Wiping Out My Ex's MC: The Mechanic Heiress and Her Reaper King

Chapter 3

Word Count: 775 | Released on: 22/09/2026

le Bye

oothing down her leopard-print blouse

running for scraps. Dariana clutched her stomach, sobbing dramatically as

om my desk, tucked my folding knife into my bo

steel rolling shutter groaned as it rolle

elyn screeched, ducking under the metal before it was even waist-high.

teel workbench. "You haven't touched a throttle since your husband wrecked his

s chest. "Watch your tongue! My mother is a charter w

r biological shortcomings. But Jarret is the President. He needs a boy to carry the patch. Dariana

Evelyn. My coffee

ice. "Evelyn says... for the good of the brotherhood, you must sign over fif

"A trust fund? For a kid conceived in a twenty-dollar m

died in federal custody, and this club took you in! Everything you built her

od r

nd hurled it directly into Evelyn's chest. Lo

ty thousand dollars over thirty-six months! I paid your clubhouse mortgage! I paid the pro

ound their boots. A kid named Toby picked up a receipt with wide ey

eceipt from Toby's hands and tearing it to shreds. "

ery commercial account tied to my name was frozen at eight this m

es went com

second, he whipped out his Glock 19 and levele

accounts rig

nt. Even Dariana took a terri

forward, pressing my forehead directly

in my head in front of four witnesses, and watch the Feds seize this compound

to tremble. His knuck

who hid behind

barrel away from my skull, and

in a panic. "Jarret, put t

egan its slow descent. "Get out before I drop t

into the gravel, cursing

and dialed Doc Strickland-my f

e boys from the armory. We're c

Chapter End

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Wiping Out My Ex's MC: The Mechanic Heiress and Her Reaper King

Youran Qianwu Romance

“For three years, I was the backbone of the Iron Cross MC. I hand-built their custom fleet, tuned every engine with my bare hands, and spent a fortune from my private trust to keep my husband, Jarret, out of federal prison. My reward? Jarret rode back from the border with a pregnant roadside mistress on his fender, faking "amnesia" to strip my colors and steal my multimillion-dollar workshop for his unborn bastard. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I walked straight into my shop and yanked the master breaker, plunging the entire compound into pitch-black desert heat. Overnight, I called in a military convoy and stripped the garage down to bare concrete-leaving those ungrateful bastards with nothing but rotting meat, dry taps, and dead beer lines. When I returned only to retrieve my late father's legacy blueprints, the starving, cornered club ambushed me with drawn guns: "Sign over your entire inheritance, or you won't leave alive! The Grand Council will never save a mechanic bitch!" Before the words even left their mouths, the heavy oak doors exploded off their hinges. Clemente "Ghost" Whitaker-the West Coast's deadliest Reaper President-burst in with forty heavy armored cruisers, slamming the Grand Council's official Decree of Absolute Severance into Jarret's terrified face: "Every single dime belongs to her. Touch her, and you die." Cornered and desperate, the mistress staged a bloody fake miscarriage, throwing herself down the stairs. Blinded by rage, Jarret snapped and whipped the heavy steel slide of his Glock across my face, crushing my cheekbone in a spray of blood. Did I break? Not a chance. Wrapped in Ghost's warm, bloodstained sheepskin coat, I wiped the copper from my lips, pulled an encrypted military satellite transponder from my boot, and whispered my final kill order: "Execute Phase Four. Liquidate the compound at sunrise. Leave them with nothing." And as the convoy tore into the night, I caught a glimpse beneath Ghost's open collar: a tarnished brass butterfly tag gleamed against his chest... The exact keepsake I pressed into the hands of a dying boy I pulled from a fire ten years ago. The wolf I saved has returned as the King of the Underworld.”