
I bit down on a leather strap, feeling every agonizing scrape as they cleared the remains of my child, while my husband laughed at my pain over the phone.
"Stop the drama, Erica. Tell her the divorce terms are non-negotiable. I'm busy."
He hung up, leaving me to scream in silence. I realized then that the man I had once loved was the same man who let his family poison me. The "vitamins" weren't supplements; they were a death sentence for my unborn child, and he didn't even care enough to show up.
Dillard thinks he’s divorcing a penniless nobody, but he’s about to find out that the world-renowned medical genius he’s desperate to recruit is the wife he left to bleed alone. I walked out of that hospital, threw my wedding ring in the trash, and reclaimed my true identity. Dr. N is coming to the global summit, and I’m not there to save the Bentley empire—I’m there to burn it to the ground. One Night With The Rival Alpha
Werewolf My mother had been dead for four years, and my father, the Alpha of our pack, was now a hollow shell controlled by his new wife, Marley. I was a ghost in my own home, watching from the shadows as they celebrated a wedding that felt more like my execution.
During the reception, Marley cornered me and demanded my mother's last heirloom-a blood-red ruby-to pay off her family's secret gambling debts. When I refused, her guards pinned me down, and in the struggle, the ancient stone hit the marble floor and shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
Framed for grand larceny by my own stepmother, I fled to a dive bar and sought refuge with Caleb Sterling, a rival Alpha who radiated power and danger. We spent a night of soul-shattering passion that I was certain was our mate bond, but the next morning, he tossed an envelope of cash at me and called me a high-end escort. When the police arrived to arrest me, he simply stepped aside and watched them drag me away in handcuffs, cold and indifferent to my screams.
"Do what you have to do," he had told the officers, his eyes devoid of any warmth.
I was a fugitive, stripped of my title, and discovered I was carrying Caleb's child-a baby cursed by his bloodline to never survive the womb. I couldn't understand why my father had abandoned me to a monster, or why the man I was destined for had sold me out just to save his own reputation.
After a brutal ambush that left my only friend in a burning wreck, I stood at the border of the forbidden North. I clutched the jagged shards of my mother's ruby and looked the Northern Warlord in the eye, ready to trigger a war that would burn my father's legacy to the ground. The Love He Destroyed, My New Power
Modern After seven years together, I told my boyfriend, Jaxon, I was pregnant. I thought it was the beginning of our forever.
Instead, I found him at my prenatal clinic, comforting his secret, pregnant wife.
He called our life a lie, a "business arrangement." His family beat me, humiliated me, and locked me in a dusty attic with rats for a month, leaving me to starve while he took his wife to her appointments.
He promised me a future, a family, but chose to protect her and abandon our child. I was just an inconvenience to be discarded.
So when they finally dragged me to the hospital, I made a choice. I waited for him to arrive after the procedure, his face full of fake concern.
He saw the blood-stained sheets and his face crumbled.
"What... what have you done?" he stammered.
I smiled, my voice as cold and empty as my womb.
"I got rid of it, Jaxon. I aborted your baby." Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles
Mafia I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved.
He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again.
"Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports.
For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian.
In return, he treated me like furniture.
He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste.
I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home.
So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco.
I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage.
But I underestimated Dante.
When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat.
He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away. 986 Nights of Betrayal
Romance For 986 nights, my marriage bed had not been my own.
My husband, Corbett Ewing, heir to a New York real estate empire, was haunted by a ghost, and that ghost' s sister, Ivana, was my tormentor. Every night, she' d scratch at our door, claiming nightmares, and Corbett would let her in, laying a spare duvet for her in our master bedroom.
One night, Ivana shrieked, pointing at me, "She tried to kill me! She snuck in while I was sleeping and choked me!"
Corbett, without a second thought, yelled at me, "Jenna! What did you do?" He didn' t even look at me for my side of the story.
Later, he tried to apologize with a macaron, my favorite pistachio. But it was filled with almond paste, to which I was deathly allergic.
As my throat closed up and my vision tunneled, Ivana shrieked again, claiming a panic attack over online comments. Corbett, faced with my dying gasps and her fake hysterics, chose her. He carried her away, leaving me alone to save myself.
He never came back to the hospital. He sent his assistant to discharge me. When I returned home, he tried to appease me, but then asked me to give my father' s last gift, my perfume organ, to Ivana for her "design studio."
I refused, but he took it anyway. The next morning, Ivana "accidentally" shattered a bottle of my father' s custom scent, the last physical piece of him I had.
