All Chapters of MARRIED TO THE CEO WHO RUINED ME: HIS BRIDE, HIS REVENGE: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

“You can stop me here. I’ll find my way back home,” Marceline muttered, her voice barely above a whisper but soaked in ice. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on the city speeding by, hoping the motion would distract her from the weight in her chest.Cross didn’t flinch. He kept driving, one hand lazily on the wheel, the other tapping rhythmically against the gearshift. A smug smirk played on his lips. “You know that’s not going to work, wifey. We still have to eat lunch together. I can’t allow you to leave without having something in your stomach.”That word—wifey—scraped at her nerves like sandpaper. It sounded so wrong coming from him. It didn’t belong in his mouth.Marceline whipped her head toward him, glaring daggers. “Cross, your presence alone irritates the hell out of me. Just let me go here. I need air that doesn’t reek of your ego.”His smirk widened, the arrogance practically oozing from his skin. But before he could deliver

The wedding was over. Just like that. Marceline sat quietly in the backseat of the sleek black car, her white-gloved hands clutched tightly in her lap. The silence was suffocating. No groom beside her. No whispered reassurances or gentle brushes of fingers. Just her and the low hum of the engine, the only other soul being the driver who hadn’t uttered a word beyond “Yes, sir” to Cross’s cold command. Her new husband had disappeared right after the ceremony. No photos. No reception. No goodbyes. He hadn’t even spared her a backward glance before striding out of the church, his footsteps echoing like gunshots against the marble tiles. Instead, he’d simply ordered the driver to “Take her to the estate.” Just like that. Like she was a package. A burden. A task completed. The city blurred past the tinted glass, and Marceline's reflection looked like that of a stranger — pale, blank, haunted. Her wedding gown shimmered under the golden light of the evening sun, mocking her like a cruel

Cross’s gaze locked onto Marceline, a slow, calculating smile curling the edges of his lips — the kind of smile that didn’t promise warmth but hinted at a chess master savoring his next move. The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken battles, bruised egos, and words better left unsaid but impossible to ignore.But Marceline wasn’t done yet. She drew a steady breath, voice low but sharp, cutting through the silence like a scalpel. “One more thing,” she said, eyes narrowing just a fraction, “you should work better on your own act.”Cross’s smile faltered for a heartbeat before regaining its measured control. “I know,” he said smoothly, “it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have left you at the altar. But I had an emergency at the company.”Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t buying the rehearsed excuse. Not now. “No need to explain,” she replied coldly, voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her. “I don’t need it, neither do I care. Now, please—leave m

Marceline trailed behind Cross, her steps hesitant yet steady, like a prisoner walking into an unknown fate. The heels of her shoes clicked softly against the polished marble floor, echoing through the grand corridor of Cross Dejeva's mansion. The silence between them was thick with unspoken tension, every step winding tighter the invisible thread of control he held over her.He pushed the door open subtly, the heavy oak creaking softly as it revealed the master bedroom. It was breathtaking—modern elegance met old-world luxury. A blend of cream and gold draped the room in a warm, regal light, with chandeliers hanging above and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city’s night skyline. But Marceline didn’t notice any of it.Her gaze was fixed ahead, cold and narrow, her heart beating in her ears. The fury she had tried to suppress ever since their last venom-laced conversation was simmering just beneath the surface. Her fingers twitched by her side, itching to claw at something—anythin

Marceline let out a reluctant sigh, the kind that carried invisible weights and unspoken resistance. Her fingers twisted slightly in her lap, betraying the discomfort she was trying so hard to suppress. Of course, they were only doing their jobs—nothing personal, no malice. Still, it didn’t make it easier to swallow the bitter lump in her throat.They’re just following orders, she reminded herself. Don’t blame them. Blame the man who built this life and locked you inside it.She rose from the edge of the bed, her movements sluggish, as if her body resisted every step forward. Her bare feet touched the cold marble floor, grounding her in a reality she didn’t ask for.“So… what’s the first thing?” she asked softly, her voice barely rising above the quiet hum of tension that clung to the room like perfume.“Ma’am,” one of the stylists said gently, her expression practiced and polite, “if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like you to freshen up again before we begin the preparations.”Marceline nod