Trading My Ex For His Billionaire Uncle
I spent three years working as my fiancé Cam's shadow analyst, writing his reports and securing his corporate bonuses.
But at a company banquet, I opened a lounge door and found him pinning my stepsister Kiley against a sofa.
"I'll cancel the engagement," Cam murmured against her neck. "She's just a boring machine."
Instead of crying, I dug into his accounts and found he had embezzled five million dollars to buy Kiley a luxury penthouse.
When I presented the irrefutable photos and bank statements to my adoptive family, my mother slapped me across the face.
She accused me of fabricating the evidence out of jealousy, fiercely protecting her biological daughter while throwing me out into the cold.
Cam even tracked me down on the street, raising his fist to beat me just for making his mistress cry.
Three years of my devotion were treated like absolute garbage, discarded for a fragile hypocrite.
They all thought I was an orphaned nobody who would swallow the humiliation and walk away empty-handed.
They didn't know that right after catching them, I had crashed into the chest of the most dangerous man in the room.
Hayes Cooper, the King of Wall Street, and Cam's ruthless uncle.
Sitting in the back of an Uber, I emailed Hayes a hidden file containing all of Cam's federal crimes.
I didn't just want the penthouse back. I wanted my ex in prison, and his Director's chair for myself.
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Chapter 3
Jocelyn walked out of the building's lobby. She pulled open the passenger door of the Porsche and slid into the leather seat.
As she buckled her seatbelt, something sharp dug into the side of her thigh. She shifted, her fingers brushing against the leather crevice. She pulled it out. It was a flashy, diamond-encrusted drop earring. Her blood ran ice cold. She recognized it instantly-it was Kiley's favorite piece, the one she wore to every major event. The implication of why it was wedged deep in the passenger seat of Cam's car was a sickening slap to the face. She clenched her fist around the sharp metal, letting the physical pain ground her.
Cam immediately wrinkled his nose. "What is that smell?" he asked, looking disgusted. "You smell like men's cologne. Cedar."
Jocelyn kept her face blank. She rolled down the window. "It's my friend's perfume. It's strong."
Cam scoffed and put the car in drive. He didn't care enough to ask more.
The car merged into the heavy Manhattan traffic. The sky above them turned a bruised purple. Thick, black clouds rolled in. A thunderstorm was about to break.
Cam's phone rang. A specific, customized ringtone filled the car. Jocelyn's stomach churned. It was Kiley.
Cam answered it. His annoyed expression instantly melted into absolute panic. "Kiley? Baby, what's wrong? Your heart again?"
Cam slammed his foot on the brake.
The Porsche jerked to a violent stop on the side of the road. The seatbelt locked, digging painfully into Jocelyn's collarbone. She winced, rubbing her shoulder.
Cam didn't even look at her. He pointed at the door. "Get out. Kiley is sick. I have to go to her."
Jocelyn stared at him. She looked out the window. The first heavy drops of rain were already hitting the windshield. "We're in the middle of the industrial district. There are no cabs here."
"I don't care!" Cam yelled, his face twisting with rage. "You're so cold-blooded! Your sister is dying and you only care about yourself!"
He reached across her lap and shoved the passenger door open.
The freezing wind and rain instantly whipped into the car. Jocelyn looked at his pathetic, desperate face. The last tiny shred of warmth she had for him died right there.
She didn't argue. She unbuckled her seatbelt. She stepped out into a deep puddle of muddy water in her expensive heels. She slammed the door shut with all her strength.
The Porsche's engine roared. Cam floored the gas pedal. The tires spun, kicking up a massive wave of dirty water that splashed all over Jocelyn's legs and dress. The car disappeared down the street.
Jocelyn stood alone in the pouring rain. Her silk dress clung to her freezing skin. The cold sank straight into her bones.
She pulled her phone out of her purse with shaking hands. The screen flickered, flashed white, and went completely black. Water damage.
The rain fell harder, blinding her. A massive delivery truck sped past, the wind from it almost knocking her off her feet.
Jocelyn retreated under the narrow awning of a closed warehouse. Her lips were turning blue. A fiery, consuming hatred burned in her chest, keeping her standing.
She reached down to take off her heels, preparing to walk.
Suddenly, two blinding headlights pierced through the heavy rain. The beams hit her directly.
