Broken Doll's Revenge: The Heiress's Sting

Broken Doll's Revenge: The Heiress's Sting

Alfred

5.0
Comment(s)
1.3K
View
200
Chapters

I was Grayson Warren's "broken doll," a disgraced socialite kept on a short leash to pay off my family's debts. To the world, I was a fragile liability; to Grayson, I was a pet he could humiliate for sport, forcing me to play the role of a mentally unstable girl while I secretly gathered evidence against his empire. The cruelty peaked when Grayson forced me to break three years of sobriety in front of his investors, mocking my struggle before making me kneel on a golf course to scrub his shoes. He treated my life like a game, literally betting my sanity against a corporate board seat while he soft-launched a new relationship with a high-profile PR queen. When the pressure triggered a massive panic attack, Grayson abandoned me in a private clinic just so he wouldn't miss a dinner reservation. Even my own mother turned against me, threatening to leak my psychiatric records and brand me a "violent delusional" if I didn't beg for Grayson's forgiveness. I was trapped between a man who owned my debt and a mother who valued her estate over my daughter's life. I realized then that they would never let me go; they would only break me until there was nothing left. They thought they had erased my soul, but they forgot I was the only witness to the night my true love, Felix, was murdered. I was done being the victim. I faked a suicide jump off the Queensboro Bridge to go off the grid, then crashed Grayson's elite gala in a dress that signaled his downfall. Just as Grayson tried to physically crush me one last time, the room went silent. Felix Law, the man the world thought was dead for three years, walked out of the shadows with a federal warrant in his hand. "Take your hands off her, Warren." The game didn't just change; it ended. Felix was back from the dead, and this time, we were burning the empire to the ground together.

Broken Doll's Revenge: The Heiress's Sting Chapter 1 No.1

The phone vibrated against the cheap laminate of the table.

Anna Roth stared at the screen. The name flashing on the display was not a name at all. It was a location.

The Office.

That was Grayson Warren's way of dehumanizing her even before she picked up. She wasn't a girlfriend. She wasn't a partner. She was an asset to be managed, a liability to be contained, and right now, she was being summoned.

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. The vibration was the command.

Anna inhaled, the air in her small safe-house apartment in Queens smelling of stale coffee and the lemon pledge she used to scrub the floors herself. This was her sanctuary, the one place his cameras and trackers couldn't reach. Her real life-the gilded cage of his penthouse-was a forty-minute train ride away. She stood up, her movements mechanical. She walked to the mirror by the door.

The woman staring back had hollow cheeks and eyes that had learned to go flat on command. She smoothed her hair. She adjusted the collar of her blouse. She practiced the expression she needed to wear.

Submission. Fatigue. A little bit of fear.

It was a mask she had perfected over three years. It was the only armor she had left.

The ride to The Vault was quiet. The Uber driver didn't speak, and Anna watched the city blur past the window. Manhattan was a grid of lights and noise, a cage made of steel and ambition. She used to own this city. Now, she was just a ghost haunting its perimeter.

The Vault was one of those private clubs that prided itself on exclusion. The heavy wooden doors were guarded by men in suits who looked like they wrestled bears for fun.

Anna stepped out of the car. The humidity of the New York summer clung to her skin. She walked up the steps, her heels clicking on the stone.

The head of security, a man named Marcus who had known her father for twenty years, stepped in front of her.

"ID," he said.

He didn't look her in the eye. He looked at a spot somewhere above her left ear.

"Marcus," she said softly. "It's me."

"ID, Ma'am," he repeated. His voice was flat.

Anna felt the heat rise in her neck. It wasn't shame. It was anger, hot and sharp, but she swallowed it down. She opened her purse, her fingers trembling slightly as she fished out her driver's license.

She handed it to him. He pretended to inspect it, taking his time, letting her stand there while a group of men in bespoke suits walked past her without a second glance.

"You're clear," Marcus said, handing it back.

The door opened.

Grayson's assistant, a woman named Chloe who wore stilettos that cost more than Anna's monthly rent, was waiting in the lobby. Chloe didn't say hello. She just turned on her heel and started walking.

Anna followed.

They moved through the corridor, the air growing cooler, the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey growing stronger. Chloe stopped at a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. She opened it and stepped aside.

Anna walked in.

The VIP room was dimly lit. Leather sofas lined the walls, and a low glass table was cluttered with crystal tumblers and bottles of liquor that cost thousands of dollars.

Grayson Warren sat in the center of the main sofa.

He was wearing a charcoal suit, the jacket discarded, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked effortless. He looked like a king holding court.

