The Blind Heiress: Trapped By The Billionaire
Eliza, a blind and pregnant woman, was hiding in a rotting motel room.
The door was suddenly kicked in by Clifford Gray, the ruthless billionaire whose child she carried.
He didn't come to rescue her. Instead, he dragged her to an underground clinic, ordering a forced abortion to protect his wealth.
"The bloodline of the Gray family will never be left to rot in the stomach of a blind rat from the slums."
Strapped to a freezing surgical bed with a scalpel pressed against her throat, Eliza was only spared when a sudden phone call ordered Clifford to marry her for inheritance shares.
But the nightmare had just begun. On their wedding day, Clifford abandoned her, forcing her to be publicly humiliated and married off to a trembling stable boy.
Inside the massive Gray estate, she became the ultimate target. His family mocked her, physically assaulted her, and plotted to destroy her, treating her like a worthless incubator.
They all thought she was just a pathetic, helpless victim who would easily break under their cruelty.
They had no idea she was the sole survivor of the Warren family massacre, secretly armed with a neural interface and lethal senses.
Standing alone in the dark bathroom, Eliza dropped her terrified facade, her unseeing eyes burning with a cold, calculating fire.
She was going to use their underestimation of a blind cripple to tear the Gray empire apart, brick by brick.
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Chapter 3
Eliza's hands clamped onto the door frame of the Maybach. Her knuckles turned bone-white, her fingers digging into the metal so hard she thought her nails would rip off. She wasn't getting out. She wasn't going in there.
Alistair sighed, a sound of utter impatience, and reached out to pry her fingers loose.
Clifford shoved the butler aside. "Useless," he muttered. He leaned into the car, his large hand closing over Eliza's shoulder. He dragged her out of the vehicle with zero effort.
Her legs gave out the second her heels hit the ground. She collapsed onto the cold, gray epoxy floor of the garage, the impact jarring her teeth.
The automatic glass doors of the clinic slid open. Three figures in blue scrubs and surgical masks pushed a stainless-steel gurney toward them at a brisk pace. The metallic clatter of the wheels on the floor sent a spike of pure terror through Eliza's stomach, making it cramp violently.
"No!" she screamed. She swung her arms wildly, trying to fight them off, but the doctors were practiced. They caught her wrists and forced her back onto the gurney.
Click. Click.
The heavy leather restraints snapped shut over her wrists and ankles. She was pinned down like an animal in a slaughterhouse.
Clifford stepped up to the side of the gurney. He looked down at her, his face utterly impassive. He reached over to a nearby tray and picked up a sterile scalpel. The overhead fluorescent lights glinted off the steel.
He brought the knife to her face. The freezing cold metal of the blade's back pressed against her cheek. He trailed it slowly down her jawline, over the pulse hammering in her neck, stopping just above her collarbone.
"If you make one more sound," he said, his voice a demonic whisper, "I won't wait for the doctor. I'll cut it out of you myself right here."
Eliza clamped her jaw shut. The tears she had been holding back broke free, streaming down the sides of her face and pooling in her ears. Her brain felt like it was short-circuiting from the fear.
Just as the tip of the blade touched the fabric of her sweater, a shrill, piercing ringtone shattered the silence of the garage.
Alistair pulled the phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and all the blood drained from his face. He practically threw the phone at Clifford. "Sir. It's the Matriarch."
Clifford's eyes narrowed. He dropped the scalpel onto Eliza's chest and snatched the phone. He jabbed the speaker button, his jaw tight with irritation.
"What?" he barked.
An ancient, aristocratic voice crackled through the speaker. Eleonora Prescott did not sound angry; she sounded absolute. "Call off the surgery, Clifford. Keep the child."
Clifford's hand tightened around the phone until the case creaked. The Grays may have had the name, but everyone knew the Prescott money was what kept this empire afloat. Eleonora held all the cards. "Absolutely not," he snarled. "I am not letting a blind beggar carry a Gray heir."
Eleonora's cold laugh echoed in the concrete garage. "Then say goodbye to your trust fund. The board will freeze every cent by morning if you defy me."
The words trust fund hit him like a physical blow. His hand, which had been reaching for the scalpel again, froze in mid-air.
"Furthermore," Eleonora continued, her tone leaving no room for argument, "you will marry this woman immediately. I want legal legitimacy. No bastards. No questions."
Clifford roared in frustration. He hurled the phone across the garage, then grabbed the scalpel off Eliza's chest and threw it at the wall. The blade shattered with a sharp, metallic ping, the fragments raining down onto the epoxy floor.
