“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” ~ William Congreve Aretha Hawthorne has loved and dedicated her whole life to her husband out of pure love and loyalty and to her foster family out of gratitude for having taken her in at her lowest. However, on a day that’s supposed to be the happiest one of her life, she never could have predicted that the same people she loved so dearly would plot such evil against her. Publicly humiliated, heartbroken and also suffering from the loss of her unborn child, Aretha is filled with a deep hatred and an immense rage when she discovers that she’d been played and made a complete fool out of for years by her husband and her foster family. Aretha seeks revenge but knowing that she can’t go against both famous families on her own, especially not with her name still being sullied by the media, she is forced to flee the country to recoup. However, no one expects the disgraced Aretha to return a year later with a fortune that greatly supersedes those of her ex-husband’s family and foster family combined. And even more surprising, she appears to have garnered the attention of neither one nor two but three of the most eligible billionaire bachelors of the United Kingdom, who appear to have become completely smitten by her. Let the game of vengeance begin…
ดูเพิ่มเติม𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I sit behind the wheel, fingers drumming restlessly against the steering. For the tenth time, I check the time on the dashboard. She’s not late—not really. But my nerves are a different story.At her insistence, today’s outing is to be strictly casual. No romance, no pressure, no expectations. I tried to pick the most un-date-like date imaginable. So, football. The one place people shout themselves hoarse, spill overpriced beer on each other, and wear matching jerseys without anyone batting an eye.Still, even with all the effort to keep things simple, I’m nervous. Because it’s her.Then, I see her car pull into the lot.She steps out, and everything slows. She’s wearing the team jersey I’d sent her—red and white, the same as mine—paired with light blue jeans and white sneakers. Casual. Effortless. Gorgeous.She tosses me a small smirk as she approaches. “Don’t look so surprised, doctor. I do own casual clothes.”“You’re sure you’re not secretly trying to outshine the pla
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚His office is still the calm, neat space I remember, though now I notice how strikingly organized it is. The books on the shelf are arranged alphabetically, a soft lavender-scented diffuser hums in the corner, and a small bonsai tree sits by the window like a gentle sentinel. There’s not a single paper out of place, every pen lined up with precision. It’s the kind of space that mirrors Marcus himself—composed, measured, and quietly meticulous.He closes the door behind me and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. I sink into it wordlessly as he moves around, taking his usual seat behind the desk and resting both hands on the surface like he’s bracing for something heavier than an update.“Florence is healing faster than expected,” he begins. His voice is calm but firm, always steady. “Her vitals are stable, her scans are clean, and she’s responding well to treatment. If everything stays on track, she could be discharged by next weekend.”I close my eyes for a brief sec
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I linger in the hallway for a while, staring at the half-open hospital door like it’s a threshold to something I’m not ready to face. Inside, Marcus still plays with Florence, their laughter carrying softly into the corridor like a warm breeze on a cold day. My hand is frozen mid-air, inches from pushing the door open, but I just… can’t.Not yet.My emotions are too jumbled—grief, gratitude, guilt, and something dangerously close to longing. Seeing him like that—soft and unguarded—reminded me of a version of him I hadn’t allowed myself to imagine. It’s disarming. And it’s why I turn away, intending to head back toward the elevators, maybe find a quiet place to gather myself.But as I turn, I nearly collide with someone.She’s standing silently behind me—slender, in a wrinkled blouse and jeans, her coat draped hastily over one arm. Her hair is in a messy bun, strands falling loose around her tired but softened features. I recognize her immediately: the child’s mother.She
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚It’s just past 10 a.m. when my personal assistant, Winifred, bursts into my office, tablet in hand, eyes gleaming with the kind of enthusiasm that usually spells either disaster or a sudden stroke of genius. I look up from the contract I’ve been revising for the last twenty minutes, one brow lifting in silent question.“You’re going to want to see this, Miss. Hawthorne,” she says, practically skipping to my desk.“Please tell me that’s not another scandal brewing,” I mutter, half-joking. After the week I’ve had, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s unearthed some long-forgotten college photos or declared I secretly run a cult in my spare time.“Quite the opposite actually, Boss.” Winnie swings the tablet around so I can see the analytics dashboard. “Sales are up. Way up. Nearly thirty-two percent since yesterday. Online traffic has doubled since this morning alone. And…” she swipes to another page, “…our social sentiment index has shifted. Positively.”I blink at the numb