He didn't look up when she entered. He was laughing at something the man next to him said. The man was fat, balding, and wearing a watch that was too big for his wrist.

Anna stood by the door. She folded her hands in front of her. She waited.

She was a piece of furniture. She was a lamp. She was a rug.

Minutes ticked by. The laughter died down. The clinking of ice against glass filled the silence.

Finally, Grayson turned his head. His eyes, the color of cold slate, landed on her. There was no warmth in them. There was only assessment.

He lifted a hand and curled his fingers. Come here.

It was the gesture one used for a dog.

Anna walked forward. Her legs felt heavy. She stopped in front of the table, the leather of the sofa brushing against her knees.

Grayson didn't tell her to sit. He held out his empty glass.

Anna took it. Her fingers brushed against his. His skin was cold from the ice. A jolt of revulsion went through her, starting in her stomach and traveling up her spine. She forced her face to remain blank.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," the balding man said, his eyes raking over her. He knew exactly who she was. "Grayson, you still haven't managed to get rid of the Briggs family ghost? She looks more like a cheap waitress every time I see her."

Grayson smiled. It was a sharp, cruel thing.

"This is Anna," Grayson said. "The Briggs family legacy. Or should I say, their liability."

Laughter erupted around the room. It was loud and wet and ugly.

Anna felt the blood drain from her face. She turned away, moving to the bar cart in the corner. She needed to breathe. She needed to not scream.

She picked up the bottle of scotch. Her hands were shaking. She gripped the neck of the bottle tighter to steady them.

In the mirror behind the bar, she could see the reflection of the room. She could see Grayson.

He had placed his phone on the table. He was scrolling, his thumb flicking carelessly.

This was her chance. Anna poured the drink slowly. As she walked back to the table, she feigned a stumble, her body lurching forward.

"Watch it!" the balding man grunted.

Her hand, holding a cocktail napkin, shot out to steady herself against the table. The napkin landed directly beside the phone. For a fraction of a second, her lipstick case, which she'd palmed from her pocket, made contact with the back of his device. A tiny, imperceptible vibration confirmed the data transfer. It was a high-risk gambit, a data skimmer designed to clone short-range wireless protocols. It captured everything-recent texts, encrypted keys, location data. It was the digital equivalent of picking his brain.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. This was the leverage.

"Anna!"

Grayson's voice cracked like a whip.

She jumped, splashing a drop of amber liquid onto the mahogany counter. She turned around, the glass in her hand.

"Bring it here," he ordered.

She walked back to the sofa. She set the glass down in front of him.

Grayson didn't pick it up. He looked at her, then at the glass, then back at her.

"Toast with us," he said.

Anna froze. "I don't drink, Grayson. You know that."

"I know you pretend not to drink," he said. He reached for the bottle on the table and poured three fingers of neat scotch into a fresh glass. He held it out to her.

"Drink," he said softly.

The room went quiet. The other men were watching now, sensing the sport.

"Grayson, please," she whispered.

His eyes hardened. The playfulness vanished.

"For Warren Capital's quarterly earnings," he said. "Drink it. Or do you not want your allowance this month?"

It wasn't a request. It was a test of obedience. He wanted to see if she would break. He wanted to remind her who held the leash.

Anna looked at the glass. The liquid looked like poison.

She reached out and took it. Her hand trembled visibly now. She didn't care. Let them see the fear. It made the deception easier.

She lifted the glass to her lips. The smell of alcohol was overpowering. She tipped her head back and swallowed.

Fire.

It burned her tongue, her throat, her esophagus. It hit her empty stomach like a fist. She coughed, a harsh, racking sound that made her eyes water.

Grayson smiled. He reached out and patted her back. His hand was heavy between her shoulder blades.

"Good girl," he murmured, leaning in close so his breath brushed her ear. "Remember, your trust fund is just a signature away from disappearing."

Anna felt bile rise in her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Bathroom," she choked out.

Grayson waved a hand dismissively. "Five minutes. Don't make me send Chloe."

Anna turned and walked as fast as she could without running. She pushed through the heavy door, down the hall, and into the women's restroom.

She locked the stall door. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor.

She didn't vomit. She didn't cry.

She reached into her purse and pulled out the tube of lipstick. She twisted the base, connecting it to a small burner phone hidden in a secret compartment of her bag. The cloned data began to upload to a secure server.

A preview of the text files appeared on the tiny screen.

`offshore accounts routed through Cayman...`

`short position on Tressel confirmed...`

`RICO implications if we don't clear the ledger...`

She took a shaky breath, her voice a raspy whisper into the phone's encrypted app. "Tressel Industries. Short position. Cayman routing. RICO implications. He's moving the money tonight."

