Marrying My Cheating Ex's Billionaire Boss

I worked three double shifts at the garage just to buy a velvet-boxed cake for my wealthy girlfriend, Arleen. But when I pushed open the VIP room door, I saw her lover kissing her bare leg. She didn't push him away. Instead, she laughed and swirled her martini. "I only forgot Finn because I knew he would stay. He is a poor boy from Queens who follows me around like a loyal dog." Later that night, her lover intentionally crashed a Porsche to scare me, sending a piece of jagged metal into my skull. Lying in a growing pool of my own blood, I watched Arleen crawl out of the wreckage. She didn't even look at me. She threw herself at her uninjured lover, screaming for a medic. "He just got scraped by a piece of plastic. He is faking it. Deal with Jaquez first!" When I woke up, I wasn't free. Arleen had locked me in a private hospital wing with 24-hour security, planning to isolate me and keep me as her broken, captive toy forever. My blind, pathetic devotion finally froze into absolute disgust. I looked at the heart monitor next to my bed and grabbed an IV needle. I severed the sensor wire to trigger a flatline, slipped out the fire stairs while the nurses panicked, and burned my identity to ashes. This time, I was going to disappear to London, build my own empire, and watch hers burn.

Seraphina died betrayed. She perished in flames-poisoned by Darius, the fated mate she'd foolishly loved. Her childhood sweetheart, who sacrificed her only to save his mistress. Reborn five years earlier, Seraphina vows: Never again. No more submissions. No more suffering his cruelty. This time, she'll rewrite her destiny - then she meets Kairos. The Untamed Alpha King who loathes the mate bond after his own betrayal. Her second-chance mate - a bond that will kill her if she rejects it. Now, caught between Kairos' relentless pursuit and Darius' desperate attempts to reclaim her, Seraphina faces an impossible choice: Drown the world in vengeance... or risk her shattered heart on the mate who could either heal her scars or destroy her completely?

I returned to New York for my welcome-home party, expecting a warm embrace from Edwin, my devoted fiancé of twenty years. Instead, his first words to me were a cold, public warning to stay away from his new girlfriend, Kacy. He stood in my family's hotel, shielding a girl I had never even met, and painted me as a vicious, jealous bully. "She is very sensitive, Kaitlyn. Her background is tough. Please, be gentle with her. Don't upset her." He humiliated me in front of our entire elite circle, allowing them to mock me as the aggressive, discarded ex while he carried her away like a fragile princess. For twenty years, I had been his loyal shadow, fixing his mistakes and loving him unconditionally. I couldn't understand how decades of deep devotion could be instantly erased by a few crocodile tears and a manipulative damsel act. He was absolutely certain I would throw a tantrum, cry, and eventually crawl back to beg for his attention. But he was wrong. He didn't know that Everett Rowe, a billionaire tech mogul, had been patiently waiting five years to marry me. He also didn't know that during my three years abroad, I wasn't just studying art—I became "K.B.", the ruthless Wall Street predator who could swallow his family's empire whole. I calmly pulled out my phone, ignored the mocking whispers around me, and typed a single message to Everett. "Yes. I'll marry you."

I was trapped in a greasy diner by my own mother. She was forcing me to marry my abusive cousin because he had paid her twenty thousand dollars. To escape, I used a contract marriage app and begged a complete stranger to marry me at City Hall that very day. Ethan drove a cheap Ford and wore a plain suit. I thought he was just an ordinary guy needing a fake wife. When my mother found out, she brought thugs to destroy my flower shop—my only home and livelihood. To protect Ethan from her endless extortion, I shielded him and screamed that he was bankrupt and drowning in credit card debt. My mother fled in disgust, and Ethan took me into his apartment for the night. But out of trauma and habit, I locked my bedroom door, muttering that he must be old and desperate. He stormed out into the freezing night, leaving me terrified that I had ruined my only lifeline. I didn't understand why he was so furiously offended, completely unaware that my "broke" husband was actually the most ruthless billionaire in New York, and I had just trampled his massive ego. The next morning, his face was a mask of ice as he dragged me back to City Hall to annul the marriage and get rid of me. "Annulment. Now," he demanded. But the clerk just popped her gum and slid a pink paper across the counter. "State law changed. Mandatory thirty-day cooling-off period."

Years ago, when I was very small, we lived in a great house in a long, straight, brown-coloured street, in the east end of London. It was a noisy, crowded street in the daytime; but a silent, lonesome street at night, when the gas-lights, few and far between, partook of the character of lighthouses rather than of illuminants, and the tramp, tramp of the policeman on his long beat seemed to be ever drawing nearer, or fading away, except for brief moments when the footsteps ceased, as he paused to rattle a door or window, or to flash his lantern into some dark passage leading down towards the river.

Cora Foster was a brilliant archaeologist, but a jagged burn scar across her face made the world treat her like a contagious monster. During an elite excavation of a Gilded Age crypt, touching an ancient artifact triggered a terrifying memory. She remembered being Seraphina Beaumont, a socialite brutally buried alive by her vain, cruel sister, Isolde. When the team pried open the crypt's pristine mahogany casket, they cheered, believing the mummified corpse inside was Seraphina. But Cora recognized the onyx hairpin and the angular jawline. It was Isolde. The sister who had stolen her life, mocked her agony, and left her to suffocate in the dark. Her colleagues scoffed at her forensic proof, dismissing her as a scarred, delusional liability. Worse, the ruthless billionaire funding the expedition, Julian Montgomery, was the spitting image of Alistair—the man Seraphina had deeply loved. Why was Julian staring at her ruined face with such intense, inexplicable recognition? And why did Isolde take Seraphina's most precious silver ring to the grave? Driven by a century of agonizing grief, Cora secretly pried the tarnished ring from the mummy's stiff, dead fingers and dropped it into her pocket. "What are you looking at, Foster?" Julian's deep voice vibrated inches from her ear, his cold, predatory eyes locked directly onto her half-open pocket.