I looked at Corbett, my hands bleeding, my heart shattered. He pulled Ivana behind him, shielding her from me, his voice cold, "That' s enough, Jenna. You' re hysterical. You' re upsetting Ivana."
In that moment, the last shred of hope died.
I was done.
I accepted an offer to be a head perfumer in France, renewed my passport, and planned my escape. Revenge: The Billionaire's Downfall
Romance For eight years, I was the girlfriend of New York's most untouchable billionaire, Dean Lee. To the public, we were a fairy tale: the brilliant, cold CEO who was utterly devoted to me, a simple artist he had plucked from obscurity. He built a fortress of luxury and safety around me.
But it was all a lie. On our anniversary, I overheard him with another woman. He called me a "decoy," a "shield" he used to absorb the threats and scrutiny meant for his real love, Karina.
His mask came off. He allowed Karina to humiliate me publicly, destroy my dead mother’s heirloom, and then, as punishment, had me force-fed soup made from my beloved cat.
His final "lesson" was to throw me into an underground fight club. As I lay beaten and bleeding on the canvas, I saw him in the VIP booth, watching with bored detachment as Karina laughed beside him. The eight years of protection weren't love; they were just maintenance on his human shield.
On the verge of death, I was rescued by his biggest rival, Brennen Finley. With my last breath, I gave him the secrets that would bring Dean's empire to its knees. In exchange, I asked for just one thing.
"Make Hayley York disappear," I whispered. "Help me die." Her Secret Shame, His Public Affair
Romance On my wedding night, my new husband, Jameson, was blackout drunk. My best friend of twenty years, Caren, texted me practical advice: give him honey water and let him sleep it off.
But just as he quieted down, he pulled me close, his breath hot on my neck. "I love you so, so much, Caren," he whispered. Then I saw it. A tattoo I'd never seen before, a single letter 'C' inked directly over his heart.
The next morning, my birthday, Caren showed up with a cake, her smile as sweet as poison. After one bite, my throat began to close. Peanuts. She knew I was deathly allergic.
As I gasped for air, Jameson's first instinct wasn't to help me, but to defend her. He stood between us, his face a mask of fury. "What is your problem with her?" he demanded, blind to the fact that his wife was suffocating in front of him.
I stumbled, trying to reach my EpiPen, but he grabbed my arm, yanking me back. "You are going to apologize to Caren right now!"
With the last of my strength, I slapped him across the face.
"I'm pregnant," I rasped. "And I can't breathe." Unwanted Wife, Unseen Torment
Modern Another wave of pain hit me, a familiar, gut-wrenching cramp.
I was bleeding again.
This was the tenth time.
Each time it happened, my husband, Liam Stone, would bring a woman home.
A woman who looked exactly like his first love.
Tonight was no different.
He stood in our bedroom doorway, a woman by his side he introduced as Maya, flatly stating, "She' ll be staying with us for a while."
His eyes never met mine; they were solely on her.
Then, his words like stones, he commanded, "You' ll be serving us."
I pushed myself up, the fresh bloodstain on the mattress a grim testament to my latest loss.
My body ached, my world felt numb, yet the familiar routine played out as I fetched the wine.
I returned to find them on my bed, Liam kissing her, a scene I had been forced to witness nine times before.
A single drop of red wine accidentally splashed onto Maya' s pristine white dress.
She gasped, theatrically exclaiming, "My dress! It' s ruined! This is a limited edition!"
Liam' s face turned to thunder.
He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back.
"You clumsy bitch," he snarled, then pulled out his phone.
He started a live broadcast, aiming the camera at my face, then at Maya' s stained dress, and finally, the blood on the bed.
"Look at her," he boomed to the world. "This is my wife, Chloe Miller. She can' t even do a simple task without messing it up."
Then, he shoved my face closer to Maya' s dress, barking, "Lick it clean."
My blood ran cold.
"Liam, please," I begged, humiliation clawing at my throat. "Don' t do this."
"Lick it," he repeated, his voice menacing. "Or I' ll find other ways to make you pay. Maybe you' d prefer to serve more than just one of my guests tonight?"
His threat hung in the air, vile and real.
I closed my eyes and leaned forward, the taste of wine and cheap perfume filling my mouth.
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound, then released my hair, and I collapsed.
"Get out," he spat. "And don' t come back in here tonight."
I crawled out, another sharp pain tearing through my abdomen, warm blood gushing between my legs.
