Mr. Hamilton: Too Late, She's The CEO Now

Mr. Hamilton: Too Late, She's The CEO Now

Gavin

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My five years of blood, sweat, and tears? Gone. My startup, NovaSpark, was dead. But the universe wasn't done with me. A text from my boyfriend, Ethan, read: "We're done." Just like that. Five years of supporting his music, funding his dreams, all for nothing. To add insult to injury, he was already parading a new girlfriend, Chloe, flaunting his sudden "Hamilton inheritance." I had a custom Cartier ring in my purse, getting ready to propose to him that night. Talk about timing. Then I found him, not an hour later, at a high-end lounge, publicly announcing my "tech dream went bust" and sneering, "Look who it is, my desperate stalker." This from the man whose stepfather's gambling debts I quietly managed, whose career I financed. The absolute gall. He thought because he' d stumbled into some inherited wealth, he could rewrite history and label me a gold-digger. How could he? The man I loved, the man I poured my soul into, standing there, dripping in new money, spitting venom and lies. My heart was a shattered mess, reeling from the sheer audacity of his betrayal. But then, as he launched into another tirade, an unexpected ally, Liam, one of my former investors, stepped between us. His quiet authority cut through Ethan's arrogance. And when he took my hand, then softly kissed me, leading me out of that suffocating lounge, I knew something had to change. My next words to him were clear: "Take me to my grandfather' s estate. Arthur Sterling." It was time to stop hiding.

Introduction

My five years of blood, sweat, and tears? Gone. My startup, NovaSpark, was dead.

But the universe wasn't done with me.

A text from my boyfriend, Ethan, read: "We're done." Just like that.

Five years of supporting his music, funding his dreams, all for nothing.

To add insult to injury, he was already parading a new girlfriend, Chloe, flaunting his sudden "Hamilton inheritance."

I had a custom Cartier ring in my purse, getting ready to propose to him that night.

Talk about timing.

Then I found him, not an hour later, at a high-end lounge, publicly announcing my "tech dream went bust" and sneering, "Look who it is, my desperate stalker."

This from the man whose stepfather's gambling debts I quietly managed, whose career I financed.

The absolute gall.

He thought because he' d stumbled into some inherited wealth, he could rewrite history and label me a gold-digger.

How could he?

The man I loved, the man I poured my soul into, standing there, dripping in new money, spitting venom and lies.

My heart was a shattered mess, reeling from the sheer audacity of his betrayal.

But then, as he launched into another tirade, an unexpected ally, Liam, one of my former investors, stepped between us.

His quiet authority cut through Ethan's arrogance.

And when he took my hand, then softly kissed me, leading me out of that suffocating lounge, I knew something had to change.

My next words to him were clear: "Take me to my grandfather' s estate. Arthur Sterling."

It was time to stop hiding.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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4.5

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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