The final Game

Marrying My Runaway Groom's Powerful Father

Temple Madison

I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."

Billionaires Revenge Kickass Heroine Revenge Female-centered Ex-wife

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The sun, previously beating down on the battlefield with its heat, was now blotted out by many dark clouds. Even its majestic energy was overshadowed by a sea of pungent mist.

Filling the air was the smell of rancid blood and iron, sickening enough to make your stomach churn.

It was the smell of rancid blood and iron. But it was that smell that helped him focus in the fog.

There he stood. The figure of a man could be seen, alone, looking onwards. His name was Jacender Ashfield. Proud son of the Ashfield line and guardian of the gate.

The mist slowly dissipated, revealing dozens of strewn bodies laid all around him. It was apparent that Jacender remained the last man standing.

"Khak!! Khak!!" he coughed fiercely into his hand.

He had become exhausted from the raging battle against the demon hordes. So much so that he fell to his knees, blood on his glove.

"D-Damn it!!" He grunted, propping himself up with the hilt of his sword.

Just as he started to rise, a domineering voice came from overhead.

"Stay down…or die."

Peering up toward the voice, all Jace could see blood red skin. And it's wearers were a seemingly endless army of demons.

'Ravishers. And even more than before…' he thought, tight-lipped.

They were all ready to devour him with their jagged teeth, however they maintained their distance.

It was clear why.

Above them, perched on the hill above, dressed in white, a figure--presumably the boss, stood, looking down at Jace.

The ravishers would not attack unless given the permission.

Outfitted in a white overcoat as if to directly contradict Jace's black one, the figure also donned a white mask with carvings of an apple under one eye, and a book underneath the other. Two swords were also equipped on his waist.

Jace stared the man in the eyes with a fierce determination.

"Yeah…?" He panted mockingly as he pushed himself up.

"Ngghhh!!" his heart thumped, reverberating through his ears as he faced his enemies.

He gritted his teeth, gripping his sword and faced it at the man.

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