/1/113991/coverbig.jpg?v=4992d43ad99bc3068b2c5b58bdf12c8e)
I spent ten years locked in an asylum, heavily sedated, until my wealthy family dragged me back to their Hamptons estate. I pretended to be a brain-damaged lunatic to survive. They didn't bring me back out of love. The Holden family was bleeding money, and they desperately needed me dead to inherit my massive trust fund shares. My step-cousin Cristian was the mastermind behind the purge. First, he tried to quietly murder our billionaire grandfather with a mutated toxic orchid. Then, he ordered a guard to drop a deadly Gaboon viper into my bedroom in the dead of night. My father was a spineless coward, my mother was drugged into a stupor by the family doctor, and my brother was a crippled addict. They all stood by as I was thrown into the freezing mud, treated like garbage. "She is a disgrace to this family! Get her back to the asylum immediately!" My uncle roared, completely unaware that my brain was forged in a decade of clandestine warfare. But the strangest part wasn't my hidden combat skills. It was that my blood relatives could suddenly hear my cold, tactical inner thoughts. Through my silent, telepathic broadcasts, I exposed Cristian's poison to my grandfather, woke my mother from her chemical haze, and turned my paralyzed brother into a ruthless, blood-soaked protector. Still playing the shivering, crazy girl, I smiled in the dark. The real war had just begun.
Contents
The Mad Heiress's Dangerous Mercenary Lover Chapter 1
The screw slipped.
Cilla Clark's hand shot out, her fingers pinching the cold metal threads before the screw could hit the ceramic tiles below. The sharp edge bit into her palm. Blood welled up, warm and sticky against her skin. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just held the screw in a death grip until her knuckles turned white.
Ten years in this place had taught her that a single sound could kill you.
She pulled her hand back into the narrow ventilation shaft and let the screw drop into her pocket. The final bolt was gone. She pushed the grate open, the metal scraping softly against the wall. Her legs trembled, the muscles spasming from the years of sedatives pumped into her system. It felt like trying to walk on wet noodles. She dragged herself forward, her elbows scraping against the dusty aluminum.
The air in here was thick. It smelled like formaldehyde and old dust. It tickled the back of her throat, making her chest tight. She bit down hard on her lower lip, forcing the cough down. She tasted copper. Good. Pain kept her focused.
She turned the corner and stopped. Red light crisscrossed the darkness ahead. Infrared. A web of invisible lasers waiting to slice her open or trigger an alarm. She reached into the pocket of her thin hospital gown and pulled out a handful of baby powder she had stolen from the nursery.
She blew it lightly. The powder hung in the air, illuminating the red beams. They were tight, spaced irregularly. She mapped the path in her head in a millisecond. She took a breath and moved.
She twisted her body, contorting her spine in a way that defied normal human anatomy. She slid through the gaps, slow and precise. Halfway through, her right shoulder gave out. The old injury tore, a hot, sickening pain ripping through the joint. Sweat broke out across her forehead, soaking the thin cotton. She clenched her jaw and kept moving.
She made it to the exit vent. Through the slats, she saw the storm. Rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the mud below. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark grounds of the psychiatric facility.
She kicked the louvers open. She didn't hesitate. She fell.
The two-story drop felt like flying. She hit the muddy grass and instinctively tucked her shoulder, rolling to absorb the impact. But her legs gave out. She crashed into a puddle, mud splashing up into her eyes and mouth. She gasped, struggling to push herself up on her shaking arms.
A pair of black tactical boots stepped into her line of sight. Mud caked the heavy soles.
She froze. Her eyes tracked up the boots, over the tailored black slacks, to the long black trench coat soaked by the rain. Lightning cracked again, highlighting the man's face. Hard angles. A sharp jaw. Cold eyes that looked like they had seen a hundred wars.
Her pupils contracted. The analytical engine in her brain roared to life.
Six-two. Low center of gravity. Left hand hanging close to his waist. He's armed. Ex-military. No, private contractor. Top-tier mercenary. High threat level.
The man's body went rigid. It was barely perceptible, a sudden tension in his shoulders, a slight widening of his stance. His eyes flickered with a split-second of pure shock before the cold mask slammed back down.
He looked down at her, his face unreadable. "Cilla Clark." His voice was a low rumble, like a cello playing in a dark room. "Your father sent me to get you."
Cilla switched gears. It was like flipping a switch in her brain. The sharp, calculating light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a hollow, terrified stare. Her body started to shake, violent tremors that rattled her teeth. She scrambled back in the mud, wrapping her arms around her head.
A broken whine tore from her throat. She sounded like a wounded animal.
The man frowned slightly. His gaze dropped to her wrists, tracking the dark bruises from the restraints, and then to her bloody fingertips.