Jocelyn threw her hand up to shield her eyes. A black, top-of-the-line Rolls Royce Phantom pulled up smoothly, stopping just inches from the curb.
The rear window rolled down silently. Hayes's sharp, god-like profile appeared in the shadows of the backseat.
The driver quickly got out, popped open a large black umbrella, and opened the rear door for her. He bowed slightly.
Jocelyn looked at the dry, luxurious leather interior. She gritted her teeth. She climbed in, bringing the mud and the rain with her.
The door shut. The sound of the storm was instantly cut off. The warm air from the vents hit her freezing skin, making her shiver violently.
Hayes turned his head. He looked at her dripping hair and ruined dress. A dark, dangerous emotion flickered in his eyes.
He didn't ask what happened. He opened the storage compartment between them, pulled out a thick cashmere towel, and threw it directly over her head.
The towel covered her face. Jocelyn yanked it off. She glared at him, her pride refusing to let her say thank you.
"Take us back to The Penthouse," Hayes ordered the driver.
Jocelyn's head snapped up. "No. I have a family brunch to get to."
Hayes let out a cruel laugh. "You look like a drowned rat chasing a bone that isn't even yours."
The words sliced through her like a knife. Her eyes stung.
She lunged across the seat. She grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit, her muddy hands staining the fabric. She glared right into his eyes.
Hayes didn't flinch. He didn't push her away. His large hand came up and clamped around the back of her neck. He pulled her forward.
In the dim light of the car, their breaths tangled. Jocelyn's hatred and ambition fed off the intense scrutiny in his eyes. She didn't pull back. She let him look.
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9.3
On her wedding night at The Plaza Hotel, Clara went looking for her husband.
Instead, she found him in the dimly lit parking garage, passionately pinning down her bridesmaid.
She couldn't even scream or expose them. Just hours before the ceremony, Julian had tricked her into signing away her twenty percent shares of their co-founded company, leaving her completely penniless and unable to pay her grandmother's life-saving medical bills.
Fleeing in absolute despair, a sudden hotel blackout plunged her into a second nightmare. She was dragged into a pitch-black room and brutally violated by a heavily drugged stranger.
When a shattered Clara returned to the office to audit the books and reclaim her power, Julian demoted her to a dusty desk by the trash cans.
He flaunted his mistress in the executive suite and deliberately sent Clara into a horrifying trap. He arranged for vicious clients to drug and assault her, demanding high-definition blackmail photos so he could divorce her with absolutely nothing.
"Since you want to play rough, you can service Mr. Petrocelli tonight," the thug sneered, locking the VIP room door.
Clara was pushed to the brink of hell. Why was the man she devoted three years of her life to trying to destroy her so completely? And why did the freezing cedarwood scent of the stranger who ruined her in the dark perfectly match Conrad Vance, the ruthless CEO and Julian's untouchable uncle?
Rather than let Julian win, Clara smashed a glass bottle, held the jagged edge to her own throat to force the men back, and threw herself off the second-floor balcony into the freezing night.
But the bone-crushing impact never came. A massive figure shot out from the shadows and caught her, and her brutal counterattack finally began.
9.7
Clarissa rushed into a crowded nightclub for one simple reason: to save her wildly drunk best friend.
But her ruthless billionaire husband, Giovanny, was watching from the VIP room. After effortlessly ruining a man just for grabbing her wrist, Giovanny punished Clarissa for breaching their public image contract with an impossible curfew.
When she inevitably arrived back at his penthouse late, he didn't just yell. He forced her to her knees by his bathtub to wash his back, making her watch an explicit, humiliating video as punishment.
A sudden family medical emergency dragged them to his parents' estate. Still in her soaked, transparent dress and his misbuttoned shirt, Giovanny's mother caught them. She joyfully assumed they had been passionately intimate.
Instead of clearing her name, Giovanny pulled Clarissa close and lied to his mother's face.
"We are working very hard on the family's future, Mother."
He locked her in the guest suite, tossed a sheer silk nightgown on the bed, and literally shattered the tablet holding their "no-contact" prenuptial agreement. He then slapped a file against the window—he had secretly bought all her father's toxic debt.
Clarissa was terrified. They were supposed to be business allies bound by a strict contract. Why was he suddenly acting like a predator determined to own her body and soul?
