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

The smooth, sterile examination room felt suffocating as I sat waiting for the MRI results. Sebastian paced near the window, his broad shoulders tense under his tailored jacket. Each time he turned, his eyes found mine, checking if I was still okay.


"You're making me more nervous with all that pacing," I said, trying to lighten the mood.


Sebastian stopped and crossed the room to stand beside me. "Sorry."


His hand found mine, warm and steady against my cold fingers. I should have pulled away—maintaining some professional distance—but I didn't. The comfort was too welcome.


"It's just an MRI," I reminded him, though my own stomach twisted with worry. "Probably nothing serious."


Before Sebastian could respond, Dr. Martinez returned, holding a tablet with my scan results. The slight furrow between her eyebrows told me everything before she spoke a word.


"Ms. Shaw, I'm afraid the results are worse than we anticipated," she said, her voice crisp but gentle.


An Anchor in a Storm of Fear