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?
The Court Of Ashfords
The guards' hands felt like iron shackles on my arms, jerking me forward every time I dared to resist. When we reached the grand doors of the Ashford mansion, they pushed them open without a pause, revealing a gathering of the Ashford family—elders, advisors, and, at the center, Lady Beatrice. They stood in a semicircle, like judges in a courtroom, their cold gazes slicing into me as though I was something beneath their notice, a nuisance.
They stood in a semicircle like judges in a courtroom, their gazes as cold as glass, fixed on me as though I were something beneath notice. Yet I couldn't stop myself from staring back, my eyes tracing each of their unblemished faces. Skin as smooth and polished as porcelain, expressions carved in stone; not a single line, scar, or imperfection marked any of them. The Ashfords looked like gods among mortals, untouched by life's rough edges, a mocking contrast to the scar that ran down my own face.