Jessica C. Dolan

Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé.
Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now—billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn’t mind. I’d crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one?
Wrong.
One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That’s when it hit me—he didn’t love me. He didn’t even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn’t even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup.
So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster—my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise.
Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
Enter him.
Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I’d met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes.
It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised.
But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life.
And, as it turned out, the best decision I’d ever made.
Because my one-night stand isn’t just some random guy. He’s richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with.
And now, he’s not letting me go.

I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

The hallway outside was still pitch black, so I used my phone’s torch to sweep the walls like I was on a ghost-hunting show.


Eventually found the storage room, which was basically a hoarder’s fever dream. Tools, nails, screws, boxes—an entire DIY graveyard dumped in a single corner.


The pliers were buried somewhere in the back like they owed someone money.


I stretched up, teetering on my toes, reaching for them like I was auditioning for Swan Lake: Apocalypse Edition.


Just as I grabbed them, my foot rolled over something suspiciously round and untrustworthy. I yelped, lost my balance, and flailed like a human car dealership balloon mid-windstorm.


There were nails all over the floor. Actual nails. Pointy and plentiful. The sort of thing that would absolutely ruin my chances at open-toed heels ever again.


Instead, a pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist and hauled me upright like I weighed less than a bag of crisps.


Chapter 13 Runaway Libido