TOP UP

Reading History

Sign out

Get the APP

Married to the Coldest Media King

Chapter 3 No.3

Word Count: 880 | Released on: 04/02/2026

nock; it was a battering ram. The entire a

ng around the box cutter under her pillow. Her h

room, high-pitched and sickeningly

of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne seepe

growled. It sounded li

e's hiding. She says sh

vy boot kicked the wood right next to the lock. The cheap p

leather jacket that strained against his shoulders and a thick go

red, stepping into the room.

gainst the cold wall. She held the box cutter up, her thu

ice trembling but loud. Thi

de like it was a toothpick. You g

grabbing Dylan's wrist before she could slash. H

utter falling from her num

ckhand

de, her cheekbone colliding with the wall. Stars explod

grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked

es from hers. You don't have cash? Fine. You can work it off at t

sed. She looked nervous now, biting her

Tara! J

lan's hair to u

ncussion. She kicked out, her heel connecting wit

e bed and scrambled

here! J

the door, turning the lock just as Jax's body slamm

ked around. No window. No exit. Just a toile

nother blow. Open up, bitc

til her fingers brushed cold metal. Her backup phone. It was

on. The batt

the message failed. No signal in the bathroom

door hin

the phone. She opened Twitter. It was the only

number. She didn't have

y, her thumbs slip

4B. Hostage situation. Your competitor, Vang

loading circle spu

e whispere

le stopp

anhattan, a projector displayed quarterly earnings. Gar

rter never interrupted meetings. He walked stra

lagged this, sir. High prio

tweet. He saw the address. He

stress. This was a potential information leak. A liability he was monitoring was about to become a public spec

journed, G

rger- a board m

ed him. He lo

five minutes. This is an asset containment issue. No sirens, no police. Han

Chapter End

Claim Your Bonus at the APP

Open

Married to the Coldest Media King

Bing Xialuo Modern

“My father was the King of Wall Street until he was branded a fraud, turning the Maxwell name into a lead weight dragging me to the bottom of the Hudson. I walked into the Brennan Media Tower with blood-red lipstick and a desperate proposal, offering myself as a "paper wife" to Garland Brennan, the coldest billionaire in Manhattan. Garland didn't even look at me as a human being; he tore my term sheet in half and called me "radioactive" before having security toss me out like trash. I returned to my rotting apartment in Bushwick only to find my roommate's cousin, a debt collector named Jax, waiting to break my bones. He pinned me against the wall, his hand heavy on my throat as he sneered about selling me to a club to pay off my father's debts. With my ribs aching and my back against the radiator, I had to leak corporate secrets on Twitter just to summon Garland's private mercenaries to stop a predator. The humiliation didn't stop there. At the Met Gala, the elite mocked my dress made of construction tarp, and my father's creditors began harassing my senile grandmother in her nursing home. I was a cornered animal, and Garland Brennan was the only hunter offering a cage instead of a grave. I realized then that in this zip code, you are either the predator or the prey, and I was tired of being hunted. Garland offered me a marriage contract that demanded total submission-no equity, no voting rights, just an employee with a wedding ring. I signed the four-hundred-page document with a steady hand, but not before hiding a legal poison pill in the fine print. He thinks he bought a silent asset, but I just secured a front-row seat to his downfall.”