Sweet Revenge: Taming The Amnesiac Billionaire CEO

Carlota was secretly carrying the child of Donavan Raymond, the most powerful man in New York. To escape his dangerous obsession and save her comatose brother, she entered a fake marriage with a disabled heir. But on her wedding day, her stepsister Harper discovered the secret ultrasound. Realizing the baby belonged to her fiancé Donavan, Harper brutally shoved Carlota into a marble table, murdering the seven-month-old unborn child. Harper and her mother bribed the doctor to lie to Donavan, claiming the dead baby was only five months old. Believing Carlota had cheated, Donavan mocked her broken, bleeding state and abandoned her in the hospital. Her stepmother then forced her to sign divorce papers by threatening to pull the plug on her brother's ventilator. They locked Carlota away, planning to sell her to human traffickers and finally murder her brother. Escaping into the freezing rain, Carlota followed them to a hidden graveyard and uncovered a terrifying, decades-old secret. Her stepmother and stepsister weren't just greedy gold-diggers. They were the family of a disgraced enemy, infiltrating her home for years to systematically poison her real mother and destroy her bloodline out of pure revenge. Kneeling in the mud, Carlota's fear vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating emptiness. She picked up her phone and faked a desperate, terrified sob. "Mom? Please, come get me. I'll do whatever you want." She hung up the phone, a chilling smile spreading across her face as she prepared to crawl back to Donavan and use his absolute power to slaughter them all.

I woke up to the screech of a megaphone and realized I had transmigrated into a YA novel called *Roses Under Thorns*. I wasn't the beloved heroine. I was Chloe Carrillo, a disposable scholarship student whose only purpose was to die in a tragic car crash to advance the plot. Desperate to survive, I tried to become invisible. But fate played a sick joke, making me the roommate of the female lead and drawing the suffocating, obsessive attention of her powerful brother, Dean Gibbs. While desperately avoiding Dean's controlling grasp, my nightmare worsened. An untraceable cyberstalker began hunting me. He called me "Little Lamb." He left a burner phone in my secret library hideout, sent photos of me taken from ceiling vents, and texted me the moment I stepped out of the dorm shower. "The water looks warm. Enjoy your shower." The police couldn't help, and asking Dean meant trading one terrifying cage for another. I didn't understand why this was happening. I was supposed to be a nobody, yet I was trapped in an invisible web, monitored every second of my life. Refusing to be a victim, I tracked down the university's legendary phantom hacker, Ashton Bridges. I handed him my devices, begging him to trace the stalker, thinking I had finally found a safe ally. I didn't know that as soon as the lab door closed behind me, he pulled up a live camera feed of my bedroom, his lips curving into a predatory smile. "Little Lamb, you walked right into my arms."

Jaclyn woke up in the sterile hospital room after falling down the stairs. The nurse delivered the devastating news: she had bled heavily and lost her baby. But before she could even cry, her trusted cousins, Katelyn and Cherri, locked the door and revealed the horrifying truth. "It wasn't an accident," Katelyn smirked, pinning Jaclyn's arm down. "The lubricant on the top step was a very deliberate choice." They needed her broken and unstable. They had forged her signature, draining her massive trust fund to save their uncle's bankrupt business. What shattered Jaclyn's world was the fresh hickey on Cherri's neck. Her lover, Bradford, had helped plan the entire murder. When Jaclyn tried to scream, they smothered her with a pillow, framing her as a lunatic having a mental breakdown. Two weeks later, when she confronted them, Bradford violently shoved her through a second-story glass window to silence her forever. As she fell to her death, the husband she had spent her life hating—the ruthless billionaire Gaines—burst through the doors. He threw himself forward, his face filled with pure terror, desperately trying to catch her. When her body hit the stone patio, Gaines fell to his knees in her blood, weeping and begging her not to close her eyes. Until her last breath, Jaclyn was consumed by suffocating regret. Why did she trust the monsters who killed her, and hate the only man who truly loved her? Opening her eyes again, she was back in the penthouse, exactly one month into her marriage with Gaines.

I was three million dollars in debt, forced by my agent to star in a reality show as the brainless gold-digger who married a decrepit billionaire. But right before the live broadcast, as I touched the tacky neon dress I was supposed to wear, a violent vision struck my brain. I realized my entire life was a script, and I was just a villainous side character designed to make America's Sweetheart look like a saint. My agent was secretly taking payouts from her PR firm to deliberately ruin my reputation with endless hate traffic. If I followed his orders today, I would be torn apart by the internet, lose every contract, and eventually die alone in a cheap motel. I couldn't accept that my every fake smile and stupid decision had been manipulated to destroy me just to elevate someone else. Why should I let them sell me out and turn my life into a complete joke? Looking at the ugly pink dress, I threw it straight into the trash. "You are fired, and my lawyers will be in touch about your offshore accounts." I poured a glass of freezing water over my head to wash away the heavy makeup and the helpless persona I had worn for years. I kicked out my backstabbing agent, put on a pair of plain black leggings, and walked out to face the live cameras. To hell with the script. Today, I was going to expose this fake PR marriage myself.

My husband, Jacob, swore to be my shield after my family's empire collapsed and I survived a fifteen-day kidnapping hell. I saw him as my savior, loving him with a desperation born from trauma. Then his intern, Ema, entered our lives. When I became pregnant, he used her lies to call me "tainted" from my past and demanded I abort our child, the shock causing me to miscarry. The final blow came during an explosion at our training grounds. He shoved me aside to shield Ema with his body. "She's carrying my child," he said, his voice like ice. "You're expendable." He left me to burn, promising a rescue team he never intended to send. But he didn't know about the secret escape route, or my brother's plan. I faked my death, letting him find my "body" in the morgue. He thought he had created a ghost. Now, he's about to find out you can't catch one when she's already free.

My husband sat at the head of the table, cutting into his medium-rare steak like a king. To the world, Brendan Wiggins was a legitimate businessman. To me, he was the Mafia Don whose empire I had built brick by digital brick. Then my burner phone vibrated against my thigh. It wasn't a threat from a rival gang. It was a photo of a positive pregnancy test sent by his mistress. I watched a video of him in her apartment—a place he visited while I thought he was working. I heard him tell her, "Ellery is functional. She handles the books. But you’re giving me the legacy. She’s just the furniture I keep to impress guests." He had taken the trauma of the car crash that left me infertile—the crash he caused—and used it to mock me with another woman. He thought I was his broken doll. He thought I was safe because I was dependent on him. He forgot that I was the Architect. I designed the encrypted channels that kept him out of prison. I controlled the offshore accounts. I didn't cry. I simply applied a coat of blood-red lipstick and tapped a dormant script on my smartwatch. While he poured me a glass of wine and called me his "sanctuary," I drained fifty million dollars from his shell companies. I wasn't just leaving. I had an appointment with a black-market neuroscientist to chemically erase my memories. By tomorrow, Brendan wouldn't just be bankrupt; to me, he wouldn't even exist.