My Life in a Contract Marriage: Rescued by a Hot Billionaire
Beauty was the Ashford family law, and Freya Sinclair was beauty come to life—until an accident stole that title from her. Sold to the Ashfords for a bag of chips, Freya was forced into a marriage with their heir, Alexander Ashford, on her 18th birthday. Unloved and unwanted because of a scar, she endured years of rejection. Determined to reclaim her life, Freya takes a stand, only to be cast out by the family that never wanted her. Homeless and disowned, she crosses paths with Sylus Thorn, a world-renowned fashion designer and enigmatic billionaire. Just when Freya believes she can start over, Alexander comes back to claim the wife he once discarded. “Do you have anything to say regarding your stepsisters’ affair with your husband?” Just when I thought I had no choice but to respond, a strong hand gripped my arm, pulling me out of the crowd. Startled, I looked up to see a tall, muscular man guiding me away with ease, his presence shielding me from the cameras and the reporters’ relentless questions. We reached a black car parked at the edge of the lot, and relief flooded through me. “Mr. Thorn,” I whispered, recognizing his familiar face. “Get in,” Sylus commanded, his voice calm but firm. Without hesitation, I climbed into the car, my heart racing from more than just the escape. Will Freya save her marriage to Alexander, or will she be swept off her feet by the mysterious Sylus Thorn? Join the MLCM Readers https://discord.gg/gEq2mCr574
Freya, Come Back
Valerie's voice was soft but insistent, filling the room as she spoke about Nathan. She sat cross-legged on the couch across from me, fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric as if she could will her unease away with each absent touch.
"It's just… lately, he's different," she murmured, her tone both hesitant and urgent. "I don't know how else to explain it, Freya. He's quieter, more distant. And… he hardly seems to look at me the way he used to."
I leaned back, my gaze fixed on her, but my mind felt restless. I struggled to hold on to her words, but they kept slipping away, like sand through my fingers. There was a part of me—deep, buried—that wanted to listen, to help her, but something raw and feral lurked just beneath the surface. It was almost intoxicating, this urge to press her buttons, to pull her into my twisted haze of pain and confusion. I wanted to taunt her, to push her, to see how she would react.