She wiped the device and shoved the lipstick back into her bag.

She stood up and walked to the sink. She turned on the cold water and splashed it on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror.

The fear was gone. The submission was gone.

Her eyes were sharp. Her jaw was set.

She dried her face with a paper towel. She took a deep breath, letting her shoulders slump, letting the life drain out of her expression again.

She unlocked the door.

It was time to go back to work.

Continue Reading

Other books by Alfred

More
He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

Mafia

5.0

My husband studied the fertility report on his desk with the same cold precision he used to order executions. On our fifth anniversary, he didn't give me diamonds. He checked his Rolex and delivered the sentence that ended my life. "Your genetic profile is defective, Catarina." He didn't just ask for a divorce. He pressed a button on his intercom, and a woman walked in. She was loud, chewing gum, and wearing a dress that was too tight. "This is Aria," Alex said, his voice flat. "She is a vessel. She will carry the heir your body cannot produce." He claimed it was just business, that she would be exiled once the child was born. But at my birthday gala, when Aria tripped into a champagne tower, the truth shattered along with the glass. I was the one bleeding, a jagged shard slicing my arm. But Alex didn't look at me. He threw his body over her. He cradled his mistress, screaming for a doctor to check the baby, while I stood there with blood dripping onto the marble floor, completely invisible. I watched him give his own blood to save her in the clinic later that night. I saw the way he looked at her—not like a vessel, but like a prize. He thought I would stay. He thought I was the obedient Mafia wife who would raise his mistress's child to save the family image. So when he handed me a stack of papers to "protect the assets," he was too arrogant to read them. He didn't notice the header read *Decree of Divorce*. While he was busy buying baby clothes for a child that didn't even exist, I wiped my identity from the servers, signed the papers he blindly authorized, and boarded a one-way jet to Paris. By the time he realizes his "heir" is a fraud, I will already be a ghost.

Reborn Surgeon: The Billionaire’s Secret Obsession

Reborn Surgeon: The Billionaire’s Secret Obsession

Modern

5.0

Standing on the edge of a limestone quarry in the pouring rain, I thought we were just having another family argument. Then my mother, Ardell, screamed that I’d let the life insurance lapse, and my brother, Hakeem, stepped out of the shadows with a cold, calculating look in his eyes. I told them I knew the truth—that Hakeem had cut the brake lines on my father’s car—but they didn't flinch. Instead, Hakeem shoved me hard, sending me tumbling into the abyss. I hit a jagged ledge thirty feet down, the sound of my spine snapping like a dry branch echoing through the rain. As I lay paralyzed and broken, my mother watched from above, asking if I was dead yet, before Hakeem whistled for the starving wild dogs that lived in the quarry floor. "Nature will clean up the mess," Hakeem said, walking away while the first set of teeth sank into my throat. The agony was a tidal wave, but the rage was hotter, a nuclear hatred for the family that stole my future and the daughter I’d never see grow up. I died in that dirt, consumed by fire and teeth, wondering how a mother could choose a car payment over her own child's life. But then, I gasped for air, sitting bolt upright in my old trailer bedroom. I looked at the calendar: May 12, 2014. I was seventeen again, but I wasn't the same girl. Inside this malnourished body was the mind of a world-class trauma surgeon and the elite hacker known as 'Phantom.' This time, I wasn't going to the quarry; I was going for their throats.

You'll also like

The Ghost Wife's Billion Dollar Tech Comeback

The Ghost Wife's Billion Dollar Tech Comeback

Huo Wuer
4.7

Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband’s Maybach usually idled was empty. When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn’t find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn. Caden didn’t even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father’s legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn’s party without a second glance. Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara’s health and managing every detail of Caden’s empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room. How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice. I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I’d drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause—if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for. I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I’d forgotten.

