Claimed By The Ruthless Esports Boss
I am the best esports jungler in the league, but I've been hiding a severe wrist injury just to keep my team alive in the semifinals.
Right in the middle of the crucial tie-breaker game, our mid-laner deliberately walked into the enemy team and died without casting a single defensive spell.
He was match-fixing for offshore betting sites, throwing away our entire season for a massive payout.
Because of his betrayal, we had to sub in two terrified rookies, and we were absolutely slaughtered. The stadium crowd booed us out of the arena. The internet exploded with pure vitriol, trending hashtags calling me a washed-up fraud who hid on the bench to save my own stats. The media demanded I retire immediately. My physical therapist gave me a grim ultimatum: my shredded nerves only allow me four hours of playtime a day before my right hand completely locks up.
I destroyed my own body for this team, only to be sold out by a coward and crucified by the very fans I bled for. Why should my legacy end in total disgrace because of someone else's greed?
I refuse to step down. I forced the traitor out, ignored management's safe roster choices, and locked my eyes on the most toxic, universally hated streamer on the platform.
"He's a walking PR nightmare," my coach warned.
I don't care. He is an arrogant, unhinged killer in the game, and I am going to make him mine.
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Chapter 1
The deafening roar of the crowd bled through the soundproof walls of the Los Angeles Esports Center green room. It was a physical vibration, rattling the half-empty water bottles on the glass table.
Harlon Caldwell sat in the corner gaming chair, his eyes closed. The noise outside was a chaotic storm, but inside his head, there was only a sharp, rhythmic throbbing.
He slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his right wrist. It was wrapped tight in black kinesiology tape, the adhesive pulling at his skin.
Harlon tested it. He rotated his wrist just a fraction of an inch.
A sharp, electric spike of pain shot directly from his median nerve straight up his forearm. It hit like a bucket of ice water dumped over his chest.
He clamped his back teeth together so hard his jaw popped. He forced his facial muscles to remain completely blank, swallowing the somatic tremor that tried to shake his shoulders.
The heavy door swung open. Coach Miles strode into the room, a tactical clipboard gripped in his hand.
Miles didn't look at the monitors. His eyes snapped straight to Harlon's right hand.
Harlon immediately shoved his right hand deep into the pocket of his black TTC team jacket. He leaned back, cutting off the line of sight.
Miles let out a heavy breath and walked over, stopping inches from Harlon's chair.
"What did the physical therapist say?" Miles asked, his voice low enough that the rest of the room couldn't hear.
"I'm fine to play a full BO5," Harlon replied. His tone was absolute ice. Flat. Unyielding.
Miles stared directly into Harlon's dark eyes, searching for the micro-expressions that would give away the lie.
Harlon didn't blink. He stared back with the suffocating dominance that made him the best jungler in the league. He projected total control, even as his wrist pulsed with a sickening heat inside his pocket.
Miles broke eye contact first. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, before turning around and clapping his hands loudly.
"Alright, listen up! Bring it in!" Miles yelled.
On the opposite side of the room, Chester, the team's mid-laner, violently flinched on the leather sofa.
Chester's hand scrambled over the table, grabbing his phone and slamming it face-down against the glass.
As Harlon's gaze swept over the glass table, he caught a brief, illuminated glimpse of Chester's screen before it went dark. He didn't see the specific words, but he saw the sender: a long string of random numbers, an unsaved contact. More importantly, he saw the sheer terror in Chester's reaction as he slammed the phone down.
Harlon's eyes narrowed. He caught the unnatural jerk of Chester's arm.
He stared at the side of Chester's face. A thick layer of unnatural, cold sweat was beading along Chester's hairline. The mid-laner's breathing was shallow and erratic.
Chester felt the weight of Harlon's gaze. He immediately dropped his head, his hands frantically digging into his peripheral bag, pretending to untangle a perfectly straight mouse cord.
Harlon stood up. He walked across the room, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the sofa. He stood right in front of Chester, looking down at him.
"Are you sick?" Harlon asked.
Chester's head snapped up. "N-no. No, I'm good. Just... just nervous about the semifinals."
Harlon pulled his left hand out of his pocket and placed it heavily on Chester's shoulder. He squeezed, letting the physical pressure communicate his warning.
Chester's entire body went rigid. He felt like a block of concrete under Harlon's palm.
The door opened again. A headset-wearing staff member poked his head in. "TTC, you're up in two minutes."
Harlon released Chester's shoulder. He turned his back and walked toward the door, his posture rigid and cold.
The moment Harlon turned away, Chester let out a long, shaky exhale. The air rushed out of his lungs like a punctured tire.
Chester reached out with violently trembling fingers, grabbed his mouse from the table, and shoved it into his bag.
Down the dark corridor leading to the main stage, Harlon stopped in the shadows. He didn't look at the flashing stage lights ahead. He turned his head and stared back at Chester trailing behind the group. His jaw tightened again.
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9.3
Born into privilege, Eleanor never imagined her life could shatter in a single night. Then her father disappeared with his mistress, her mother fell from a building and slipped into a coma, and everything she once owned turned to dust.
Determined not to ruin Jonathan's future with her family's disgrace, she ended their relationship and became the bride of a man trapped in a vegetative state.
She believed that was the last time their paths would cross. But two years later, Jonathan pinned her in the dark and whispered, "Long time no see, my sister-in-law."
8.6
I was the untouchable Mafia Queen, but my reign ended in the blood-soaked depths of a damp dungeon.
My half-sister, Kelsey, drove a rusted, sharpened spoon into my chest, screaming about the unfairness of fate.
