Wine Empire's True Heir

Wine Empire's True Heir

Gavin

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My dying grandfather, CEO of our family' s prestigious wine empire, demanded I choose a husband from four eligible men to secure our legacy. My heart had always belonged to Liam, the golden boy I hoped would finally see me, but by a twist of fate, I chose someone else's wine in a blind tasting. Liam, enraged by my choice and convinced I' d marry him, publicly announced his engagement to his social media influencer girlfriend, Savannah, shaming me across every platform. His final cruel blow came with a public declaration: "She can have the leftover grapes." I was shattered, humiliated, and reduced to a punchline in a love story that wasn't even mine. But then, he abandoned me to die beneath a falling chandelier, choosing his mistress instead, and something inside me snapped. My future was decided in that moment, not by a wine, but by a cold, hard rage that would finally set me free.

Introduction

My dying grandfather, CEO of our family' s prestigious wine empire, demanded I choose a husband from four eligible men to secure our legacy.

My heart had always belonged to Liam, the golden boy I hoped would finally see me, but by a twist of fate, I chose someone else's wine in a blind tasting.

Liam, enraged by my choice and convinced I' d marry him, publicly announced his engagement to his social media influencer girlfriend, Savannah, shaming me across every platform.

His final cruel blow came with a public declaration: "She can have the leftover grapes."

I was shattered, humiliated, and reduced to a punchline in a love story that wasn't even mine.

But then, he abandoned me to die beneath a falling chandelier, choosing his mistress instead, and something inside me snapped.

My future was decided in that moment, not by a wine, but by a cold, hard rage that would finally set me free.

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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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