All Chapters of Rejected Bride, Billionaire's Wife: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The whispers didn’t end with the wedding. They followed me home, slithered through phone calls, text messages, news headlines. By nightfall, the entire city knew: Elena Hart had been abandoned at the altar.I stayed in my room, veil torn, makeup smeared, dress still clinging to me like a cruel reminder of what I’d lost. My phone buzzed endlessly, friends pretending to care, reporters wanting a quote, strangers thirsting for gossip. I turned it face down on the table and stared at the ceiling until the door burst open.“Do you realize what has happened?” My father's voice was sharp, every syllable dripping with disappointment. He didn’t even look at me, he looked through me, as if I were the disgrace painted across tomorrow’s headlines.Tears still stained my cheeks. “I didn’t do anything. He, he left me.”“And now our name is mud!” He slammed his hand against the wall. “The contracts I’ve spent years building are in jeopardy. Investors are already pulling out. Do you think pity will k

The lights of the Grand Marlowe Hotel glittered like diamonds scattered across velvet skies. My reflection in the mirrored elevator doors looked nothing like me—red satin clung to my frame, my hair swept up in curls that framed a face too calm for the storm brewing inside.Tonight was supposed to be a charity gala. At least, that’s what Father had told me. But my gut twisted as the car door opened and flashes of cameras blinded me. Paparazzi? For a simple gala? Something wasn’t right.Alexander King’s hand brushed against mine as we walked up the red carpet, and I nearly flinched. His touch was steady, grounding, as though he knew what I didn’t. His sharp jaw and expressionless eyes made him look untouchable. The world saw a man in control. I saw the stranger who was about to upend my life.Inside, chandeliers spilled golden light over the ballroom. The sound of champagne glasses clinking mixed with the hum of gossip. I tried to keep my breathing even, but the prickle on the back of m

I had sworn to myself that I would never walk down this aisle again.Not after the whispers, the pitying stares, the cruel laughter that followed me for weeks. Not after Damien Callahan had left me stranded in front of hundreds, the veil slipping from my head like a crown I was never meant to wear.And yet—here I was.The church smelled of roses and expensive perfume, but beneath it all, I could still sense the faint stench of betrayal. The soft hum of the organ bled into the air, each note like a reminder of the vow I almost made… but never did. My heart thumped hard against my ribs as the doors creaked open.Everyone rose.Every eye turned to me.I wanted to disappear.But I didn’t. I stepped forward.The heels clicked against the marble floor, steady but heavy, as if each step carried the weight of my shame. The gown was breathtaking—ivory silk, a lace bodice, a veil that trailed like mist—but I couldn’t shake the thought that I had worn something like this before. That I had stood

When I woke up in Alexander King’s penthouse the next morning, it wasn’t the soft light through the glass walls that stirred me. It was the silence. The kind of silence that pressed into my chest, reminding me that nothing about this place—this life—was mine.The sheets still carried his scent. Clean, expensive, overwhelming. I sat up, hugging my knees, realizing that I had barely closed my eyes all night. Every time I tried, the memory of walking down that aisle—the second time in my life—came back in flashes. My heels striking the marble, my mother’s fake tears, his unreadable face at the altar.I married Alexander King.Not for love. Not for choice. For survival.A soft knock on the door startled me. Before I could answer, the door pushed open, and his housekeeper—an elegant woman in her fifties—stepped inside.“Good morning, Mrs. King,” she said with a polite smile.I almost corrected her. The words didn’t sit right, not on me.“There’s breakfast in the dining room. Mr. King is wa

I should have known better than to accept his invitation.Correction—demand. Alexander King never asked politely. He didn’t extend offers; he issued commands, draped in velvet tones that made resistance feel like a sin.And so, here I was, seated in the passenger seat of his black Aston Martin, the city lights bleeding gold against the tinted windows, heading toward a dinner I never wanted.“I don’t see the need for this,” I muttered, arms folded tightly across my chest.His hands tightened around the steering wheel, the expensive leather groaning in protest. He didn’t glance my way, but his jaw flexed, the muscle ticking dangerously.“Don’t tempt me,” he said finally, his voice low and threaded with warning.Heat crawled up my neck, and I turned to stare out the window. The audacity of the man. He spoke as if he could actually drag me onto a plane tomorrow, fly me halfway across the world, and I’d have no choice but to follow.And the worst part? He probably could.“I’m not your toy,