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬Saturday afternoon stretches out before me like a question I don't quite have the answer to. I'm home, sitting at the edge of the leather sofa, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Aretha's contact.Should I text her? Call her? Ask how she's holding up?The memory of last night lingers. Her trembling voice. The kiss. That look in her eyes when she pulled away. Part fear, part need. And then, nothing. Silence since.I sigh and toss the phone onto the couch beside me, running both hands down my face. She's probably overwhelmed, dealing with press vultures and her family. The last thing she needs is me barging into her peace—or what's left of it.A ping vibrates on my phone. It’s from Cameron: "Meeting at the club. 5PM sharp. Drinks on Nathaniel. Don’t be late."I almost laugh. Nathaniel probably didn’t even agree to that.• • •The gentleman’s club isn’t as rowdy as usual. Rich men in tailored suits, cigars in one hand, arrogance in the other. Gold accents glint in the dim li
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I wake up to the distinct scent of chamomile tea and the soft clinking of china. For a brief second, I think I’ve dreamt it all up—the accident, the hospital, the mother’s accusations, the kiss with Marcos. But when I open my eyes and see Mom standing at the foot of my bed, holding a tray while wearing her signature pinched expression of maternal concern, I know I didn’t.“Aretha, darling,” she says carefully, as though afraid she might shatter me if she speaks too loudly, “you don’t have to go in today.”I sit up, blinking away the sleep from my eyes. “I do.”“You shouldn’t.” She sets the tray on my bedside table. “Not after everything yesterday. The media is going to be relentless. And emotionally, you’re—”“I’m fine, Mom. Seriously. I appreciate your concern, though.”She gives me a look that says she’s not convinced, but she knows me well enough not to argue. Still, she lingers while I get ready, watching me like I’m about to unravel. I offer a small smile and a kiss
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬I stand rooted to the cold, polished hospital floor, my mind reeling as Aretha’s words echo like a chime struck in the deepest part of me."I know very well what it feels like to lose a child."She says it so softly, so simply, like it’s just another sentence in a long list of things that have happened to her—but it lands like a gut punch. I don’t move as she turns and walks away, her back straight, her head high, but her shoulders… her shoulders tremble the slightest bit.I’ve seen death on the table. I’ve watched people code right in front of me, seen mothers scream over sons and children collapse into the arms of nurses. But this? This is different. This is the kind of pain that doesn’t bleed on the outside.The mother of the injured girl stands silently beside me, unsure now—maybe ashamed. Her anger drains the moment Aretha disappears around the corner. She says nothing more, just quietly returns to the waiting area, clinging to the hope I gave her minutes ago.I take
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The hospital air is cold—too cold. It seeps through my skin and settles deep into my bones, making me feel like I’m walking through a fog. I sit on one of the stiff plastic chairs in the waiting area, hands clasped tightly in my lap. I must’ve checked the time on my phone a hundred times in the past hour, each glance bringing no new relief.Where are they? Why hasn’t anyone come out yet?I chew on the inside of my cheek, my mind replaying the accident in a relentless loop. The sickening thud of her body brushing the jeep’s front grille, the sharp scream that tore from my lips, the way Alfie clutched my hand so tightly as we rushed out of the car. That little girl—so small, so fragile—just darting across like life was a game of tag.I’ve tried to breathe. I’ve tried to pray. Nothing sticks. I feel like I’m going to break apart, right here in this freezing corridor.Then I hear footsteps. Sharp. Hasty. Unforgiving.My eyes lift just in time to see a woman charging toward me
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The mall is buzzing with energy as Alfie and I walk hand-in-hand past the storefronts, our steps matching in rhythm. He’s practically bouncing beside me, excitement fizzing off him like a shaken soda.“I want to check out the new Nintendo games!” he exclaims, tugging my arm like he’s trying to drag me there himself.I laugh, adjusting my sunglasses as I glance around. “We’ll get there, little man. Let’s start with shoes first. You’ve outgrown yours—your toes are probably screaming.”“My toes are fine,” he mutters dramatically, but he doesn't protest when I guide him into the kids’ footwear store.He slips onto a little bench as the attendant brings options in his size. I sit beside him, watching his nose wrinkle as he examines a pair of lime green sneakers.“These are loud,” he declares. “Like, even the birds would hear me coming.”I snort. “Isn’t that the point? So the entire house can hear when you try to sneak cookies after bedtime?”He flashes me a mischievous grin. “
A/N: Wanted to clear this up before you start the story. Selena and Aretha are the same person. She changes her name from Selena to Aretha later on in the book. Thank you!𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒂“Mrs. Berfield, I must say you look quite stunning tonight.” The umpteenth business partner Daniel has introduced me to tonight says, shooting me a smirk but he may as well be talking to my cleavage just like most men here had done. Today is supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, but the lecherous stares from men and judgmental glares from their female companions are making it difficult to enjoy the moment. The atmosphere in the extravagant events hall is filled with joy and anticipation as both the Winthrop and Berfield families gather to celebrate multiple milestones—my husband's 30th birthday, his induction as CEO of his family business, and my personal favorite surprise for him: the news of my pregnancy.After three long years of marriage and struggling to conceive, I’m thrilled to fin...
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