In my past life, my father sold me to the ruthless Don Dante Blackwell as collateral to pay off his debts.
To survive, I took a black-market fertility drug, birthed his heir, and clawed my way to the throne through sheer ruthlessness.
But in the mafia world, a pregnant woman isn't a queen; she's a walking target.
I survived countless bombings and poisonings, only to be betrayed and slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand. I had sacrificed everything to secure our survival in the empire. Why did my blood and tears only earn me a rusted spoon to the heart?
Opening my eyes again, I am seventeen, sitting in my father's drawing room.
Two black velvet boxes sit on the mahogany table.
Kelsey greedily snatches the box containing the fertility drug, her eyes gleaming with feverish triumph.
"I'll take this one, Papa."
She thinks she is stealing my golden ticket to the crown, completely unaware that she just chose a death sentence.
I lower my gaze, letting my eyelashes mask the cold, lethal amusement pooling in my eyes as I take the remaining box.
Inside is the detailed psychological profile of the Don's dead fiancée.
This time, I won't be a breeding mare fighting off assassins. I will dissect the devil himself.
9.0
Once a pampered princess, Alaina now clutched a deactivated American Express card, staring out at Central Park. Her family’s fortune was gone, her life, over.
Her family's Hamptons estate, a four-generation legacy, was seized by Dyer Capital. The name hit her: Hardin Dyer, the poor boy she’d once scorned, had returned.
Hardin marched in, serving a divorce agreement. He'd orchestrated her family's downfall for revenge, giving her 24 hours to vacate his property. Penniless, her father faced prison, needing $50 million. Her mother forced her to beg Hardin, who sneered, offering the money for her body. Alaina ripped up the contract.
Hours later, her father had a heart attack. Desperate, she became "Lexi," a club girl enduring humiliation. In the Viper Room, Hardin's lackeys demanded she lick whiskey off his shoe for $10,000. Hardin watched. Outside, her brother Ashton's hand was threatened for a $3 million debt. Spirit shattered, Alaina returned, knelt on broken glass, offering to sign. But Hardin declared her family "dead," offering $10 million for her body, commanding her to use her mouth.
In a furious act of defiance, Alaina threw whiskey in his face, snatched the check, and fled. Yet, when he finally took her, a searing, foreign pain and blood on the sheets revealed a shocking truth: he had never touched her three years ago. Why had he let her believe such a monstrous lie?
8.9
The mangled car teetered on the cliff's edge, my leg crushed, gasoline fumes thick in the air. My husband, Holden, stood safe on the highway, directing the rescue – but not for me. He was saving her, the woman in the passenger seat, leaving me and our unborn child to the ocean below.
I woke trapped in the crushed Maybach, leg pinned. The cliff loomed; the driver's seat was empty.
Holden, safe outside, directed paramedics past me to Giana, his "most valuable asset," ordering her rescue first.
I watched him comfort Giana, oblivious, as the car slid. My baby barely viable. Holden offered a black card for silence; Giana gloated.
Ten years of devotion, a cruel lie. Rage fueled me: how could he abandon his wife and child?
I swore a venomous oath: never again an accessory. I flicked his card away, shielded my pregnancy, and promised my baby escape.
9.7
Gemma expected the tearing agony of the bullet wound that had just ended her life.
Instead, her trembling fingers met the cool, smooth friction of heavy silk.
She stared into the mirror. Her face was flawless, completely devoid of the jagged scar that had marred her cheek for the last five years.
It was exactly ten years ago. The day of her engagement party to the ruthless billionaire, Brion Hubbard.
In her past life, her "best friend" Katelyn convinced her to run away with a scheming scumbag.
Katelyn claimed Brion was a heartless tyrant who would ruin her. Gemma had foolishly believed those fake tears.
That choice led to her family's bankruptcy, her brutal disfigurement, and ultimately, a fatal bomb explosion.
The only person who tried to save her was Brion, his blood-soaked body shielding hers from the blast.
She even realized too late that the strawberry cream cakes she always made for him were full of dairy.
He wasn't leaving to cheat on her. He was locking himself in a medical bay, fighting fatal allergic shock, just to accept a tiny scrap of her affection.
Gemma had been so incredibly blind. Why did she trust the venomous snakes who destroyed her, while hating the man who died for her?
Hearing Katelyn frantically knocking on the dressing room door, urging her to run away again, a towering hatred surged through Gemma's veins.
This time, she wasn't going to run.
She was going to expose the traitors, take back her family's wealth, and claim the tyrant for herself.
8.2
After an accident left me blind, I spent six months trapped in darkness, relying entirely on my devoted fiancé and my caring adoptive sister.
But when my vision miraculously returned one morning, the first thing I saw was the two of them tangled in my guest room bed.
"As soon as that blind bitch signs the marriage proxy, the money defaults to my control."
I kept my eyes unfocused and played the fool. I watched as they forged my signature to drain my thirty-million-dollar trust fund. My adoptive parents even demanded I surrender my company shares because a disabled woman was a liability. When I refused, they went completely insane. Under the guise of a family dinner, they locked me in a VIP room with a grotesque Wall Street vulture, planning to sell my body to save their bankrupt business.
I had given this family everything, yet they were dissecting my life like vultures, convinced I was just a helpless, blind toy they could easily throw away.
But they had no idea I had already hired a supposedly homeless man to be my proxy husband to protect my assets. And they certainly didn't know this "beggar" was actually the ruthless, hidden billionaire heir of the Sweeney family. Gripping the hidden knife inside my dress, I dropped the blind act. It was time to burn them all to the ground.