"Give me an heir, or your father goes to federal prison," he whispered.
Stripped of all choices, Clarissa picked up the white silk. She would surrender tonight to save her family, but as his shadow swallowed her, she made a silent vow to survive this monster, and one day, tear his empire to the ground.
8.4
Carissa's son was dying in the ICU, and the bone marrow match had just failed.
The billionaire father, Guilford Gates, cornered her with a cruel ultimatum: naturally conceive a "savior sibling" to save their son. But what shocked Carissa more was his family's sudden accusation that she had heartlessly sold her baby to them three years ago.
"You sold your own flesh and blood to us for five million dollars, so your body belongs to the Gates family."
She was dragged into their gilded estate, treated like a filthy, rented womb. Guilford's new fiancée mocked her, the matriarch humiliated her, and Guilford looked at her with pure disgust. When she desperately tried to feed her sick son and accidentally made him vomit, Guilford violently shoved her away and banned her from the room.
Carissa was devastated and entirely confused. She had never seen a single cent of that five million. Driven by a desperate need for the truth, she investigated and uncovered a horrifying reality: her own father and stepmother had secretly trafficked her baby to the billionaire behind her back, leaving her to bear the ultimate blame.
Looking at the bank transfer record bought with her son's life, the last shred of Carissa's vulnerability died.
She signed the conception contract without asking for a single penny. She was going to use the Gates family's immense power to destroy the blood relatives who sold her, and she would survive this hell to take back her son.
9.7
For three years, I endured being treated like a walking ATM and a maid by my husband's family, biting my tongue to keep the peace.
Then, my husband's buddy suddenly dropped off a nine-year-old boy at my front door.
The crumpled note from my husband casually explained it was his illegitimate son, blaming me for being barren and demanding I raise the kid as our own.
My mother-in-law was absolutely thrilled, parading the boy around as the true heir at the dinner table.
"Some trees just don't bear fruit, no matter how much water you give them," she sneered.
My brother-in-law cheered, and my drunk father-in-law demanded I cook a feast to celebrate.
They actually expected me to continue paying the mortgage, buying the groceries, and cleaning up their endless messes, all while raising the living proof of my husband's betrayal.
I looked at the parasites who had drained me dry for years, acting like they were doing me a favor by letting me stay in a house that my money paid for.
I didn't scream, and I didn't cry.
I simply called my lawyer to file for an immediate divorce, froze every single bank account and credit card they relied on, and drove off to my grandmother's secluded cabin in the woods.
Let them see how long they survive without my money.
8.6
Marrying Theron Draix in a few days was a life long dream come true.
For seventeen years, I'd loved him, revolving my life around him, and in just three days, we should be married.
"Let's break up. I won't be attending the wedding," he said.
My life shattered in that instant.
Finding out he was in love with my adopted sister was worse. They had played me and controlled my emotions.
At the end, Mireya had killed me.
If I was given a second chance, I would never love Theron and never trust Mireya.
7.1
The night before her wedding to Wall Street billionaire Everette Baird, Deliah Quinn stood happily in her haute couture gown.
Then, her younger sister Arvilla walked in, handed her a drugged glass of champagne, and slammed an ultrasound on the vanity.
"I'm pregnant with Everette's child," Arvilla sneered.
Before Deliah's paralyzed body could react, Arvilla dragged in a canister of industrial gasoline, soaked the bridal suite, tossed a lighter, and locked the heavy oak doors from the outside.
To escape the roaring inferno, Deliah smashed the glass balcony and threw herself into the freezing, violent waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
For five agonizing years, everyone believed the Quinn heiress was dead.
Deliah returned to New York entirely reborn—a top architectural designer and a single mother, having scrubbed her past clean and forgotten the people who destroyed her.
She only wanted a peaceful life with her five-year-old genius son, Leo.
But she had no idea her son was secretly hacking airport security cameras to find himself a wealthy stepdad.
Leo deliberately bumped into a terrifying, cold-blooded tycoon, spilling scalding coffee on his custom suit to get his attention.
When Deliah frantically rushed over to protect her son and apologize, the air in the terminal vanished.
Everette Baird stared at the exact face he had obsessively mourned for five years, his eyes turning pitch black as he crushed his phone in his bare hand.