What a poser, Cilla thought, her inner voice cold and mocking while her outer body cowered. With that face and those muscles, he's wasting his time playing bodyguard. He should be charging by the hour in Manhattan. Rich divorcées would eat him alive.
The man's jaw twitched. The muscle beneath his stubble jumped. A storm of complex emotions churned in his eyes before he looked away.
The voice in his head was unmistakable. He had heard something like it once before, years ago, in a place he didn't like to remember. He pushed the thought away.
He didn't say another word. He stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her up off the ground. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His grip was hard, bruising, but he deliberately avoided the deep cuts on her hands.
Cilla pounded her fists against his broad back. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound that pierced the noise of the storm.
Good, she thought, going limp against him. Saves me the walk to the highway.
He carried her to the edge of the tree line where a black, armored SUV waited in the shadows. He opened the back door and dumped her onto the leather seat. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud, cutting off the sound of the rain.
View More Comments on App
Other books by Jing Jing
More/1/110134/coverbig.jpg?v=29062b2e36c41e8f3927f54afae1aeff)
I Left The Jester For The King
Mafia"Little Siren: I miss your hands on me." That message lit up the screen of a burner phone I found in my fiancé's jacket pocket while he was in the shower. Franco Moretti, the rising star of the Vitiello crime family, treated me like a fragile glass doll. He claimed he was "saving himself" for our wedding night out of respect. But the phone told a different story. I unlocked it and found three years of betrayal. It wasn't just a fling. It was Camilla, a girl from high school I had befriended out of pity. I watched their history unfold. He complained that I was cold. He called me a statue. Then I saw the invoice. He had bought two identical pink diamond engagement rings. One for me, and one for her. Worse, he had stolen my grandmother' s heirloom jade bracelet-a piece of history meant for his bride-and given it to his mistress. "I need her name to get the chair," he texted her. "You are my true Queen." I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I realized I wasn't a person to him; I was a ladder. Leaving him would be too easy. Leaving is what victims do. I walked to my laptop and opened a new document. I wasn't just going to cancel the wedding. I was going to broadcast his ruin to the entire underworld, and our wedding would be my stage. Then, I picked up the phone and dialed the one number my father forbade me to call. "I accept," I told the deep voice on the other end. "You understand what you are agreeing to, Gianna?" Enzo Falcone asked. "I understand," I said, looking at the New York skyline. "You want an alliance. I want a weapon."
/1/104649/coverbig.jpg?v=cbe139eef86efbd4cb64fa210ab337eb)
The Jilted Mafia Heiress Takes It All
MafiaI stood at the altar of St. Patrick's Cathedral, the daughter of New York’s most feared Don, ready to lower myself to marry a common soldier. Then, a toddler in the front pew shrieked, "Daddy." Liam didn't squeeze my hand for reassurance. He dropped it like it was a branding iron. In front of five hundred of the criminal elite, he ran down the aisle, scooping up his secret child and the mistress who had been blackmailing him. He left me standing there, humiliated and alone. Three months later, the "Jilted Princess" title still clung to me. Yet, Liam had the audacity to bring her to my father's birthday gala. Sarah, wearing a dress far too tight and a smug smile, cornered me in the middle of the ballroom. She wanted to twist the knife. "He hates you, you know," she screamed, loud enough for the Dons and Capos to hear. "He says sleeping with you was like sleeping with a statue. He chose real love! He chose a family!" The room went deathly silent. Liam looked at me with pity, thinking he had won. He thought I was broken. He thought I was alone. I took a slow sip of my champagne and set the glass down. "I am not alone, Sarah," I said calmly. I turned toward the shadows near the entrance. "Ethan?" I called out. The crowd parted instantly for the scarred, lethal man who stepped forward—The Ghost of Chicago, the most feared Underboss in Europe. He walked over and wrapped a heavy, possessive arm around my waist. "I’d like you to meet my husband," I told a horrified Liam. "And our daughter is waiting upstairs."
/1/103326/coverbig.jpg?v=54bedbb2f670fbb3db4962167d95c921)
Fired My Fiance, Claimed My Empire
ModernI went undercover as a trainee in my own hotel, a secret pact with my fiancé, Greyson, the hotel's General Manager. We were supposed to be building an empire together. But our future ended the moment he chose another woman over me. He let a manipulative socialite named Imogen terrorize our staff. She deliberately scalded my hand with hot coffee, and when I stood up to her, Greyson publicly humiliated me. On a speakerphone call with the city's mayor, he demanded I apologize. "Apologize to Ms. Short," his voice boomed for the entire staff to hear. "This kind of disrespect is unacceptable." My fiancé, the man I loved, had just ordered me to kneel before the woman who assaulted me. So I dropped my disguise. I revealed my true identity as the heiress to the Kerr hotel empire and said, "Greyson Holden, you're fired. Get out of my hotel."
