Claire Winters

Three days. That’s how close I was to marrying Alistair, the man I’d loved for six years, the man whose life I’d literally saved with my own rare blood. I was just admiring the final pearl on my wedding dress, a gown I’d poured my soul into, when he called.

The wedding? Off. He was marrying my stepsister, Ivy. Her dying wish, he said. Six months to live, maybe less.

The kicker? He’d already taken my wedding dress from my studio for her.

Just like that, six years, countless transfusions, our shared dreams – all tossed aside for the girl who’d made my life a living hell since childhood. He even offered me “compensation,” as if my future had a price tag.

But if Alistair and Ivy thought I’d just crumble, they seriously underestimated me. They wanted my fiancé? Fine. But it would cost them. First, our multi-million-dollar fashion company, Evening Gala – built on my designs, my vision. He signed it over. Then, a cool million for the stolen dress. He paid. Another million for the wedding jewelry they dared to ask me to hand over for Ivy. Cha-ching.

You’d think they’d learn. But no. Their next proposal was the most insulting yet: Alistair actually suggested that I should just wait. That after Ivy’s ‘inevitable’ passing in a few months, he and I could just pick up where we left off, have an even better wedding. Seriously?

Enough was enough. If Ivy wanted to play bride with my life, she was going to get a taste of what happens when you push someone too far. Let's just say her hospital room celebration involved a lot more smoke, water, and screaming than she bargained for, all thanks to a little wedding gift from yours truly.

Now they know I’m not the same Hazel they could walk all over. I’ve got my company, a pile of their cash, and a whole lot of scores to settle. They think this is over? This game of revenge is just getting started. And believe me, I play to win.

The Billionaire's Dangerous Redemption

I jolted awake to frantic knocking on my hotel room door. My head throbbed, and the afternoon sun streaming through the half-closed curtains felt like daggers in my eyes.


"Hazel! Are you in there?" Cherry's voice was pitched high with worry.


I stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over an empty wine bottle on the floor. When had I finished that?


The knocking grew more insistent. "Hazel!"


"Coming!" I croaked, my tongue feeling like sandpaper.


I yanked open the door to find Cherry and Marco, one of our Italian pattern makers, standing there with identical expressions of relief.


"Thank god," Cherry breathed, pushing past me into the room. "What happened to your phone? Sebastian called me six times in the last hour!"


My foggy brain struggled to process her words. "Sebastian called you?"


Marco hovered in the doorway. "He called the showroom first. When no one could reach you, he started to worry something had happened."


A Worried Call Across the Ocean