Betrayed Wife: Claimed By The Ruthless CEO
Isolde Mitchell knew her wealthy husband was cheating on her, but the true nightmare began when her mother-in-law summoned her.
The older woman coldly announced that the mistress was pregnant with a boy and would be moving into their estate.
Because Isolde's family had gone bankrupt and she had only given birth to a frail daughter, she was deemed completely worthless.
When Isolde packed her bags and demanded a divorce, her husband Clark just laughed.
He threatened to use their ironclad prenup to leave her penniless and take full custody of her daughter just to torture her.
To make matters worse, he forced Isolde to secure a failing business deal with the ruthless billionaire Jacques Valdez, essentially ordering her to sell her body to get the signature.
"If you fail, you will never see Bria again."
He even sent his goons to snatch the little girl from her preschool to prove his point.
Isolde was completely cornered, trembling with a mix of rage and absolute despair.
How could the man she married be such a monster? She would rather die than let them destroy her daughter, but how could a bankrupt mother fight a powerful dynasty with absolutely nothing?
Out of options, she looked at the private business card the terrifying billionaire Jacques had unexpectedly given her daughter.
Swallowing her pride, she decided to make a deal with the devil himself, ready to use his power to tear her husband's family apart.
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Chapter 1
The brass door handle was cold against her sweaty palm. Isolde Mitchell stared at the heavy oak door of the private suite, her chest tight with a mixture of dread and reckless fury. The image of Clark's hands roaming over Kelsey Byrd's body in the back of his Mercedes flashed behind her eyelids. It burned away her hesitation. She pushed the handle down. The door clicked open.
The suite was dim, bathed only in the neon glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A tall silhouette stood facing the glass, the outline of his shoulders broad and unyielding. Isolde stepped inside, her heart hammering against her ribs. She pushed the door shut behind her, the lock engaging with a solid, final thunk.
She had paid for discretion. She needed a tool, a stranger who could erase Clark's touch from her skin without asking a single question.
"I think we both know why we're here," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "So let's... skip the boring preamble."
The silhouette turned. The city lights caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the straight line of his nose. His eyes were dark, piercing, locking onto her with an intensity that made the air in her lungs turn to ice. He didn't move to unbutton his shirt. He didn't look like a man who took orders.
He took a step forward. Then another. The sheer size of him filled her vision, erasing the rest of the room. Isolde's breath hitched. She took a step back, her spine hitting the door.
"Excuse me?" His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the small space between them.
"I said..." Isolde swallowed, trying to regain control. "I paid for a service. I want you to start."
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. He closed the remaining distance, crowding her against the wood. His hand came up, his long fingers wrapping around her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, the touch burning hot against her chilled skin.
"Do you even know what kind of fire you're playing with?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper that brushed against her cheek.
The scent hit her. Cedar. Smoke. A faint trace of leather. The world tilted sideways. The intoxicating, overwhelming aroma wrapped around her, suddenly triggering a suffocating sense of dread, as if touching a dark, terrifying switch buried deep within her mind. She gasped, her eyes flying wide. No. That was the past. This was now. This was her choice.
She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric. She pulled him closer, desperate to overwrite the old memory with a new reality, desperate to scrub Clark's betrayal off her skin.
Jacques Valdez looked down at her hands, then back at her face. His gaze drifted down, snagging on her collarbone. The silver bracelet resting there, the Mitchell family crest glinting in the low light. His pupils contracted. His body went rigid.
The shrill, piercing ringtone of a cell phone shattered the moment.
Isolde flinched, her head snapping toward her clutch bag on the side table. The screen glowed with a name: Clark.
Reality crashed back over her like a bucket of ice water. What was she doing? She shoved Jacques back with all her strength. He stepped back, caught off guard. Isolde stumbled away from the door, her hip catching the edge of the side table. A crystal whiskey glass wobbled, tipped, and shattered on the floor, amber liquid splashing across the hem of her dress.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice cracking. "I have to go."