Eliza lay on the gurney, her chest heaving. Marriage? The word echoed in her mind, completely absurd, completely insane.
And then, the pain hit.
The slight buzzing in her skull from the car erupted into a full-blown electrical storm. A surge of raw current slammed into her optic nerves. She squeezed her eyes shut against the agonizing pain, feeling like a thousand needles were being driven directly into her brain.
She writhed against the restraints, a low whimper escaping her lips. The doctors backed away, looking at Clifford for instructions, but he was busy fuming, his back turned to her.
The burning suddenly vanished, replaced by a bizarre, cooling sensation. It felt like ice water washing over her brain, soothing the fried nerves.
Eliza gasped. She opened her eyes a fraction of an inch.
The darkness... it wasn't complete anymore. A faint, painful flicker of white light, like a dying firefly, pulsed behind her eyes for a millisecond before vanishing. It was nothing, a phantom sensation born of pain, but it was the first crack in a decade of night. She turned her head toward the sound of ragged breathing. Standing three feet away, his chest heaving with rage, his jaw clenched tight, was a man whose presence radiated pure fury. She couldn't see the dark hair or the sharp, arrogant line of his profile, but she felt the weight of his gaze. For the first time in ten years, Eliza Christian felt a shift in the endless dark. She was facing Clifford Gray. And he had no idea her world was beginning to fracture.
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9.7
I secured the lifeline investment for my fiancé's company and went to his office to surprise him.
Instead, I caught Preston sleeping with his top actress—the woman he publicly claimed as his stepsister.
Through the cracked door, I heard him call me his "scarred, ugly bitch shield" to hide their sickening affair.
I didn't cry. I hacked the live broadcast of the Star Awards and played their sex tape to two thousand people.
But that night, drunk and reeling from the agonizing nerve pain in my facial scar, I stumbled into the wrong hotel penthouse.
I was pinned down by a drugged billionaire, Josephus Hodges.
The next morning, he left me a million-dollar check and a Plan B pill.
When he later tracked me down to offer a cold, calculated fake marriage just to absorb Preston's ruined empire, I threw the contract at his chest and told him to go to hell.
But when I got home and looked in the mirror, the chronic, burning torture in my scar was completely gone.
His touch during that terrifying night had somehow cured the agony that had ruined my life.
I had just declared war on the only man on earth who could heal me.
Just then, my ruined ex-fiancé called, begging me to save him with a PR press conference.
"I'll do it, but I control the venue."
I booked it at Josephus's heavily guarded hotel. I was going to slaughter my ex on live television, and force the apex predator to look at me again.
8.7
Emerson worked grueling twelve-hour shifts just to keep her five-year-old son, Leo, alive. Her only lifeline was her partner Alden, who was willing to give up his wealthy family to protect them.
But when Leo's bone marrow completely failed, the doctor delivered a death sentence. The only way to save him was a two-million-dollar treatment, or having another child with his biological father.
That father was Finnegan Mcconnell, the ruthless billionaire who had accused Emerson of faking her pregnancy and abandoned her five years ago.
Desperate for the medical fees, Emerson submitted her designs to Finnegan's company.
Instead of advancing the money, Finnegan tore her portfolio to shreds and trapped her as a prisoner in his estate.
To force her complete submission, he systematically destroyed her reality. He framed Alden with federal charges, leaving him facing twenty years in prison.
Alden's mother stormed into the pediatric ICU, violently strangling Emerson against the wall.
"Beg Finnegan to let my son go! You are a curse!"
Even Emerson's own adoptive mother showed up at the hospital, just to publicly mock her dying child.
Emerson was suffocating in despair. Finnegan already had a beautiful new wife and a five-year-old daughter—absolute proof he had been cheating while she was pregnant and alone.
He had his perfect family. Why did he have to hunt her down and sever every lifeline she had left, just to watch her drown?
With her son's heart monitor fading and Alden locked in a cell, her pride finally shattered.
Emerson walked into the top-floor executive office and dropped to her knees at the devil's feet, but the desperate mother looking up at him was preparing for a devastating revenge.
8.6
Genevieve was heavily pregnant, holding the legal papers that would transfer her massive family trust fund to her loving husband, Clinton.
But as she approached his study, she heard a familiar giggle. Through the cracked door, she saw her cousin Carolynn sitting on his desk, her skirt hiked up, while Clinton smirked and poured bourbon.
"Once she signs those papers, we don't need her anymore," Clinton laughed coldly. "The kidnapping is staged for tomorrow. She and the brat disappear permanently."
