Fearless Psychotic

The Billionaire's Secret Heir In Hiding

I woke up in a bed of cold marble and silk, lying next to Armond Emerson—the billionaire CEO who treats people like disposable assets. Five years ago, I escaped his world with a secret that could destroy me; now, a single night of desperation had put me right back in his crosshairs. My nightmare was only beginning. My ex-boyfriend, Lucas, had me followed to the penthouse and was now using my family as target practice to force me back under his thumb. Within twenty-four hours, my gallery was seized, my bank accounts were frozen, and my brother was left bleeding on a warehouse floor with his painting hands crushed. Lucas’s threat was clear: "Kneel and beg, or I’ll make sure your little bastard in Queens has an accident." That "bastard" was Leo, my four-year-old son. He was the secret heir to the Emerson empire, and Armond had no idea he existed. To protect him, I sold my soul. I walked into Armond’s office and offered a deal: I’d be his fake fiancée to stabilize his board of directors if he destroyed Lucas. He agreed, but his touch was a brand and his suspicion was a knife. He started digging into the five-year gap in my resume, hiring investigators to peel back the layers of my time in Switzerland. I thought I could play the part of the harmless socialite until the danger passed. I thought I could keep my son hidden in the shadows of a crumbling Queens apartment while I played house with a monster. But after a brutal attack in a parking garage, I collapsed in Armond's arms, my consciousness fading as I whispered the one name I should have kept buried. As I lay sedated in his penthouse, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Armond answered it. "Mommy? Are you okay? Uncle Nate said the bad man hurt you." The silence that followed was the sound of my world ending. Armond stared at the caller ID, looking at the face of the son I had stolen from him, and finally realized exactly what I had been running from.

He Faked Amnesia To Break Our Vows

I was sealing our wedding invitations with crimson wax when I heard my fiancé through the slightly ajar study door. Ethan wasn't reciting the poetry he’d written for me over the last seven years. He was outlining the logistics of his betrayal. "If I fake amnesia after the 'accident' tonight, I can delay the wedding without the family stopping the merger," Ethan laughed, ice clinking in his glass. "And Ava? The Canary?" his friend asked. "Ava is property. You maintain property; you don't have fun with it. While she plays nurse, I get a medical exemption to sleep with Chloe." My world shattered. I fled into the rainy night, blinded by tears, until headlights turned my world upside down. I woke up in the wreckage, my arm shattered, tasting blood. Ethan arrived moments later. But he didn't run to me. He stepped right over my bleeding body to comfort Chloe, who had a minor scratch on her forehead. "I've got you, baby," he cooed to his mistress, looking at me with nothing but cold annoyance. "Don't worry about her. She's tough." He left me in the street. By the next morning, the narrative was set: The tragic Don had lost his memory of his fiancée, but miraculously remembered his 'true love,' Chloe. He evicted me from our penthouse while I was still in surgery. He thought he had won. He thought the Canary would just die in the cold. He forgot one thing. I knew where he hid the bodies—literally. I walked into his staged public proposal, slammed my ring on the table, and left a note under it. *I remember everything. And so do you.* Then I boarded a plane with his secret incriminating journal in my bag. The empire was about to burn.

The Billionaire Widow's Redemption

For three years, my husband Carter Hancock had erectile dysfunction. Or so he told me. I was the one who pulled him from a fiery car crash, and this marriage was his promise to cherish the hands that saved him. But tonight, I overheard him with my sister-in-law, Jodie. He confessed his condition was a lie to avoid touching me, and that he' d always loved her. Our marriage was just a sham to appease his grandfather. The betrayals kept coming. He claimed she was the one who saved him. He abandoned me during a landslide to rescue her. When I woke up in the hospital with broken ribs, he asked me to donate skin from my leg to fix a scratch on her face. He wanted to mutilate my body for the woman who stole my life, the woman carrying his secret child. My love was a burden, my sacrifice a joke they laughed about behind closed doors. Then I found the final, soul-crushing truth: our marriage certificate was a fake. I was never his wife, just a placeholder. That night, I picked up my phone and called the one person he' d warned me away from. "Alex," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I need to leave. Can you meet me in Europe?"