/0/86570/coverbig.jpg?v=b7ae58f1c773e916177d3926a4193b7e)
I'm Not Blind Anymore!
RomanceThe screech of tires, then a blinding impact. I shoved my fiancée, Chloe, out of the way, taking the full force of the crash. I woke in darkness, my world reduced to a black void. "I can't see," I whispered, panic rising. Chloe promised she' d be my eyes, my guide, my unwavering support, swearing we'd still marry. I clung to her words, my only light in that crushing darkness. Weeks later, a flicker. A tiny spark in the blackness. My sight was returning, painstakingly slow, but I kept it a secret. I became an observer in my own home, a blind man who could see everything. And what I saw shattered my world. One evening, Chloe' s brother-in-law, Ryan, came for dinner. I watched, pretending to be oblivious, as he snaked his arm around Chloe' s waist, pulling her close. Then he kissed her. A deep, hungry kiss. She kissed him back. My fiancée. Later, from the couch, pretending to be asleep, I heard their whispers from the balcony. "The accident was a stroke of genius, Ry. It worked better than we could have hoped." My blood ran cold. "He's so dependent now," Chloe sneered. "A blind fool. He signed over power of attorney to me last week." Ryan' s voice, greedy, "And the inheritance from his parents?" "Massive," she breathed. "Once we're married, it's all ours." The car crash wasn't an accident. They tried to kill me, or at least incapacitate me, for my money. My love for her died. The betrayal was a physical blow, leaving only cold, hard fury. They thought they had broken me. They thought I was a helpless victim. They were wrong. I would continue to be the blind man, observe their treachery, and on our wedding day, I would bring it all crashing down. This wasn't just about justice. This was about revenge.
/0/84390/coverbig.jpg?v=592984f47cc63a5bf6395be0203ed9f9)
From Shadow Dad to Empire Heir
BillionairesFor five years, I lived a shadow life, the anonymous architect behind my wife, Sabrina Anderson's, skyrocketing tech empire, and a devoted stay-at-home dad to our son, Caleb. Tonight, her company' s IPO launch party, was supposed to be our public unveiling, the moment she' d finally acknowledge us, our little "forever home." But bathed in the spotlight, she introduced her ex-boyfriend and his son as her new "family." My heart nearly burst as Caleb, our five-year-old, ran to her, holding the miniature house he' d built, only for her to shove him away, her voice cutting like ice: "Who let this strange child in here?" Caleb collapsed, his small hand clutching his chest-his heart condition flaring. As Wesley' s spoiled son viciously kicked him, Sabrina slapped me, hissing, "You brought this misbehaving child to ruin my night? Get out!" With her cruel words echoing, Caleb' s last whisper, "I'm a nobody," tore through me, just before his little body went limp. He was gone. How could the woman I loved, the mother of my child, discard us so brutally? How could she celebrate her triumph while our son lay dying? The world had seen her as a hero, but I knew her as a monster. Consumed by a grief that curdled into ice-cold fury, I made a call I swore I' d never make-to the powerful father I' d abandoned a decade ago. Now, Ethan Anderson was dead. Ethan Wright, heir to a formidable empire, was coming back, and Sabrina Anderson was about to learn the true cost of her betrayal.
/0/83916/coverbig.jpg?v=a4f32fb673272747961f041cee5c56a3)
Reborn in Fire: A Second Chance at Vengeance
ModernMy alarm shrieked, a familiar sound that usually meant chaos and camaraderie with my fiancé, Anthony, at Station 51. But this time, it was a second chance. In my previous life, a new probie, Sabrina Chavez, claimed to have chilling premonitions. I scoffed at her "bad feelings" during a warehouse fire, only to witness a section of the roof collapse exactly where she'd warned. My captain, usually level-headed, and even Anthony, my partner in everything, started believing her. Then came the day I was benched, branded a jinx by Sabrina' s latest "prophecy." During a hazmat spill, my team-my family-froze, watching, as chemicals ate through my skin. Anthony, the man I loved, stood there, paralyzed by Sabrina's terrified gaze, as I screamed for help. I died alone, betrayed, in a hospital room, not understanding how fear could turn my own crew into murderers. What secret did Sabrina hold that stripped away their courage, turning them into cold, superstitious strangers who let me burn? But now, I' m back. The alarm is screaming again, the call is the same, and Sabrina is about to make her first prediction. This time, I' m not just fighting fires; I' m fighting for my life, and I' m taking down everyone who betrayed me.