He left me in the yard, naked, bleeding onto the cold, damp grass.
Ten miscarriages.
Each time, a new woman, a new cruelty.
Lying there, under the cold moon, clarity dawned.
This would never end.
He would only ever destroy me.
As the last warmth left my body, a new resolve settled in.
It was time to see Arthur Stone.
My "good fortune" was broken; I couldn't give Liam a child.
I was done.
I had to leave.
Arthur, his face etched with mirroring grief, agreed to help me.
But before I could escape, Maya found it-the small, simple urn holding the ashes of my nine miscarried children.
Liam, ever her protector, kicked me into unconsciousness.
I awoke to a new horror: a video compilation of my most private moments with him, twisted clips set to mocking music, broadcast for the world to see.
He then forced me to donate blood until my heart nearly stopped.
He froze my bank accounts.
I crawled home from the hospital, only to find Maya burning my mother' s jade hairpin, my last connection to her.
The urn was gone, its contents scattered.
The next morning, the nine pear trees I' d planted were uprooted, replaced by rose bushes for her.
That was the end.
With Arthur' s help, I left the country, divorce papers filed on my behalf.
Liam laughed when he received them, certain I' d crawl back.
He was wrong.
He only realized his mistake when he discovered Maya' s lies, the truth about her, and me.
He tried to win me back.
But it was too late.
I was gone, never coming back.
His family' s business collapsed, his health failed.
The last I heard, Liam Stone, once the man who had everything, was a reclusive, crippled beggar, haunting his desolate mansion, obsessively planting pear trees and crying out my name in his madness. A Mother's Love, A Daughter's Fury
Sci-fi My father, Richard Sterling, built his empire on control, and I, Ava, was just another asset in his meticulously ordered life.
My mother, Dr. Eleanor Vance, the brilliant AI ethicist, was deemed inconvenient, a "disaster" to be managed.
One day, she was gone, taken by men in dark suits on my father's orders, her privacy twisted into shame.
He paraded his new assistant, Charlotte Hayes, her smile triumphant, pregnant with his "new beginning," while my mother lay in the woods, a body identified only by a stranger.
He dismissed my pleas, my fears, my desperate attempts to uncover the truth, painting me as hysterical, a nuisance to his carefully crafted narrative.
He celebrated on a yacht in the Maldives, sipping champagne, while I clutched a fragmented data drive, a digital breadcrumb trail that whispered of murder, not accident.
How could the man who taught me to ride a bike, who promised to never let me fall, betray us so completely?
How could society believe his lies and brand my mother an unstable genius?
My heart screamed for justice, for the truth to shatter the polished facade of Sterling Dynamics.
With the help of my uncle and grandmother, I began to piece together the chilling reality: my mother wasn't just gone, she was silenced, murdered by the very people who claimed to love her.
And I would make them pay. His Obsession, My Hell
Romance My marriage to David Miller was a picture of perfection, a dream life built on his charm and our shared happiness.
Then came the call: my mother in an accident, and David, my husband, utterly unreachable.
Hours bled into sterile dread in the hospital waiting room, a dread far deeper than my mother' s condition.
An unknown text arrived, a single photo: David, arm around another woman, intimate, familiar.
It was my aunt, Sophia Hayes, my mother' s estranged sister, her smile painfully like mine.
My world, once perfect, splintered into a million icy shards under the humming hospital lights.
He returned late, weaving slick lies about dead phones and urgent meetings, as if I were a child to be placated.
But as he signed the papers I put before him, oblivious, a chilling sense of irony settled heavy in my gut.
The man I thought I knew, the husband who murmured of naming our child "Sophia," was a stranger.
I found his study, not an office, but a shrine to her, filled with desperate letters and a diary detailing his monstrous plan: I was just a "perfect-looking replacement" to bear "his Sophia."
The love, the marriage, the baby-all a grotesque fabrication, designed to resurrect his lost obsession.
The pain threatened to split me, but beneath it, a cold, hard resolve began to form, sharper than any grief.
He thought he' d signed investment papers; he' d signed his divorce, and my consent to end the lie he' d so carefully constructed within me.
I walked out that night, leaving his diary open, his delusion exposed, ready to erase every trace of his monstrous fantasy. A Mother's Sin
Horror I' ve always known what animals were thinking.
It' s a secret I keep, even from my boyfriend.
So when my best friend, Chloe, invited me to her cutting-edge Primate Cognition Center, I agreed, expecting just another odd day of animal thoughts.
