No Mercy For Traitors: The Kingman's Vengeance

No Mercy For Traitors: The Kingman's Vengeance

Sumner Upsdell

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Ava Kingman, heir to a formidable but fading legacy, stepped into the glittering Zenith Club, a venue once synonymous with her family's name. She was there for a quiet night supporting her visibly pregnant sister, Chloe. But the supposed celebration turned into a public spectacle when Chloe's fiancé, Chad, with his mistress Krystal, dragged her onto a makeshift stage. They announced a twisted "paternity game," taking open bets on Chloe's unborn child, parading her most private and humiliating photos on a giant screen. Marcus Thorne, the club owner and her father's former protégé, not only allowed it but actively endorsed this public humiliation. The "new money" crowd, who once paid homage to her family, now openly sneered, declaring the Kingmans "ancient history." Ava, the silent heir to a forgotten empire, found herself restrained, forced to watch as her pregnant sister was brought to her knees for a humiliating DNA sample. Her pleas for intervention were met with scorn, her Kingman authority card derided as a "cheap fake." How could the Kingman name, once synonymous with power, be so utterly disgraced? How could Thorne, a man her father had raised, sink to such depths? The humiliation was suffocating, the betrayal chilling, and within Ava, a silent, white-hot fury began to ignite-a fire no one present had ever witnessed. They thought she was weak, a relic, an easy target. They were catastrophically wrong. Tonight, the Kingman dynasty was about to be reborn, in fire and thunder.

Introduction

Ava Kingman, heir to a formidable but fading legacy, stepped into the glittering Zenith Club, a venue once synonymous with her family's name.

She was there for a quiet night supporting her visibly pregnant sister, Chloe.

But the supposed celebration turned into a public spectacle when Chloe's fiancé, Chad, with his mistress Krystal, dragged her onto a makeshift stage.

They announced a twisted "paternity game," taking open bets on Chloe's unborn child, parading her most private and humiliating photos on a giant screen.

Marcus Thorne, the club owner and her father's former protégé, not only allowed it but actively endorsed this public humiliation.

The "new money" crowd, who once paid homage to her family, now openly sneered, declaring the Kingmans "ancient history."

Ava, the silent heir to a forgotten empire, found herself restrained, forced to watch as her pregnant sister was brought to her knees for a humiliating DNA sample.

Her pleas for intervention were met with scorn, her Kingman authority card derided as a "cheap fake."

How could the Kingman name, once synonymous with power, be so utterly disgraced?

How could Thorne, a man her father had raised, sink to such depths?

The humiliation was suffocating, the betrayal chilling, and within Ava, a silent, white-hot fury began to ignite-a fire no one present had ever witnessed.

They thought she was weak, a relic, an easy target.

They were catastrophically wrong.

Tonight, the Kingman dynasty was about to be reborn, in fire and thunder.

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The passcode to Conrad Ellison' s private villa was my birthday, a gesture I once thought was the most romantic in the world. Now, it felt like a key to a gilded cage. I walked through his silent mansion, a cold knot of unease growing in my stomach. Then I heard it-a low moan from his bedroom. The door was ajar, revealing Conrad on his knees, clutching a lavender silk scarf. He was touching himself, breathing one name: "Kassidy." My stepsister. My blood ran cold. The man I loved, the man I thought was pure, desired her, not me. As I stumbled back, his phone buzzed. It was Kassidy. "Conrad? You sound... out of breath." He snapped, "What do you want?" She asked if the rumors of our marriage were true. His reply hit me like a physical blow: "Never. She' s a delusional, pathetic woman. I wish she would just disappear." He admitted he only tolerated me to get closer to her, to win her father' s approval. My three years of foolish love felt like a giant, humiliating joke. I remembered how my father brought Kassidy and her mother home after my mother' s funeral, how they made me a villain, and how Conrad, my supposed savior, had stepped in to protect me from bullies. I had been so blind, so stupidly arrogant, believing I was special to him. He wasn't a saint; he was just obsessed with the wrong woman. I ran until my lungs burned, collapsing on the lawn. A hard, sharp resolve formed in the wreckage of my heart. I called Helene, my voice torn with sobs. "I'm done. I don't want him anymore." I was leaving this city, my father, Kassidy, all of it. I was starting over. I was never coming back.

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