Reese

After six years of loving Julian Grayson and literally keeping him alive with her rare blood donations, Hazel Ashworth is just three days away from becoming his wife when he calls to cancel their wedding. 
The reason? Her half-sister Ivy has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and her dying wish is to marry Julian instead. Hazel watches in horror as Julian takes her handcrafted wedding dress to Ivy, who plans to wear it while stealing not just Hazel's fiancé, but her entire wedding—same venue, same date, even the same cake flavor. 
It's a devastating replay of their childhood, where Ivy's mother Eleanor destroyed Hazel's family by seducing her father and driving her mother to suicide, then spent years pushing Hazel out while Ivy took everything that was once hers. 
But this time, Hazel refuses to break like her mother did. She demands Julian's entire company and two million dollars as compensation, then shows up at the hospital to deliver Ivy's "wedding gift" in the most explosive way possible.
As Ivy plays the perfect dying victim and Julian remains blind to her manipulation, Hazel begins to suspect that her half-sister's illness might not be as terminal as everyone believes. When Ivy has the audacity to ask Hazel to witness her wedding to Julian, the gloves come off completely. 
Now Hazel must decide how far she's willing to go to expose the truth and reclaim what's rightfully hers, even if it means destroying the man she once loved in the process.

The Billionaire Backs Me Up

Chapter 60 - Guardian's Worry, An Accuser's Fury


My phone buzzed with an incoming call as I continued dabbing at the small cut on my arm. Seeing Damien's name, I took a deep breath to steady myself before answering.


"Hi again," I said, trying to sound casual despite the chaos of the last hour.


"You didn't answer my question, Hazel." His voice was calm but firm. "Are you injured?"


I glanced down at my arm, where a thin red line showed where the tailoring shears had grazed my skin. It was barely a scratch, but I couldn't lie to him.


"It's just a small cut on my forearm," I admitted. "Honestly, it's nothing serious—"


"Send me a picture." The command in his voice surprised me.


"What? Damien, it's really just a tiny scratch—"


"Please, Hazel." His tone softened, and something in it made my resolve crumble. "I need to see it."


Sighing, I switched to video call and angled my phone to show my arm. The cut was about two inches long but shallow—it had already stopped bleeding.
