LOGINHe was arrogant, wealthy, and cold-hearted the last person I ever thought I’d end up married to. But when desperation knocked on my door, and I needed a sponsor to stay in school, he was the only one who answered. The contract was simple: no feelings, no drama, no strings attached. But in a house filled with secrets, stolen glances, and unexpected touches, lines began to blur. I swore I wouldn’t fall for him. He swore he didn’t have a heart. Now we’re married for the world to see… But what happens when the fake starts to feel real? I thought I signed a contract. I didn’t know I was signing my heart away.
View MoreThe bell above the bookshop door chimed softly as Ava stepped inside. The scent of old pages and steeped tea wrapped around her like an old friend. The shelves hadn’t changed much in the years since she last came. Still crooked in places. Still filled with poetry and rebellion.It had been five years since the garden.Five years since she stepped through the glass doors of the Sinclair Wolfe Foundation and whispered to herself, This time, it’s mine.And it had been five years of real, messy, beautiful work.She still had the notebook Grayson had given her on their wedding day. It was half filled now ink bleeding from long nights, hard truths, and the stories of women who once believed they didn’t have a choice.But today wasn’t about any of that.Today was just… her.A rare, quiet moment where she wasn’t Ava Sinclair-Wolfe: CEO, advocate, or headline.She was just a woman craving a story that didn’t belong to he
The room wasn’t a ballroom. It wasn’t even a chapel. It was a garden tucked behind the Sinclair-Wolfe Foundation building quiet, filled with sun-drenched wildflowers, and bordered by trees that didn’t ask for applause. There were no rows of expensive chairs. No string quartet. No designer veil flown in from Paris. But there was laughter. There was sunlight. And there was Ava, standing beneath a wooden arch built by hand and draped in soft linen and eucalyptus. She wasn’t wearing white. She wore soft gold the kind of gold that doesn’t scream royalty but hums with memory. The fabric moved like wind around her legs, and her curls were pinned back with a single silver clip. Grayson stood across from her. He wore no tux. Just a dark blue suit and a look that said: finally. They hadn’t invited hundreds. Just thirty. All of them real. All of them chosen. Luisa sat in the front row, teary eye
The city had quieted into its own kind of hush one only found in the hours between dusk and midnight. And for the first time in days, Ava stood alone on the balcony of the Sinclair Wolfe tower, looking out at the skyline not as a cage, not even as a canvas but as a mirror. Below her, traffic pulsed and life moved forward. But up here, the world waited. And so did she. It had been a week since the tribunal. Since she stood under oath and let the truth cut clean through years of silence. Her words had echoed through the courtroom like dropped stones in deep water. Not angry. Not trembling. Just real. And finally, hers. No one had spoken to Grayson since the verdict. Not even her. Luisa had tried once. Knocked on the glass office door where he sat staring at old photographs and the crumbling scaffolding of a legacy built on omission. But he waved her away with a look Ava knew too well one that said: “I need to fall apart priva
The news broke just after dawn. At first, it was a whisper a shadow passed between watchdog forums and anonymous tip lines. But by sunrise, it had exploded. Someone had leaked a massive archive. Not Ava. Not her foundation. Not a journalist hungry for credit. This time, the leak came from the inside. An anonymous Dropbox link had been emailed to four different investigative bodies. Each recipient confirmed it was clean, untraceable, and precise. Inside the folder: over two hundred documents. NDAs, payoffs, legal silencing mechanisms, offshore wire transfers, and worst of all boardroom meeting minutes dating back decades. But the most damning was a scanned memo, signed and initialed by G. Wolfe Sr., Grayson’s late father. In it, he authorized a “clean up budget” to eliminate reputational threats from female employees. The words were cold. Calculated. A legacy dressed in blood and bureaucracy. By 9 a.m., the internet was ablaze.






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