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 2
Jess Brennan shoved his high-fidelity black gaming headset over his ears and pulled the microphone down to his mouth.
He clicked the 'Go Live' button on Twitch. The stream title read: LCS Semifinals Toxic Channel.
Within three seconds, thirty thousand viewers flooded in. The chat box on his right monitor turned into a waterfall of scrolling text.
Jess picked up a can of sugar-free energy drink from his desk. He popped the tab with one hand, the metallic snap echoing in the mic.
He took a massive gulp, swallowed hard, and let out a sharp, mocking laugh.
He clicked his mouse, switching his main monitor to the official LCS broadcast. The draft phase was just starting.
The chat was moving so fast it was unreadable, but Jess knew exactly what they were asking. They wanted blood. They wanted his take on TTC.
Jess leaned back in his two-thousand-dollar ergonomic chair and casually crossed his legs.
"You want my thoughts?" Jess said, his voice dripping with venom. "Chester's mid-lane pick is absolute garbage. It's a joke."
He didn't pause for breath. He launched into a rapid-fire breakdown, listing three fatal flaws of the champion in the current meta, his words slicing through the official casters' polite analysis.
A wave of TTC fans in the chat started spamming angry emotes, calling him a wannabe who didn't understand pro play.
Jess raised an eyebrow. He leaned closer to the monitor and read a username out loud.
"'TTC_Fanboy99' says I don't know what I'm talking about," Jess sneered. "Listen to me, idiot. If I was sitting in that chair right now, I'd zone their mid-laner so far out of the experience range he'd have to pay rent to look at a minion."
The viewer count skyrocketed. The arrogance was a magnet for haters, and Jess fed on it.
Then, the official broadcast cut to a close-up shot of the jungle player.
Harlon's cold, sharp profile filled Jess's secondary monitor.
Jess's crossed legs instantly dropped to the floor.
His spine snapped completely straight. He sat up, his shoulders squaring up to the desk as if Harlon could see him through the screen.
Jess cleared his throat. When he spoke again, the razor-sharp edge in his voice was suddenly cut in half.
The chat instantly caught the shift. A wall of question marks flooded the screen.
One comment caught his eye: Road looks like trash today too.
Jess's stomach dropped, replaced immediately by a hot spike of anger. His eyes went dead cold. He locked onto that specific comment.
He clicked the user's name and permanently banned them from the channel.
Jess pulled the microphone closer. "Banned," he said, his voice dropping an octave, dead serious. "Don't bring your bronze-level analysis of the best jungler in the world into my chat. It's embarrassing to read. If you can't see the macro difference he's making despite his dead-weight mid-laner, get out of my stream."
The chat froze. The sheer hypocrisy of the internet's most toxic streamer defending a player shocked them into a five-second silence.
Jess quickly clicked back to the game loading screen, pretending his heart wasn't beating a little faster.
He rested his hand on his mouse. His thumb began to anxiously rub the side buttons, back and forth, back and forth. It was a nervous tick that gave away everything he was trying to hide.
The game officially started. Jess forced his eyes away from Harlon's champion and stared at the mid-lane. The predatory look returned to his face.
Minute one. Chester missed three cannon minions in a row.
Jess slammed his palm flat against his desk. The loud smack echoed in the stream. He let out a sound of pure, unadulterated disgust.
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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.