The Convict Heiress: Marrying The Billionaire

The Convict Heiress: Marrying The Billionaire

Rollins Laman
4.5

The heavy thud of the release stamp was the only goodbye I got from the warden after five years in federal prison. I stepped out into the blinding sun, expecting the same flash of paparazzi bulbs that had seen me dragged away in handcuffs, but there was only a single black limousine idling on the shoulder of the road. Inside sat my mother and sister, clutching champagne and looking at my frayed coat with pure disgust. They didn't offer a welcome home; instead, they tossed a thick legal document onto the table and told me I was dead to the city. "Gavin and I are getting engaged," my sister Mia sneered, flicking a credit card at me like I was a stray dog. "He doesn't need a convict ex-fiancée hanging around." Even after I saved their lives from an armed kidnapping attempt by ramming the attackers off the road, they rewarded me by leaving me stranded in the dirt. When I finally ran into Gavin, the man who had framed me, he pinned me against a wall and threatened to send me back to a cell if I ever dared to show my face at their wedding. They had stolen my biotech research, ruined my name, and let me rot for half a decade while they lived off my brilliance. They thought they had broken me, leaving me with nothing but an expired chapstick and a few old photos in a plastic bag. What they didn't know was that I had spent those five years becoming "Dr. X," a shadow consultant with five hundred million dollars in crypto and a secret that would bring the city to its knees. I wasn't just a victim anymore; I was a weapon, and I was pregnant with the heir they thought they had erased. I walked into the Melton estate and made an offer to the most powerful man in New York. "I'll save your grandfather's life," I told Horatio Melton, staring him down. "But the price is your last name. I'm taking back what's mine, and I'm starting with the man who thinks he's marrying my sister."

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book
Broken Doll's Revenge: The Heiress's Sting Broken Doll's Revenge: The Heiress's Sting Alfred Billionaires
“I was Grayson Warren's "broken doll," a disgraced socialite kept on a short leash to pay off my family's debts. To the world, I was a fragile liability; to Grayson, I was a pet he could humiliate for sport, forcing me to play the role of a mentally unstable girl while I secretly gathered evidence against his empire. The cruelty peaked when Grayson forced me to break three years of sobriety in front of his investors, mocking my struggle before making me kneel on a golf course to scrub his shoes. He treated my life like a game, literally betting my sanity against a corporate board seat while he soft-launched a new relationship with a high-profile PR queen. When the pressure triggered a massive panic attack, Grayson abandoned me in a private clinic just so he wouldn't miss a dinner reservation. Even my own mother turned against me, threatening to leak my psychiatric records and brand me a "violent delusional" if I didn't beg for Grayson's forgiveness. I was trapped between a man who owned my debt and a mother who valued her estate over my daughter's life. I realized then that they would never let me go; they would only break me until there was nothing left. They thought they had erased my soul, but they forgot I was the only witness to the night my true love, Felix, was murdered. I was done being the victim. I faked a suicide jump off the Queensboro Bridge to go off the grid, then crashed Grayson's elite gala in a dress that signaled his downfall. Just as Grayson tried to physically crush me one last time, the room went silent. Felix Law, the man the world thought was dead for three years, walked out of the shadows with a federal warrant in his hand. "Take your hands off her, Warren." The game didn't just change; it ended. Felix was back from the dead, and this time, we were burning the empire to the ground together.”
1

Chapter 1 No.1

30/01/2026

2

Chapter 2 No.2

30/01/2026

3

Chapter 3 No.3

30/01/2026

4

Chapter 4 No.4

30/01/2026

5

Chapter 5 No.5

30/01/2026

6

Chapter 6 No.6

30/01/2026

7

Chapter 7 No.7

30/01/2026

8

Chapter 8 No.8

30/01/2026

9

Chapter 9 No.9

30/01/2026

10

Chapter 10 No.10

30/01/2026

11

Chapter 11 No.11

30/01/2026

12

Chapter 12 No.12

30/01/2026

13

Chapter 13 No.13

30/01/2026

14

Chapter 14 No.14

30/01/2026

15

Chapter 15 No.15

30/01/2026

16

Chapter 16 No.16

30/01/2026

17

Chapter 17 No.17

30/01/2026

18

Chapter 18 No.18

30/01/2026

19

Chapter 19 No.19

30/01/2026

20

Chapter 20 No.20

30/01/2026

21

Chapter 21 No.21

30/01/2026

22

Chapter 22 No.22

30/01/2026

23

Chapter 23 No.23

30/01/2026

24

Chapter 24 No.24

30/01/2026

25

Chapter 25 No.25

30/01/2026

26

Chapter 26 No.26

30/01/2026

27

Chapter 27 No.27

30/01/2026

28

Chapter 28 No.28

30/01/2026

29

Chapter 29 No.29

30/01/2026

30

Chapter 30 No.30

30/01/2026

31

Chapter 31 No.31

30/01/2026

32

Chapter 32 No.32

30/01/2026

33

Chapter 33 No.33

30/01/2026

34

Chapter 34 No.34

30/01/2026

35

Chapter 35 No.35

30/01/2026

36

Chapter 36 No.36

30/01/2026

37

Chapter 37 No.37

30/01/2026

38

Chapter 38 No.38

30/01/2026

39

Chapter 39 No.39

30/01/2026

40

Chapter 40 No.40

30/01/2026