Then I met Brutus.
A massive gorilla housed behind thick glass, his thoughts weren't mere animalistic grunts.
They were clear, chilling: "Her skin. So smooth. I want it. Tonight. I' ll take it tonight."
Hours later, Brutus escaped, his tracker leading straight to my apartment building.
Mark was working late, and I was alone.
Chloe' s police deputy brother, David, rushed to help.
I heard his muffled struggle outside my door, followed by Brutus' s casual thought: "He was strong. Good fight."
Then, Brutus used David' s dead body to knock on my door, a gruesome puppet.
When Mark called, saying he was coming home, I warned him, but he disconnected.
His last terrified thoughts flooded my mind as Brutus ambushed him in the garage.
Mark was gone.
Brutus was gone.
But then "Mark" called me.
His voice was off.
His behavior was wrong, serving me food I' m deadly allergic to.
A horrific truth clicked: Brutus wore Mark' s skin as a grotesque disguise – a calculated revenge against my mother, who had experimented on him.
My presence was now the target of his cruel, human-like rage.
Chloe arrived at our apartment, yet "Mark" lied about her being late.
My gut screamed.
I found Chloe on the balcony, bound and gagged.
Her terrified plea, once free: "It' s not Mark! It' s Brutus! He' s wearing his skin!"
Everything clicked.
With a kitchen knife glimmering in "Mark's" hand, it was time to fight for my life. You might like
The Jilted Heiress's Ruthless Billionaire Revenge
Gray Matter For five years, I abandoned my status as the heiress of the powerful Montgomery family to play the role of a poor, submissive housewife for Barrett.
Then, a bank notification popped up on my phone. Barrett had forged my digital signature and transferred our entire $50 million joint trust fund to a woman named Crista Reid.
When I called his boardroom to confront him, he humiliated me in front of a dozen Wall Street executives.
"Stop acting like a hysterical housewife. You're living in a penthouse I pay for, so don't embarrass yourself."
I broke into his encrypted laptop and uncovered the sickening truth. Crista was his mistress, and they had a five-year-old son together.
Barrett hadn't just stolen my money; he had spent years painting me as a helpless charity case he rescued, completely erasing the fact that my financial models built his entire company.
He thought I was just a discarded peasant he could manipulate, cheat on, and replace. He truly believed he held absolute power over my life.
He had no idea that I still possessed the highest security clearance of the Montgomery empire.
I pulled an old BlackBerry from a hidden wall compartment, plugged it in, and dialed my family's lawyer.
"Draft the prenup for Commodore Clayton IV," I ordered, choosing to marry Wall Street's most ruthless predator. "I'm done playing the peasant." The Jilted Wife's Spectacular Billionaire Comeback
Zhi Yao For ten years, I was the perfect, obedient wife to my wealthy husband, managing his severe OCD and hosting flawless high-society parties.
But on our tenth anniversary, when I brought him his special hangover soup, I caught him sleeping with my younger sister in our master bedroom.
Instead of panicking, he coldly handed me divorce papers with zero assets. He told me I was just a "placeholder" until my sister finished her degree and was ready to take my spot.
Desperate, I called my mother for help, only to find out she had known about their affair for years.
"You don't have Jana's drive or her looks. You clean house and you cook. That's not a wife, that's a domestic."
My own mother sneered at me, telling me to walk away quietly because our family needed his financial support.
They kicked me out of the penthouse with nothing but a suitcase, laughing that a woman who hadn't worked in a decade would end up begging on the streets.
I bled for this family for ten years, only to be thrown away like garbage when my sister wanted my life.
But they didn't know that while I was playing the boring housewife, I had secretly earned a Cordon Bleu diploma, a Cornell nutrition certification, and a Columbia master's degree.
Using a hidden photo to blackmail a property out of him, I packed my elite credentials and landed a $300,000-a-year job managing a billionaire's estate.
When my ex-husband drunkenly called days later demanding I come back to serve him, I calmly hit block. Too Late For Regret: My Dead Heart
Catlaina Sloggett Rain lashed against the twisted metal as Hallie lay pinned in the wreckage of her car, her chest crushed and fading fast.
The paramedic found her phone and desperately dialed her husband, Aidan.
"Your wife has been in a severe car crash! We're losing her!" the paramedic shouted over the storm.
A harsh, mocking laugh came through the speaker.
"Tell her this is a pathetic way to stop the divorce," Aidan sneered. "I do not have time for her crazy games."
