Discarded Wife, Powerful Heiress Rises

Discarded Wife, Powerful Heiress Rises

Gavin

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I walked in on my husband caressing his pregnant mistress' s belly. In my own home. But the real betrayal wasn't his affair. It was when he, his mother, and even my own parents declared my pregnancy a "complication" that needed to be erased for a multi-billion-dollar merger. They locked me in my penthouse and dragged me to a clinic. My own mother and father sold me out for a check, signing off on the procedure to get rid of my baby. "It's time to cleanse the bloodline," my mother-in-law said as they held me down. As the needle went into my arm, I felt my child, the one I'd prayed for, being stolen from me. They didn't just break my heart; they murdered my baby. But they didn't know who I really was. Rescued by my true family-the powerful Pittmans-I learned I wasn't a discarded wife. I was a kidnapped heiress. And now, I will use every bit of my power to make them pay for the child they took from me.

Chapter 1

I walked in on my husband caressing his pregnant mistress' s belly. In my own home.

But the real betrayal wasn't his affair. It was when he, his mother, and even my own parents declared my pregnancy a "complication" that needed to be erased for a multi-billion-dollar merger.

They locked me in my penthouse and dragged me to a clinic. My own mother and father sold me out for a check, signing off on the procedure to get rid of my baby.

"It's time to cleanse the bloodline," my mother-in-law said as they held me down.

As the needle went into my arm, I felt my child, the one I'd prayed for, being stolen from me. They didn't just break my heart; they murdered my baby.

But they didn't know who I really was. Rescued by my true family-the powerful Pittmans-I learned I wasn't a discarded wife. I was a kidnapped heiress. And now, I will use every bit of my power to make them pay for the child they took from me.

Chapter 1

Alyssa Bolton POV:

The sight of Chase with his hand gently caressing Indiana' s swollen belly hit me harder than any physical blow ever could. My own child, our child, a secret I guarded with my desperate heart, felt like a cruel joke in that moment.

His eyes, usually filled with a distant ambition, softened as he looked at her, a tenderness I yearned for but rarely received. He laughed then, a low, intimate sound that wasn't meant for me. It was a laugh that spoke of shared futures and unspoken dreams.

"Alyssa, darling, are you ready for brunch?" Clementina's sharp voice cut through the air, pulling me back from the edge of that dark abyss. My mother-in-law's voice was always precise, like a surgeon's scalpel.

Chase flinched, his hand dropping from Indiana' s belly as if burned. He spun around, his charismatic facade cracking for a split second, revealing a flicker of panic in his usually controlled eyes.

"Alyssa," he said, the single word a question, a plea, a warning. His gaze darted between me and Indiana, who now looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, a perfect picture of vulnerability.

I felt a cold rage bloom in my chest. He said nothing else, just stood there, letting the silence twist into an accusation. His silence was louder than any shout.

"What was that, Chase?" My voice, to my surprise, was steady, though it felt like shards of glass in my throat. "What was that tender little moment I just walked in on?"

His jaw tightened. Indiana, a master of timing, let out a soft whimper. "Chase, my head... I'm feeling a little dizzy."

Chase was instantly by her side, his arm going around her waist. "Indiana, are you alright? You look pale." He wasn't even looking at me anymore.

"Don't you dare," I whispered, my voice shaking now. This was my home, my life, and he was treating me like an inconvenient interruption.

Indiana buried her face into Chase's shoulder, her small, delicate frame trembling. "It's just the morning sickness, Chase. I'm so sorry." She cast a quick, defiant glance at me over his shoulder, a flicker of triumph in her eyes.

"Morning sickness?" The words ripped from my throat. "You're telling me about morning sickness in my living room, with my husband?"

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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