Her Vengeance, His Ruined Life

My son was dead. The official report called it a suicide, a drug overdose. But I knew it was a lie. I was a Crime Scene Investigator, and I had processed his body myself. The evidence screamed murder. I appealed, seven times, each time presenting irrefutable proof. Each time, District Attorney Bentley Shannon slammed the door in my face, dismissing my grief as delusion. The system I had served for twenty years was protecting a killer. So, I took the law into my own hands. I kidnapped the District Attorney's daughter, Dallas Shannon, and broadcast my demands to the world. For every chance he wasted, I would use a forensic tool on her, permanently disfiguring her. The world watched, horrified, as I stapled her arm, then cauterized it, drawing thin red lines on her skin with a scalpel. My former mentor, Dr. Hooper, and my son's girlfriend, Alexandra, were brought in to convince me, to paint my son as depressed, to present a fabricated suicide note. For a moment, I wavered, the pain of being a "bad mother" crushing me. But then I saw it—a hidden message in his "suicide note," a secret code from his favorite childhood book. He wasn't giving up; he was crying for help. They had twisted his plea into a lie. My grief burned away, replaced by an unbreakable resolve. "I do not accept this note," I declared, pressing the cauterizing pen to Dallas's leg as the FBI swarmed in.

Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: The Doctor's Verdict

It was our eighth wedding anniversary, and nine hundred and ninety-nine imported orchids, courtesy of my husband Ethan, filled the ER breakroom, a suffocating monument to his wealth and our utterly hollow marriage. My name is Sarah, an ER doctor, and just a month ago, I lost our baby – our second child – alone, terrified in the hospital. That night, Ethan was at a "critical work dinner" with his assistant, Chloe, claiming he couldn't leave my side. His grand gesture of impersonal flowers was a chilling reminder of how little he truly cared, or how little he bothered to know me anymore. When I finally called, his voice was impatient; he dismissed my desperate plea to talk, sighing about my work stress before hanging up. Later, at our cold, modern penthouse, he offered an expensive diamond necklace, likely chosen by Chloe, ignoring my quiet but firm demand for a divorce. He scoffed, calling me "dramatic," bragging about the "best" orchids. Worse, his family, led by his domineering mother Eleanor and always-present Chloe, began using our son, Leo, as leverage, subtly painting me as emotionally unstable. Why was the man who once gave me a single, dollar-pink carnation, a symbol of genuine, selfless love, now so utterly incapable of seeing me at all? How could he respond to the agonizing loss of our child with a callous remark about me being "stretched thin with my career?" His profound indifference, coupled with his family' s insidious manipulation, transformed my deep grief into a cold, unwavering fury. After years of swallowing my anger and enduring their polished cruelty, I finally reached my breaking point at their opulent Connecticut estate. I was done being ignored, done being dismissed. It was time to shatter their perfect, miserable charade and reclaim every piece of my life.

The Thong in My Bed

My daughter's relentless tantrums finally broke me. It was for a week-long soccer tournament in Orlando, Florida, a "once-in-a-lifetime opportunity" according to her "cool" new coach, Sabrina. Exhausted, I agreed, believing my husband, Matt, couldn't come due to a massive work project. But one night in our hotel room, I woke to an empty bed. My heart pounded as I tiptoed to the balcony, where Maddy was whispering into her expensive new smartwatch – a gift from Sabrina. "Daddy," she murmured, "is Coach Sabrina feeling better now? You need to make sure all her stuff is out of our house before Mom gets home!" The world stopped. His "critical work project" was a lie. He was at our home. With her. Shaking, I checked Sabrina's Instagram. Her 'close friends' story opened to a picture of her in my bed, a man' s arm, identified by Matt's anniversary watch, wrapped around her. And right there, on my nightstand, a framed photo of me. It clicked. She wasn't just having an affair; she had paraded it in my home, documenting her conquest for me to find. The ultimate insult. Then, the true horror: Maddy. My sweet, innocent daughter. The tantrums, the desperate need for this trip – it was all a setup. My own child, a tiny accomplice in her father's monstrous betrayal. They needed me out of the house. The realization that my entire life had been a carefully orchestrated lie, using my own daughter as a pawn, curdled my blood. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. A chilling calm settled over me. There would be no second chances. There would be no return home. My lawyer would be in touch.