Genevieve gasped, and he spotted her. When she frantically tried to run, her trusted housekeeper blocked the stairs. Clinton dragged her back, beat her mercilessly, and locked her in a freezing, underground cellar.
Denied any medical help, she endured agonizing hours of labor alone in the dark, only to deliver a stillborn child. Clinton then walked in, ruthlessly tossed her dead baby's tiny body into a pile of dirty rags, and brutally strangled her.
As her lungs burned and the world faded to black, her heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. She had given him everything. How could they be so monstrous as to murder her and her innocent child just for money?
Opening her eyes again, the freezing cellar was gone.
She was standing in an emerald silk gown at an elite charity gala—the exact night their original kidnapping plot began, a month before she even announced her pregnancy.
This time, the naive socialite was dead, and she was going to make them pay in blood.
7.2
For ten years, Aurora was abandoned by her wealthy family to rot in the countryside.
When she finally returned, there was no warm welcome. The Lott family only brought her back to replace her adopted sister in an arranged marriage with Damian Yates, a notoriously violent, crippled billionaire, just to save their bankrupt company.
Her grandmother mocked her as uneducated trash. Her fake sister feigned disgust at her very presence.
When her biological father desperately tried to stop them from sending his daughter to her death, the family turned on him.
Her grandmother struck her father across the face, kicked the three of them out of the manor into the freezing rain, and arrogantly declared they would starve on the streets by nightfall.
They thought Aurora was just a helpless, pathetic hillbilly who would quietly accept being sold as livestock.
They had no idea that over the past decade, she had survived the darkest corners of the world, becoming a lethal operative with unimaginable power.
Standing in the cold rain, Aurora didn't shed a single tear.
She calmly pulled out her encrypted phone, personally canceled the billionaire's marriage contract, and ordered her hacker to completely freeze the Lott family's accounts.
"Total financial annihilation. Burn them to the ground."
But as she watched her abusers' legacy crumble, a classified file arrived on her phone, revealing that the very billionaire she just rejected was tied to her mother's unsolved murder.
The real hunt was just beginning.
8.0
Aliya woke up in a dingy, freezing apartment with a throbbing headache, only to realize a horrifying truth.
She had transmigrated into the American romance novel she read just last night, becoming the ultimate vicious supporting character. The exhausted man walking through the front door was Cyrus Pace, an amnesiac billionaire currently living under the delusion that he was a broke laborer.
The original owner had trapped him with fabricated memories of being childhood sweethearts. Worse, she relentlessly abused him. Her phone was filled with toxic texts calling him a useless loser, and she had just staged a psychotic hunger strike to force him to buy a designer bag. Cyrus already looked at her with bone-deep, visceral disgust. In the original plot, the moment he regained his memory, his ruthless revenge would send her straight to a maximum-security prison for the rest of her life.
"Are you done playing your hunger strike game?"
Hearing his cold, mocking voice, the sheer terror made Aliya's blood run cold. How was she supposed to survive living with a future tyrant who already despised her? Every time his massive shadow fell over their cramped, shared mattress, her heart stopped. A single wrong move—even a microscopic mistake like accidentally crossing a physical line—would completely seal her doom.
Staring at the torn box of condoms hidden under the bed, Aliya made a desperate, life-or-death decision.
She had to completely rewrite her toxic persona, secretly hustle a high-commission real estate job, and save enough money to flee the country before the billionaire remembered exactly who he was.
9.6
I was only three and a half years old, living in a damp basement and beaten daily by Enoch Pruitt with a heavy leather whip.
"Get up, you useless waste of space!"
He always told me I was a stray he had picked out of the garbage.
But during one brutal beating that nearly stopped my heart, time froze, and a glowing figure called The Chronicler appeared.
"You are not an abandoned orphan, Clare. You carry the blood of the highest gods."
He revealed that I was the stolen daughter of the ultra-wealthy Barrett family.
Then, he showed me the horrific ending of my previous life.
I had died right here on this bloody dirt floor.
My real parents and three brothers went completely insane with grief, turning into ruthless monsters who destroyed themselves and the entire world to avenge me.
Meanwhile, the Pruitt family kept torturing me, locking me in a woodshed and feeding me moldy bread.
The memory of my bones breaking and my real mother's agonizing screams crushed my chest.
Why did I have to suffer like an animal while my true family tore the world apart looking for me?
This time, I refused to die in the mud.
I accepted my divine blood, my eyes glowing gold as I summoned a bolt of purple lightning to strike my abuser.
I just needed to survive the night.
Because my real father's heavily armed convoy was already tearing up the mountain, ready to burn this hell to the ground.