She grabbed her bag and ran. Her heels slipped on the thick carpet, but she didn't stop. She yanked the door open and fled into the hallway, the sound of her ragged breathing drowning out the persistent ringing of her phone.
She didn't look back. She couldn't.
Inside the suite, Jacques stood motionless. The smell of her perfume still hung in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of spilled whiskey. He looked down at the carpet. A silver bracelet lay there, its clasp broken. He bent down, his fingers closing around the cool metal. He rubbed his thumb over the engraved crest. The Mitchell crest. He had been looking for this for four years.
He slipped the bracelet into his inner jacket pocket, right against his heart. He walked to the door and pulled it open.
"Ken," he said to the large man standing in the hall.
His bodyguard stepped forward. "Sir?"
"Find out who that woman was. Now."
Isolde drove like a maniac, her hands shaking so badly the steering wheel vibrated. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a mess. The thrill of revenge she had expected never came. Only a deep, gnawing fear. That man wasn't an escort. He was a predator. And she had just walked right into his den.
The gates of the Ruiz estate swung open. As she pulled up the long driveway, her stomach dropped. The main house was ablaze with light. Every window on the ground floor glowed. A shadow moved behind the curtains of the living room. Agnes Ruiz.
Isolde cut the engine and sat in the dark for a moment, trying to slow her racing heart. She had to pull herself together. She had to face whatever was waiting for her inside.
She walked through the front door and nearly collided with Linda McCoy. The older housekeeper balanced a tray with a steaming cup of tea, her eyes filled with pity.
"Mrs. Ruiz," Linda murmured, glancing toward the living room. "Your mother-in-law is waiting for you."
Isolde nodded, smoothing down her ruined dress. She pasted on a blank mask and walked into the living room.
Agnes Ruiz sat on the velvet sofa, her spine straight as a ruler. Beside her, arranged neatly on the coffee table, was a stack of pastel-colored baby blankets and a set of ivory feeding bottles. Isolde's steps faltered. A cold dread settled in her stomach.
"Sit down, Isolde." Agnes's voice was like dry leaves scraping against stone.
Isolde remained standing. "What is all this?"
Agnes took a delicate sip of her tea, her pinky finger extended. "It's time we addressed the elephant in the room, isn't it? Your father's company went under years ago. The Mitchell name is worthless now. And you..." Agnes set her cup down with a sharp clink. "You couldn't even give this family a proper heir."
"I gave you Bria," Isolde said, her nails digging into her palms.
Agnes scoffed, a cruel sound that made Isolde flinch. "A frail little girl who spends more time at the doctor than the playground. What can she do for the Ruiz family? She cannot carry on the legacy or continue our bloodline."
Isolde's stomach cramped. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, Isolde, that since you are clearly incapable of performing your duties, Clark has found someone who can." Agnes smiled, a thin, venomous line. "Kelsey Byrd is pregnant. And she is carrying a boy."
The room spun. Isolde gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. Four years ago, she had given birth in agony, only to be told her son was dead. And now, Clark was parading his bastard child as the savior of the family line.
"She will not step foot in this house," Isolde said, her voice trembling with rage.
"She already has," Agnes countered, rising to her feet. She walked toward Isolde, her posture imposing. "Clark is bringing her here. To live. Under this roof. So the rightful heir can be born under the Ruiz banner."
"Over my dead body," Isolde spat. "I am his wife. As long as I am breathing, that woman will never cross that threshold."
Agnes laughed, a hollow, grating sound. "You foolish girl. You think you have a choice? If you don't accept this arrangement, Clark will divorce you. And with that ironclad prenup you signed, you will leave here with nothing. Worse, you will leave without Bria. We will take her, Isolde. And you will never see her again."
The threat hung in the air, suffocating. Isolde stared at the older woman, seeing the malice in her eyes, the absolute certainty that she would follow through. Isolde's nails broke the skin of her palms, the sharp pain the only thing keeping her grounded.