He Chose First Love, I Chose the Alpha King

I gave him three years of silent devotion behind a mask I never wanted to wear. I made a wager for our bond-he paid me off like a mistress. "Chloe's back," Zane said coldly. "It's over." I laughed, poured wine on his face, and walked away from the only love I'd ever known. "What now?" my best friend asked. I smiled. "The real me returns." But fate wasn't finished yet. That same night, Caesar Conrad-the Alpha every wolf feared-opened his car door and whispered, "Get in." Our gazes collided. The bond awakened. No games. No pretending. Just raw, unstoppable power. "Don't regret this," he warned, lips brushing mine. But I didn't. Because the mate I'd been chasing never saw me. And the one who did? He's ready to burn the world for me.

Marrying Her Was Easy, Losing Her Was Hell

"Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. She torched their wedding portrait at his feet while he sent flirty messages to his mistress. With her chest tight and eyes blazing, Stella delivered a sharp slap. Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, and left him a hidden bombshell. On launch day she vanished; that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered. When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged. With a smirk, she said, ""Out of your league, darling."

Abandoned Wife, Billionaire Revenge

My husband promised me forever, but gave me endless lies. On our anniversary, I found his secrets on social media, exposed by his mistress. He didn't just break my heart; he broke my entire world. Seraphina sat alone in her opulent mansion, preparing their anniversary dinner, feeling the suffocating weight of her cold, hollow marriage. An Instagram post from Tiffany Sloan then brazenly revealed Harrison's hand at a romantic dinner, shattering his flimsy excuses and exposing his blatant infidelity. The betrayal turned Seraphina's despair into cold resolve. He gaslighted her, dismissed her pain, and reminded her she was "nothing." He chose his mistress over her dying brother, caused her to break an ankle, and finally abandoned her on a desolate street corner, stripped of dignity. How could she have sacrificed her entire violin career for a man who so casually discarded her? Under that bridge, her foolish love died, leaving only a fierce desire for reclamation. Shivering and alone, a faded flyer for a violin teacher caught her eye. It was a defiant whisper of her old self, a promise: Seraphina Vanderbilt was gone, and a new Seraphina was finally free.

HIS DOE, HIS DAMNATION(An Erotic Billionaire Romance)

Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.

I Hid His Heir from My Alpha

For two years, I was the Alpha's secret wife, a duty he resented. But the positive pregnancy test in my hand was a miracle, a blessing from the Moon Goddess. This baby, our heir, was supposed to be the bridge that finally mended our broken mate bond. That night, he left without a word. I saw on a gossip site that he'd gone to pick up his ex-lover, Isadora. Reaching for him through our bond, I wasn't met with his usual coldness, but with her emotions bleeding through him-triumph and smug possession. The next morning, I went to his office, ready to tell him about our baby, believing our child could fix us. But I stopped when I heard him talking to our Pack Healer about me. The healer said I looked fragile, that he should care for his mate. My husband laughed. "You seem to care for her more than I do," Demetri said, his voice dripping with ice. "Do you want me to give her to you? Take her. She's of no use to me." My world shattered. I wasn't just unloved; I was a thing to be discarded. I looked down at the pregnancy report, the proof of the life inside me, and made a vow. He would never know about our child, and I would sever our bond myself.

He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him

The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.