The line went dead, and Hallie's heart flatlined.
Separated from her body, Hallie's ghost was forced to witness the horrific aftermath of her own death.
Her mother refused to claim her corpse because there was no insurance payout, telling the hospital to throw her in a ditch.
Pulled back to her penthouse, she found Aidan gently holding her sister, Cecile.
Cecile sobbed about Hallie's "fake crash" in Aidan's arms, but the moment he looked away, a wicked smirk of victory spread across her face.
Cecile was the predator, and Aidan was her willing protector.
He even ordered Hallie's brilliant, life's-work sketchbook to be thrown into an industrial shredder, giving all her corporate resources to fund Cecile's debut.
Hovering in the cold air, Hallie watched her three years of devotion turn to ash.
She was treated like garbage, a mere stepping stone for her sister's rise.
But just as her soul turned to ice, Aidan's face suddenly grew paranoid.
"Check her medical records," Aidan ordered his assistant coldly. "Find out who is helping her fake this injury."
Hallie's invisible spirit shivered with a dark, vengeful anticipation.
What would her arrogant husband do when his relentless digging finally uncovered her cold, dead body? Wrong Room: Sleeping With My Fiancé's Uncle
Natala O'neal To revenge herself on her unfaithful fiancé Kevin, Isidora hides her striking beauty behind a plain disguise, and targets his uncle - the most formidable man Kevin fears.
After one reckless night, Isidora leaves cash as payment and says lightly, "You were good last night." She tries to leave quietly, but is pulled into his arms.
"You think you can walk away after this?" he says, his tone low and possessive.
Cedrick is a feared, untouchable titan on Wall Street - elegant, aloof, and completely uninterested in women. Not even the most beautiful socialites in the city can catch his eye. When gossip spreads that he was seen pressing a woman against a wall and kissing her fiercely, no one believes it.
When the rumors name Isidora, the crowd scoffs. He rejects even the most beautiful women, so why would he notice a plain girl like her?
All doubt disappears when they see the dignified Cedrick drop to one knee to help Isidora with her shoe, pleading softly for just one kiss.
When Kevin finally sees Isidora's true beauty and begs for forgiveness. But Cedrick kicks him out at once, slams a marriage certificate on the table, and says sharply.
"Call her Aunt." Shattered Vows: The Secret Heiress's Dazzling Return
Nap Regazzini For two years, Clementine played the perfectly obedient wife to billionaire Donovan Bray, wearing his heavy diamonds and enduring his cold indifference.
Until she accidentally saw his tablet and discovered she was just a "collateral asset"—a cheap lookalike prop hired to make his ex-girlfriend, Gisela, jealous.
When Gisela returned to New York, Donovan's mask completely slipped.
During a vicious argument where he mocked Clementine as a pathetic shadow, he grabbed her, causing her to fall down a flight of marble stairs.
Waking up in the hospital, Clementine learned she had miscarried a six-week-old baby she didn't even know she had.
But what truly shattered her was hearing Donovan's voice through the cracked hospital door.
"It changes nothing."
He coldly lied to his friend that the fall had caused permanent infertility.
"It was probably for the best."
He had killed her unborn child and casually dismissed her worth, truly believing she was a penniless nobody who would suffer his abuse in silence.
He thought he held all the power, leaving her broken and discarded for his true love.
What Donovan didn't know was that his fragile, dependent wife was secretly "C.", the billionaire genius behind Aurelian, the world's most exclusive luxury jewelry empire.
Lying in the sterile room, Clementine dried her tears, filed for a ruthless divorce, and permanently froze his supplementary black card.
It was time to show him who really held the strings. I Slapped My Fiancé-Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Jessica C. Dolan Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé.
Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one?
Wrong.
One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup.
So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise.
Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
Enter him.
Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes.
It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised.
But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life.
And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made.
Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with.
And now, he's not letting me go. Discarded By Him, Claimed By The Zillionaire
TESS WHITE I was Landon Mercer's secret girlfriend and loyal assistant for four years. I thought my absolute devotion would eventually win his heart.
But he casually announced his engagement to a wealthy heiress, reminding me I was just a convenient nobody from an orphanage.
When I got trapped in a horrific car crash and begged him to call an ambulance, he just hung up on me, annoyed that my bleeding was ruining his romantic getaway.
He even blackmailed me with my orphanage's land lease, forcing me to attend his engagement party as a prop.
At the party, his elite family and friends brutally humiliated me.
