Mr. Devil, You'd Better Let Me Go

My billionaire husband, Cooper, was thirty minutes late to my father's funeral. When the heavy cathedral doors finally opened, he wasn't there to comfort me. He was tightly shielding his mistress, Celeste, under his umbrella, treating her like a fragile lily while I stood alone in my black mourning dress. The whispers in the pews were deafening, but they were nothing compared to the truth I soon uncovered. Cooper hadn't just humiliated me—he had secretly taken my father's life-saving spot in a medical clinical trial and given it to Celeste's family. My father died gasping for air because of him. Days later, while I was shivering in the ER with a 103-degree fever, I saw Cooper sneaking into the VIP maternity ward. He was holding Celeste, his face glowing with the ecstatic joy of a man about to become a father. For three years, I swallowed my pride to be his perfect, obedient wife, only to let his elite friends openly mock me to my face. "You were just keeping the seat warm until the real queen came back." He let my father die, hid all our marital assets in offshore trusts, and made me take birth control every single morning, claiming he wasn't ready for kids. I didn't scream, and I didn't let him see me break. Instead, I hired Manhattan's most ruthless divorce lawyer, smiled sweetly as I handed Cooper his coat at home, and began secretly gathering the evidence to burn his entire empire to the ground.

My abusive step-family isolated me completely, holding my mother's medical funds hostage to control my every move. Yesterday, they finalized my sale. "You will marry Rudy Petrov next month. He is fifty, wealthy, and willing to overlook your lack of pedigree." Pushed to the absolute edge, I did the insane. I posted an ad online offering my life savings of $50,000 for a contract husband. A stranger named Brennan agreed. But my family wouldn't let me go. They forced me back for a dinner by threatening my mother's life-saving prescriptions. At the table, they relentlessly mocked my new "poor IT guy" husband and intentionally burned my hand with boiling tea. Worse, the housekeeper locked me in a guest room and forced drugs down my throat so Rudy could come in and assault me. I lay there paralyzed on the floor, bleeding from Rudy's slap, utterly terrified. I couldn't understand why my own family would throw me to the wolves, and I felt a crushing guilt for dragging an innocent, ordinary guy into my nightmare. Until a pitch-black Maybach smashed through the estate's wrought-iron gates at eighty miles an hour. My "poor" husband kicked the solid oak doors off their hinges, beat Rudy half to death, and carried me out into the rain. I didn't know it yet, but the ordinary man I hired to save me was a ruthless billionaire, and he was about to erase my family's entire empire by morning.

Bryn hovered as a translucent soul over her own fresh grave, just three days after she was buried. She had been shoved off a cliff by Keifer, the boyfriend she provided for, while her adopted sister Fabiola watched and laughed. Now, they stood at her grave crying fake tears, ready to steal her massive inheritance. Suddenly, Dominic Hutchinson, the arrogant school tyrant who made her life a living hell, arrived. He didn't come to mock her. He dug up her grave with his bare, bleeding hands, hugging her freezing urn as he sobbed in pure despair. He ruthlessly exposed Keifer and Fabiola's murder plot, sending them to federal prison. Three months later, Dominic stood before her rebuilt headstone in a pristine white tuxedo. "It's finally over. I can finally come pick you up." He pulled out a silver scalpel and slit his own wrist, leaving a bloody kiss above her carved name as he died. Bryn fell to her knees, screaming and sobbing uncontrollably. The boy she thought hated her had loved her with his entire life, while the parasites she trusted had killed her. Why had she been so utterly blind? A blinding light swallowed her soul, and Bryn suddenly snapped her eyes open. She was standing by her high school lockers, completely alive. She had returned to exactly three years before her death.

I was kneeling on the warped linoleum of my trailer, packing my life into a trash bag, when the predatory purr of a luxury SUV echoed through the thin walls. I thought it was a raid, but it was something much worse. Julian Sterling, a federal prosecutor in a charcoal suit, stepped into the mud and bought me from my alcoholic stepfather. He didn't use cash; he used a list of felonies and a legal settlement to trade my freedom for my stepfather's silence. "Throw it away," Julian ordered, pointing at the bag containing everything I owned. I watched my sister's stuffed bear fall into an oil puddle as he forced me into a world of cold leather and silence. By the time we reached Boston, Faith Vance was dead. He forced me to sign papers changing my name to Elara, erasing my past to fit a narrative of Swiss boarding schools and high-society breeding. The horror didn't stop there. The family patriarch, Arthur Sterling, looked at us with hawk-like eyes and issued a command that turned my blood to ice. To avoid scandal, Julian and I were to be introduced as "Brother" and "Sister." Julian's jaw tightened until a vein throbbed in his temple, and when he finally called me "Sister," the word sounded like a curse. I was a prisoner in a mansion with bars on the windows, caught between a "brother" who loathed my existence and a cousin who tried to assault me in my own room. They dressed me in silk armor and expected me to be a doll, a manageable piece of a legacy I never asked for. I sat at a dinner table worth more than my hometown, swallowing oysters that tasted like salt and iodine, while Julian created a physical barrier between me and the wolves. Under the tablecloth, I reached out and squeezed his clenched fist. His fingers uncurled and captured mine in a grip so crushing it felt like a pact signed in the dark. I have a jagged shard of glass in my pocket and five thousand dollars a month to hoard. Julian says the law is a weapon that breaks weak people, but he's about to find out that I'm not a lamb. I'm a survivor, and I'm ready for the casualties.

On my 24th birthday, my boyfriend of five years, Jackson, threw me a surprise party. The surprise was his wedding to another woman, Campbell. He claimed she was dying of cancer. In front of everyone, he denied our entire relationship, calling me his "little sister." When I confronted him, his violent shove caused me to lose our unborn child. I lost my love, my baby, and my job, all for a lie. Because Campbell wasn't dying. Her cancer was fake. But as they tried to destroy me, a powerful man named Cole Smith stepped in. At a charity gala, with his help, I played the security footage for the entire room to see-the footage of him pushing me, of me bleeding on the office floor. I held up the proof of her fake illness. "There's your truth, Jackson," I said, as his world came crashing down.

To escape the tragic legacy of my famous mother, I hid my identity, becoming a plain, forgettable film student. I fell hard for Hayes McCall, the campus playboy, believing our love was real. But he was just using me. I was a human shield, a decoy to protect the real object of his affection: the fragile campus "it-girl," Karmen. He let me get bullied and kidnapped. He stole my thesis film-a tribute to my mother's memory-and gave it to Karmen to claim as her own. When I tried to fight back, he destroyed my work, my past, everything. At graduation, my ex-roommate projected a video to the entire auditorium, branding me a high-class escort who slept with powerful men. "She's a disgrace!" she screamed, as the crowd turned on me. I calmly walked to the podium, my voice cutting through the noise. "You're accusing a Zamora of being a gold-digger?" I let the name hang in the air before delivering the final blow. "I don't climb the ladder. I am the ladder."