All Chapters of Married to My Cold Hearted Boss: Chapter 1 - Chapter 6

If grief was a storm, then the days that followed my father’s death were the flood.The first wave hit on a cloudy Thursday morning, just a few days after we buried him.I hadn’t resumed work yet—I had taken a week off to settle the family issues.I was wiping the photo frames behind the counter at Morgan’s Table—my father’s pride, his life’s work—when two unfamiliar men in black suits walked in like they owned the place.They didn’t order food. They didn’t ask for a table.One of them headed straight for the front door, pulled out a hammer, and nailed a seizure notice to the glass.“By court order,” he said flatly. “This property now belongs to the creditor.”“What?” My voice cracked. “No—this must be a mistake—”“Talk to your lawyer,” he said, already walking away.The sign on the door read:SEIZED. Property forfeited due to unpaid debt. Further trespassing is prohibited.My stomach turned. I ripped the notice off the door with shaking hands.Anna was behind me in seconds, her heels

The moment I stepped into the house, I threw my bag across the couch and kicked off my shoes like they were burning my feet. Talking to myself like a mad woman,“Damon Cross, may thunder kiss your edges. May you mistakenly buy a face hair wash that makes you lose all your front hair,” I muttered, stomping straight to my room. “You cold-hearted, Armani-wearing devil. May your coffee always be lukewarm. May your shoelaces untie in every board meeting. May your espresso machine explode every Monday morning. And may the woman you marry serve you burnt toast for the rest of your miserable life! Who will even marry you? May you remain single all your life!”I was still fuming, but I felt relieved as I sent him my bundles of curses.Getting fired was one thing. Getting fired without even being given a chance to defend myself—and labeled incompetent, with my name echoing across the Sky Lounge like I was a public disgrace? That was next-level humiliation.I stripped out of my clothes and walke

That morning, I had dressed for doom. A tight red dress I hated, lipstick too bold for my comfort, and heels that pinched like hell. My stepmother insisted I needed to look “irresistible” for this blind date. Her exact words? “Old men love red. Especially the rich, single ones with dead wives.”Yes. Dead wives. Plural.I was about to meet a 65-year-old widower whose three previous wives had all died under mysterious circumstances. What in the Netflix documentary was I walking into?But I had no choice.We were neck-deep in debt, and I had been jobless since Damon Cross decided I wasn’t worthy of standing in his precious Sky Lounge. According to my stepmother, if I played my cards right tonight, I could become Wife Number Four—and possibly the last, if history repeated itself.Finally, I set out for the restaurant.The restaurant smelled like fresh basil and heartbreak.I sat at a corner table, dressed in the most uncomfortable red dress I owned—tight in the wrong places, itchy at the