Secrets Of The Broken Genius Bride
I sold myself to a paralyzed billionaire to pay for my mother's life support.
But my step-sister staged a photo of me with another man, making my new husband think I was a cheating gold-digger.
In a jealous rage, Curtis locked me in a dark panic room.
While trapped, my step-mother sent a picture of her hand on my mom's ventilator plug, forcing me to sneak out to a black-market clinic.
There, they forcibly drained 800cc of my blood to sell.
Half-dead and in severe shock, I dragged myself back home, only for Curtis to confront me with another staged photo of my ex grabbing me outside the clinic.
Believing I had snuck out to see a lover, he ordered his guards to throw my blood-drained body into the freezing wine cellar.
"Please, don't put me down there! I'll die!"
I begged and clung to his wheelchair, but he just kicked my hand away in absolute disgust.
In the pitch-black, 55-degree room, my organs slowly shut down.
I didn't understand why I had to endure this hell, or why he was so blinded by his own fragile ego that he never even noticed how chalk-white my face was.
Hours later, his precious sister needed an emergency transfusion, and they dragged my icy body out to drain me again.
But when the doctor rolled up my sleeve and exposed the horrific, bruised puncture wound, Curtis finally realized the truth.
As he stared at my arm in absolute, paralyzed terror, the EKG machine attached to my chest flatlined.
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Chapter 6
The Maybach slammed on its brakes in the underground garage of the penthouse. The tires shrieked against the polished concrete, the sound echoing like a scream.
The cabin was freezing.
The door was ripped open. The security guards didn't wait for Allie to move. They reached in, grabbed her arms, and dragged her out. Her legs gave out, and she crashed hard onto the concrete floor.
Curtis descended via the hydraulic lift. He sat in his wheelchair, looking down at her scraped knees and bleeding palms with absolute zero empathy. He didn't issue a command to stop.
Allie ignored the stinging pain in her legs. She scrambled to her knees, looking up at him desperately.
"Curtis, please! The hug was forced! He grabbed me!" she pleaded, her voice cracking.
Curtis turned his wheelchair around, presenting his broad back to her.
"Throw her in the top-floor panic room," he ordered the guards. "No one goes in without my explicit command."
The guards hauled Allie up by her armpits. They dragged her toward the private elevator.
"Curtis! No! Please!" Allie screamed, thrashing against the guards.
The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off her cries.
The elevator shot up to the top floor. The guards dragged her down the long corridor to the very end, stopping in front of a heavy steel door designed to withstand a bomb blast.
They shoved her inside. The room was completely empty except for a single cot. The walls were lined with thick, gray acoustic foam. The silence inside was immediate and suffocating.
Vance stepped into the doorway. His face was a mask of cold professionalism.
"Hand over all communication devices," Vance demanded.
Allie clutched her dead phone to her chest. "No, please, Vance. It's dead anyway. I need it. I have to wait for a call from the hospital. My mother's ventilator-"
Vance's eyes flickered with a hint of disdain. He didn't care about her lies. He reached out, grabbed her wrists, and physically pried her fingers apart, snatching the phone away.
"Wait!" Allie lunged for it.
Vance stepped back into the hallway. The massive steel door swung shut.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
The electronic deadbolts locked into place. She was completely sealed off from the world.
Allie threw herself against the steel door, pounding her bloody palms against the metal. "Is anyone there?! Please!"
The acoustic foam swallowed her screams whole.
Suddenly, the lights overhead cut out.
The room plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness. It was a darkness so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing against her eyeballs. Allie's breath hitched. A wave of claustrophobia crashed over her.
She slid down the cold steel door, pulling her knees to her chest. Her stomach cramped violently from hunger and sheer terror. In the dark, her mind began projecting horrific images of Richard pulling the plug on her mother's life support.
Hours bled into one another. The temperature in the unheated panic room began to drop. Allie crawled blindly across the floor until she found the cot. She wrapped herself tightly in the thin blanket, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as she slipped into a shivering semi-consciousness.
Downstairs in the study, Curtis sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the glittering Manhattan skyline. His knuckles were white as he gripped a glass of whiskey.
Vance knocked and entered. "Sir, she is secured. Food and water have been withheld. She appears physically weak. Should I arrange for a doctor to standby?"
Curtis's jaw ticked. A brief flash of conflict crossed his eyes, but it was quickly devoured by the memory of her in Jerald's arms.
"Let her learn her lesson," Curtis snarled. "She won't starve to death."
The next day, around noon, the electronic lock on the panic room door finally clicked.
The heavy door swung open. The harsh hallway light flooded in, stabbing Allie's dilated pupils. She groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes.
Vance walked in carrying a plastic cup of water and a single slice of plain bread.
Allie didn't look at the food. She scrambled off the cot, her legs shaking so badly she almost fell, and grabbed Vance's sleeve.
"My phone. Please. Just for one minute," she begged, her voice a dry, raspy croak.
Vance set the food on the floor. He pulled a piece of paper from his jacket.
"Mr. Deleon's orders," Vance said coldly. "Sign this confession admitting your infidelity and promising to never see Jerald Burke again. If you sign, you get your phone back."
A wave of absurd, hysterical grief washed over Allie. She had done nothing wrong. But she had no choice. Her mother's life was ticking away.
"Give me the pen," she whispered.
With a violently trembling hand, she signed her name on the dotted line. A tear slipped down her cheek, blurring the ink.
Vance took the paper. He tossed her fully charged phone onto the cot and walked out. The door shut again, but this time, the deadbolts didn't engage.
Allie dove for the phone. She powered it on.
