Circle of love

The Convict Heiress: Marrying The Billionaire

Rollins Laman

The heavy thud of the release stamp was the only goodbye I got from the warden after five years in federal prison. I stepped out into the blinding sun, expecting the same flash of paparazzi bulbs that had seen me dragged away in handcuffs, but there was only a single black limousine idling on the shoulder of the road. Inside sat my mother and sister, clutching champagne and looking at my frayed coat with pure disgust. They didn't offer a welcome home; instead, they tossed a thick legal document onto the table and told me I was dead to the city. "Gavin and I are getting engaged," my sister Mia sneered, flicking a credit card at me like I was a stray dog. "He doesn't need a convict ex-fiancée hanging around." Even after I saved their lives from an armed kidnapping attempt by ramming the attackers off the road, they rewarded me by leaving me stranded in the dirt. When I finally ran into Gavin, the man who had framed me, he pinned me against a wall and threatened to send me back to a cell if I ever dared to show my face at their wedding. They had stolen my biotech research, ruined my name, and let me rot for half a decade while they lived off my brilliance. They thought they had broken me, leaving me with nothing but an expired chapstick and a few old photos in a plastic bag. What they didn't know was that I had spent those five years becoming "Dr. X," a shadow consultant with five hundred million dollars in crypto and a secret that would bring the city to its knees. I wasn't just a victim anymore; I was a weapon, and I was pregnant with the heir they thought they had erased. I walked into the Melton estate and made an offer to the most powerful man in New York. "I'll save your grandfather's life," I told Horatio Melton, staring him down. "But the price is your last name. I'm taking back what's mine, and I'm starting with the man who thinks he's marrying my sister."

Modern Revenge Rebirth/Reborn Arranged marriage Revenge Personal growth

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“Friday, the thirteenth! This is my luck-e-e day!”

Petite Jeanne half sang these words as she sat bolt upright in bed and switched on the light.

“You’ll be entirely out of luck if you don’t lie right down and go to sleep!” Florence Huyler, her pal, exclaimed, making a significant gesture toward a sofa pillow which, as the little French girl had reason to know, was both heavy and hard. And Florence had muscle. Of late she had been developing herself. She had gone back to her old work as physical director in one of the many gymnasiums of this great city.

“But why?” the slim girl protested. “It is morning. I am awake. Who wants to sleep after waking up?”

“But look at the clock! Such an hour!”

Petite Jeanne looked. Then her small mouth formed a perfect circle.

“But yet I am awake!” she protested.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she pleaded, “you with your hundred and sixty pounds, and poor me, just a little bit of nothing.”

No, Florence would not harm her little French friend. She adored her.

“See!” The exquisite little dancer tossed her blonde head, danced out of bed, flipped out one light, flipped on another, and then continued, “I shall be away in one little minute. This is my luckee day. I must go to dance the sun up from the lake where he has been sleeping, the lazee fellow!”

Florence turned her face to the wall.

“There’s no resisting her,” she whispered to herself.

“And yet many have been resisting her,” she thought sorrowfully.

This was true. All that is life—each joy, every sorrow—must come to an end. The run of the gypsy drama in which Jeanne had played so important a role had ended in June. At first they had believed it would be easy to secure a booking for the coming season. It was not easy. Jeanne’s talents were limited. No dramatic production of any sort was being prepared for the coming year which had a part she could play. They had gone from booking house to booking house, from manager to manager. All had returned Petite Jeanne’s smile, but none had offered her a contract.

All this had not discouraged the little French girl in the least. She believed in what she called her “luck.” Fortunate child! Who can fail if he but believes hard enough and long enough in his luck?

So, though the booking season was all but at an end and prospects were as dark as a December dawn, Jeanne was keeping up her training. Just now, two hours before dawn, she was preparing to go to the park and dance the dew off the grass while the sun came creeping up from the waters of Lake Michigan.

As Jeanne peered into the closet a spot of flaming red smote her eye.

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