She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind her. She wasn't going to stand there and take it. She wasn't going to be a lamb waiting for the slaughter. She was getting out.
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9.7
For three years, I hid my identity as the sole heiress of a multi-billion dollar tech empire to live in a cramped apartment and support my boyfriend, Ben.
But the day before our engagement, I stood outside a meeting room and overheard him talking to his wealthy boss, Haylie.
"She's just a stepping stone," Ben laughed, his voice full of contempt. "A poor, ambitionless distraction while I work my way up to where I really belong."
He mocked the cheap silver ring he gave me, calling it a necessary prop to keep a naive fool happy.
He bragged about the multi-million dollar merger proposal he was presenting, planning to use it to secure his promotion and build a future with her.
He had no idea that I had secretly negotiated that entire deal using my real connections just to give him his big break.
I had sacrificed my family's comfort, my true identity, and my own career just to watch him rise.
I poured my heart and soul into our humble beginnings, only to realize he saw my love as a pathetic joke and me as disposable trash.
I calmly picked up a pen and voided the merger agreement, tearing my hard work into tiny pieces.
I went home, slid the cheap ring off my finger, and dropped it into his mug of cold coffee.
"Soon, you'll find out exactly who is nothing."
Walking out the door, I pulled out my phone and texted my billionaire father.
"I'm in. Announce the merger."
7.6
After an exhausting fourteen-hour flight, Katia returned to her Upper East Side penthouse, expecting the quiet comfort of the life she had built.
Instead, she found a pair of familiar red stilettos in the foyer and her fiancé, Caleb, tangled in their bedsheets with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.
She didn't scream or cry. She simply took off her three-carat engagement ring, threw it at his bare chest, and demanded he buy out her half of the penthouse by Friday.
Seeking to numb the sickening disgust, she got blackout drunk and crashed at a luxury hotel, accidentally stumbling into the wrong suite.
Thinking the imposing man inside was a high-end escort hired by her friend, she threw him over her shoulder and spent a wild night with him.
The next morning, she left five thousand dollars on his nightstand with a lipstick-stained note.
"Good Job."
For six years, she had funded Caleb's dreams and built his startup from the ground up, only to be treated like a lifeless ATM.
With ruthless precision, she spent the next two months systematically bankrupting his company, cutting off his venture capital, and erasing his life's work.
She felt no heartbreak, only a cold, calculating need to cleanse herself of his betrayal.
But when Katia finally returned to corporate headquarters to co-lead a massive merger, she literally crashed into the new Vice President.
Strong arms caught her waist, and the sharp scent of cedarwood and whiskey hit her like a freight train.
"You came back," Jackson whispered, his eyes burning as he stared at the woman who had treated him like a cheap gigolo.
8.3
I was the long-lost Donovan heiress, finally brought home after a childhood in foster care. My parents adored me, my husband cherished me, and the woman who tried to ruin my life, Kiera Reese, was locked away in a mental facility. I was safe. I was loved.
On my birthday, I decided to surprise my husband, Ivan, at his office. But he wasn't there.
I found him at a private art gallery across town. He was with Kiera.
She wasn't in a facility. She was radiant, laughing as she stood beside my husband and their five-year-old son. I watched through the glass as Ivan kissed her, a familiar, loving gesture he’d used with me just that morning.
I crept closer and overheard them. My birthday wish to go to the amusement park had been denied because he’d already promised the entire park to their son—whose birthday was the same day as mine.
"She’s so grateful to have a family, she’d believe anything we tell her," Ivan said, his voice laced with a cruelty that stole my breath. "It's almost sad."
My entire reality—my loving parents who funded this secret life, my devoted husband—was a five-year lie. I was just the fool they kept on stage.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ivan, sent while he stood with his real family.
"Just got out of the meeting. So exhausting. I miss you."