The screen instantly lit up with fifteen missed calls. All from her stepmother, Glendora.
A new text message popped up. It was a photo.
Glendora was standing in the private facility room. Her hand was gripping the power cord of Danae's ventilator, right at the wall socket.
The text below read: Get to the Upper East Side private clinic in thirty minutes. Brittanie had an episode and needs a blood transfusion. If you are one minute late, I pull the plug.
Allie stared at the screen, her blood turning to ice. She had just survived the dark room, only to be thrown into a far deadlier trap.
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8.1
Terminally ill.
Betrayed by her husband.
Abandoned by the only family she had.
Ariel died with nothing... and no one.
But fate gives her a second chance.
Reborn three years before her death, she walks away from the man who ruined her life-and takes back everything they stole.
Her love.
Her identity.
Her power.
Now, the cold billionaire who once ignored her can't take his eyes off her.
The brother who abandoned her starts to regret.
Too late.
Because this time, Ariel isn't the woman who begs.
She's the one who makes them kneel.
9.5
The first clue my life was a lie was a moan from the guest room. My husband of seven years wasn't in our bed. He was with my intern.
I discovered my husband, Brendan, was having a four-year affair with Kiya-the talented girl I was mentoring and personally paying tuition for.
The next morning, she sat at our breakfast table in his shirt while he made us pancakes. He lied to my face, promising he'd never love another, just before I learned she was pregnant with his child-a child he'd always refused to have with me.
The two people I trusted most in the world had conspired to destroy me. The pain wasn't something I could live with; it was an annihilation of my entire world.
So I made a call to a neuroscientist about his experimental, irreversible procedure. I didn't want revenge. I wanted to erase every memory of my husband and become his first test subject.
7.2
Every story in this collection is a direct line to your own wanting, each read leaves you drenched, and craving more thighs pressed together, breath caught in your throat.
From a stranger's fingers finding you in a crowded bar to the slow, devastating unraveling of a woman on her knees, these are the moments you'll return to, again and again, until you're trembling.
Warning: "Not for the faint of heart-only for the Dirty Slut-Seekers who crave the filth.
Open the book only when you're ready to be ruined, and consumed by your filthy fantasies.
7.7
Rory stood on the witness stand, forced by her father into an impossible choice: secure her dying mother's medical funding, or save her innocent boyfriend.
She looked Corbin right in his trusting eyes and lied to the court, testifying that he was the one driving the car during the fatal hit-and-run, sending him to a maximum-security prison for ten years.
The betrayal destroyed him. Corbin's father died of a heart attack upon hearing the guilty verdict. Six years later, Corbin returned as a ruthless billionaire and systematically blacklisted Rory from every job in the city. He cornered her into singing at his private club, humiliating her by forcing her to drink scotch—knowing she was severely allergic—and making her throw away his promise ring just to earn a stack of cash.
"Remember this moment. This is only the beginning."
She endured his cruel revenge because she was hiding a desperate secret: she was raising his five-year-old daughter, Willa. But when Willa's congenital heart defect suddenly worsened, requiring an impossible one-million-dollar surgery, Rory realized Corbin's calculated blockade had left her completely trapped with no way to save their child.
Staring at the sterile hospital walls, the last shred of her guilt burned away, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He had destroyed her career and backed her into a corner, but he was the only one with the money. Wiping her tears, Rory turned and headed straight for Vance Tower.
7.9
On my wedding day, my fiancé Connor received an urgent phone call.
He told me a D-list actress had broken her leg on set, then abandoned me right at the altar.
In my past life, I cried until my throat bled, begging him not to leave.
But my tears only brought endless humiliation. My mother and adopted sister mocked me, framed me, and forged my signature to steal my multi-million dollar trust fund.
They kicked me out of the family estate without a single dime.
I ended up freezing to death in the minus-twenty-degree New York blizzard, listening to my mother's voicemail telling me to die in the street as long as I didn't bleed on her carpets.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand why my own blood relatives hated me so much, yet treated an adopted daughter like a precious princess.
The only person who showed me any mercy—draping his wool coat over my frozen corpse and giving me a proper burial—was Connor's ruthless, untouchable uncle, Harding Snow.
Opening my eyes again, I was back in the bridal suite, right as Connor was rushing out the door.
This time, I didn't shed a single tear.
I let him run to his actress, then walked straight into the VIP room to face the most feared billionaire on Wall Street.
"The wedding proceeds as planned, but the groom's name changes to yours."
9.4
Aria Mcgee was the unwanted second daughter of a decaying Long Island family.
To save their bankrupt corporation, her father and older sister drugged her. They shoved her into a town car and delivered her to a ruthless Wall Street billionaire's bed like a piece of meat.
They expected her to be the perfect sacrifice. The original Aria had no access to her own trust fund and was forced to live in a windowless broom closet. Even worse, a cold, synthetic System voice echoed in her skull, demanding she play the tragic, helpless female lead. It ordered her to endure her family's abuse and suffer the billionaire's humiliation to force a pathetic romance plotline.
"Host must follow the tragic trajectory and achieve the ultimate painful romance."
But the soul that woke up in that bed wasn't a weak, frightened girl. She was a dead Hollywood Oscar-winning actress. Why would a top-tier professional ever agree to play the weeping victim in such a garbage, B-list script?
Instead of trembling in fear as the System commanded, Aria looked at the billionaire and smiled. Using her flawless acting skills, she shattered his ego, extracted a hundred thousand dollars, and walked right out the door. Now, she was heading back to the Mcgee estate, ready to rip her money from her father's greedy hands and burn her sister's life to the ground.