They deliberately crushed my broken arm, poured red wine over my head, and kicked me into a freezing pond.
When Landon finally pulled me out, he didn't care that I was suffocating and turning blue.
"Are you out of your mind? You come out here and cause a scene during my engagement party?"
He threw a stack of cash at my shivering body, furious that I had embarrassed him in front of his wealthy guests.
Looking at the hundred-dollar bills floating in the muddy water, my four years of foolish love completely died.
To him, I wasn't even human; I was just a cheap toy he could abuse and pass around.
I didn't cry, and I didn't beg.
I dragged my soaked, battered body into a car and headed straight to the penthouse of his biggest billionaire rival.
It was time to burn Landon Mercer's world to the ground. Craving for My Tyrant Husband
Cosme Seidel I was cheated on by my scumbag boyfriend.
On the night I got blackout drunk, I married a stranger, and when I woke up, I only found a marriage certificate and a black card.
He took care of my scumbag ex for me, gave me a canary diamond ring, but refused to show his face-he only called me baby on video calls.
I ran to my best friend's house to hide, only to find that the billionaire next door, who made my heart skip a beat, had the exact same scent as him.
My best friend cried and begged me: "He's Augustus, a tyrant who eats people alive!"
But only I knew that the man who pressed me against the terrace railing, leaned down to kiss me, and whispered "I'll protect you" softly.
Fifty thousand dollars to sneak photos of his private office? I'll go.
Not for the money, but to ask him to his face-
Gus, how many secrets are you hiding? And how long have you been craving me? Marrying My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle
Yuan Xiluo On my wedding day, my fiancé Connor received an urgent phone call.
He told me a D-list actress had broken her leg on set, then abandoned me right at the altar.
In my past life, I cried until my throat bled, begging him not to leave.
But my tears only brought endless humiliation. My mother and adopted sister mocked me, framed me, and forged my signature to steal my multi-million dollar trust fund.
They kicked me out of the family estate without a single dime.
I ended up freezing to death in the minus-twenty-degree New York blizzard, listening to my mother's voicemail telling me to die in the street as long as I didn't bleed on her carpets.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand why my own blood relatives hated me so much, yet treated an adopted daughter like a precious princess.
The only person who showed me any mercy—draping his wool coat over my frozen corpse and giving me a proper burial—was Connor's ruthless, untouchable uncle, Harding Snow.
Opening my eyes again, I was back in the bridal suite, right as Connor was rushing out the door.
This time, I didn't shed a single tear.
I let him run to his actress, then walked straight into the VIP room to face the most feared billionaire on Wall Street.
"The wedding proceeds as planned, but the groom's name changes to yours." The Jilted Wife Is A Secret Heiress
Zi Ya The Wellington beef sat cold on the mahogany table, a graying monument to three years of wasted devotion. It was my birthday and our anniversary, but my husband, Hamilton McKee, didn't even look at the gift I’d spent months knitting.
"Our marriage is a transaction," he said, his voice cutting like a scalpel. "Stop trying to make it a romance novel. I just need you to stop existing in my space for five minutes."
Then his phone buzzed with a call from Cuba, the ex-girlfriend he never truly left. His cold mask shattered into frantic concern, a look he had never once given me. "I'm coming," he whispered to her, sprinting for the door without a backward glance at the wife he was leaving behind.
I chased him into the freezing Boston night, only to be swarmed by predatory paparazzi. As Hamilton’s Maybach roared away, a heavy camera bag slammed into my shoulder. I slipped on the black ice, my skull hitting a granite gate pillar with a sickening crack.
Warm blood trickled down my neck, and as the world tilted, the fog in my brain finally cleared. I wasn't the penniless orphan from Southie he thought I was. Images of sterile operating rooms, complex sutures, and a billion-dollar inheritance flooded back—along with the memory of the car wreck three years ago where I was the one who pulled Hamilton from the flames, not Cuba.
How could I have spent three years begging for scraps of affection from a man who didn't even recognize his own savior? Why did I let a fraud steal my life while I played the role of a submissive shadow?
When I woke up in the hospital, the trembling girl was gone. I ripped the IV from my arm and stared at the man who had come back only to demand I stay out of his way. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I simply handed him a piece of paper with one word written in the sharp, confident script of a woman who owned half the city: DIVORCE.
"Sign it, Hamilton," I said, my voice like ice. "Because by tomorrow, I’m not just leaving you—I’m taking the McKee empire with me." 
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