The casual lie was the final blow. They thought I was a pathetic, grateful orphan they could control.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
9.2
Jacqueline Blackburn, a desperate Ivy League tutor, walked into the sleazy Veridian VIP club just to save her job.
But her billionaire client, the ruthless Christian Montgomery, mistook her for a cheap escort, blowing cigar smoke in her face and treating her like trash.
When she furiously turned to leave, a drunk former client attacked her in the hallway, tearing her white dress open and pinning her by the throat.
She fought back, stabbing the man's hand with a pen, only for Christian to emerge from the shadows and brutally crush the attacker's bleeding hand under his heel.
Instead of letting her go, Christian draped his heavy suit jacket over her exposed skin, trapped her in his dark suite, and forced her to sign a suffocating contract.
"You have exactly ninety days, or I will personally ensure you cease to exist in my city."
She thought she could just keep her head down, teach his nephew, and survive.
But she didn't understand why this terrifying underground tyrant was suddenly so fixated on her.
Why did he use his immense power to isolate her, publicly claim her at a billionaire gala, and track her every move?
When she received a chilling midnight text demanding she pack her bags and move into his sprawling estate by 8:00 AM, the terrifying reality set in.
She hadn't escaped the wolf. She had just walked directly into his cage.
8.0
I sat at a table for two in the center of Le Coucou, clutching a gift box that had cost me two months of savings. It was our three-year anniversary, and I was waiting for Gavin to finally ask the big question.
But when the heavy oak doors opened, Gavin didn't walk toward me with a ring. He walked in with a polished blonde heiress tucked under his arm, her hand resting protectively over a small baby bump.
"This is Tiffany Stone. My fiancée," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't apologize for being late or for the three years we'd spent together. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a number, and slid a ten-thousand-dollar check across the white tablecloth.
"Consider it severance for your time," he added, as Tiffany mocked my cheap drugstore dress. "Don't contact me again. Tiffany doesn't need the stress." I was the entertainment for the entire restaurant—the pathetic girl dumped for a better model. By the time I walked out into the rain, I had lost my boyfriend, my home, and the funding for my secret medical research project.
I was an orphan with no safety net, facing an eviction notice and a ruined career. I had given Gavin everything, and he had discarded me like a broken tool. The injustice burned in my chest, a hot, sharp rage that replaced my tears.
Desperate and freezing, I ducked into a coffee shop where I met Colton Bentley, a reclusive billionaire in a wheelchair. After I defended him from a cruel date, he offered me a contract: a marriage of convenience and a seven-figure payment to act as his shield. I signed the papers that night, ready to use his wealth to rebuild my life. But as I watched my new husband navigate his penthouse, I noticed his "paralyzed" legs tense with a strength that shouldn't exist.
9.0
To save her dying mother, Adaline walked into the Waldorf Astoria to deliver a shirt to her fiancé.
She didn't know her stepsister, June, had swapped her keycard. Adaline stumbled into a pitch-black suite and was brutally assaulted by a stranger in the dark.
The nightmare didn't end there. June paid off the only bone marrow donor for Adaline's mother to flee the city, and stole Adaline's fiancé. Bankrupt and desperate, Adaline was forced to sell herself into a loveless marriage with the ruthless billionaire Ferris Finch just to secure a medical team.
But when Ferris saw the dark, violent bruises covering her body, his eyes filled with absolute disgust.
"You make me sick. Pack up your cheap tricks."
He mocked her, calling her a filthy woman who couldn't even wash her lover's marks off before crawling into his house.
Adaline swallowed her pride and endured his cruel humiliation. When June publicly taunted her about the hotel assault, Adaline finally snapped, ending up handcuffed in a freezing police cell.
She thought she was completely out of moves, waiting to rot in prison while her new husband despised her.
But back at the estate, Ferris had just pulled the hotel's security footage.
Staring at the screen, the arrogant billionaire's face turned completely ashen.
He finally realized that the innocent woman he had destroyed in the dark that night, and the wife he was currently torturing, were the exact same person.