I Married the Devil to Kill My Own Family

Rain mixed with blood splashed into the muddy alleyways of Brooklyn.

Vivienne clutched her bleeding right arm, staggering forward with every step.

Her couture gown was shredded, snagged by barbed wire. Yesterday, she had been Manhattan’s top socialite. Today, she was prey.

“Run, you worthless bitch! Out of strength yet?”

Ten meters behind, three hulking men brandished baseball bats.

The leader, a scar-faced brute, spat on the ground, eyes glinting with malice. “Your gambling uncle owes twenty million! Come back to the business, or you’ll pay the price!”

Vivienne’s chest heaved, nails digging into her palms, blood mixing with rainwater, sending jolts of pain up her arms. She swallowed the metallic taste and lifted her head.

“Did you make my father jump?”

“Who cares if he’s ashes! Grab her!”

Two men lunged.

“Try to force me into that? Dream on!”

Vivienne grabbed a nearby trash can lid and hurled it at the front man’s face.

A scream tore through the rain-soaked night. She pivoted and sprinted toward the alley’s end.

“Get to the main street!” she urged herself.

“Break her legs!” the men roared behind her.

Out of the shadows, a blinding light cut across the alley.

“Screeech—” the brakes shrieked.

Vivienne’s knee slammed into the asphalt, her palms scraped raw, blood mixing with rainwater, shooting jolts of pain up her arms.

She looked up. A jet-black Rolls-Royce Phantom stopped mere inches from her. The silver Spirit of Ecstasy gleamed in the rain.

The three thugs reached the car and surrounded it—and her.

“Hey! Dumbass in the car! Stay out of this if you value your life!” the scar-faced man barked.

Silence answered. Two seconds later, the rear window rolled down slowly.

Inside, a man closed a merger file without looking at the thugs. His eyes fixed on Vivienne.

Black suit. Gold-rimmed glasses. Wall Street’s untouchable power broker—Alexander.

Drenched and battered, Vivienne’s eyes didn’t plead. They burned with raw survival instinct.

Who is this man? His presence pressed down like steel, cold and unyielding, forcing her to the ground of her own fear.

The front-seat assistant glanced back. “Sir, shall we clear them out?”

Seeing no movement inside, the scar-faced man’s anger flared. He reached for Vivienne’s hair. “Come with me!”

Vivienne recoiled, gripping the car door edge.

She looked up into the man’s cold gaze behind tinted glasses. “Save me.”

Alexander tapped the leather armrest, leaning slightly.

“Give me a reason,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse.

“Move, or you’ll die, you bastard!” the thug yelled, swinging the bat at the door.

Before it landed, the front door flung open. Two black-suited bodyguards, nearly seven feet tall, moved like lightning.

No words.

“Crack! Snap!”

The sound of bones snapping echoed sharply through the rain-soaked night. Within ten seconds, the three thugs lay in pools of blood, clutching shattered limbs.

The bodyguards wiped their hands and retreated to the car.

Vivienne stared in disbelief. Wall Street’s kingpin was faster—and deadlier—than any street gang.

Alexander stepped out, custom leather shoes splashing into puddles.

He towered over her, then yanked off his warm suit jacket and threw it over her shoulders.

“Get in. Or stay… and feed the dogs.”

Vivienne gripped the oversized jacket, inhaling his commanding scent. She glanced at the fallen thugs and slid into the rear seat without hesitation.

The door shut. Alexander’s eyes flicked to a trailing black sedan in the rearview mirror. A faint smile curved his lips, his gaze sharp, predatory.

“Prey in the net,” he murmured.

Manhattan Penthouse.

Vivienne stood barefoot on the wool carpet, wearing a large white shirt delivered by a maid. Her hands held a steaming cup of milk, but the chill wouldn’t leave her body.

On the sofa, Alexander removed his glasses, loosening two shirt buttons. Wall Street’s tyrant held a glass of whiskey, scanning her legs with unapologetic intensity.

“Ding—”

The private elevator opened.

Vivienne’s uncle stormed in with two family lawyers.

“Shameless brat!” he shouted, pointing at her. “Your father left a mess, and now you hide in a man’s apartment? Sign the renouncement immediately!”

Vivienne’s knuckles whitened around the cup.

“I know how my father died! Those debts—”

“Silence!” her uncle snapped, pivoting to Alexander, instantly donning a smile.

“Mr. Alexander, this is our family matter. She’s worth less than a beggar. We’ll take her away, no mess on your carpet.”

The lawyers reached for her. Vivienne’s back pressed against the glass wall. No escape.

“Did I tell you to touch her?”

Alexander didn’t rise. He lightly shook his whiskey. Ice hit the glass, clinking sharply.

The lawyers froze.

Her uncle stammered, “Sir, she’s bankrupt. Keeping her… is useless.”

“Bang!”

The glass smashed on the coffee table.

The front assistant stepped forward, handing over a tablet. The screen flickered to life, showing surveillance footage.

He then tossed two files onto her uncle’s face.

He froze, face paling. One file proved fake accounts and asset transfers. The other, a joint notice from major Wall Street banks cutting him off.

“What… does this mean?” he stuttered, knees weak.

Alexander rose, long legs swallowing the space, shadowing Vivienne completely.

From his suit pocket, he produced a black card and a document, offering them to her.

“Sign.”

Vivienne looked down.

The heading: Marriage Registration Agreement.

On top lay a Centurion Black card, globally limited.

“Be my wife,” Alexander said, thumb brushing her pale lips. “Your debts, I pay. Your enemies, I crush. Wall Street is yours to command.”

Her uncle screamed behind her. “Impossible! She’s bankrupt! She has nothing!”

Alexander didn’t turn. A snap of his fingers, and four bodyguards seized her uncle and the lawyers, tossing them like dead weight.

“Into the Hudson,” he said calmly. “Tell every law firm in New York: take a case for him, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

The elevator doors closed. Silence finally returned.

Vivienne stared at the marriage agreement. This man was ten thousand times more dangerous than her uncle. Wall Street had no charity.

“Why me?” she asked, meeting his eyes.

“Because you’re ruthless enough,” Alexander whispered, leaning close. “I like swans high above the rest, caged, under my care.”

He handed her a pen.

“Sign. Or leave and be devoured by the loan sharks outside.”

No escape.

Vivienne gripped the pen and pressed her signature hard at the bottom.

The moment the pen left the page, Alexander cupped the back of her head and kissed her. Whiskey-scented, sharp, claiming her breath.

Only when a red mark appeared at her temple did he release her.

The black card pressed to her chest in her shirt pocket.

“Tomorrow, Fifth Avenue,” he said. “Let’s see if the Pierce heiress still knows how to spend.”

The assistant brought the tablet again. Chloe, her former best friend, handed private photos of Vivienne to a gossip reporter.

Quick betrayal.

Alexander’s cold laugh echoed.

“Tomorrow’s shopping will be… far more interesting.”