You gave them everything.

Your time. Your money. Your future.

You worked two jobs just to keep your family afloat, only to be treated like a burden—while your golden sister bathed in praise and silk sheets. You were the backup plan. The disposable one.

Still, you kept your head down. You smiled. You stayed loyal… right up until the night you came home early and found your fiancé—your fiancé—moaning your sister’s name with his mouth buried between her thighs.

She didn’t even flinch.

You slapped her so hard her cheek bled. You screamed, cried, begged your parents to just see you for once.

They didn’t.

Instead, they told you to leave.

“He chose her. Don’t embarrass us.”

So you walked out with nothing but rage in your chest and rain soaking through your clothes.

You thought it was the end—until the devil pulled up in a blacked-out Rolls Royce.

The window rolled down.

A man stepped out. Older. Impeccable. Dangerous.

Your ex’s father.

The one you met once, who looked at you too long. Too intensely. Like he saw right through your clothes, right through your soul.

You expected him to spit on you.

But instead, he took off his coat, wrapped it around your trembling frame, and said:

“I warned my son not to play with something he couldn’t protect.”

You stared.

Then he leaned down, his voice dripping with venom and hunger.

“So I’ll do what he couldn’t. I’ll protect you. Feed you. Dress you in power. All I want…” he brushed your cheek with a gloved thumb, “is for you to wear my ring. In his house.”

He didn’t ask twice. He didn’t have to.

Because suddenly, being his daughter-in-law didn’t sound nearly as satisfying as becoming his wife.

So you agreed.

Not out of desperation.

Out of sheer, wicked revenge, you were done being the good girl, the one who worked for happiness and people's love.

The wedding was private, with you, his men as witness and a priest.

After the wedding, he held a party at his mansion the one, he would now share with you.

The mansion was drenched in gold and scandal. Every eye in the room turned when you walked in—hand wrapped tightly in his, a ring worth more than your childhood home glittering on your finger.

You weren’t the sweet girl anymore.

You were the wife of a billionaire. The stepmother to your ex and future mother-in-law to your sister.

And you looked the part.

Satin hugged your curves, lips painted in a shade a demoness would envy. Your hair was pinned like royalty, your gaze cold and untouchable. At your side, he—your new husband, stood with a glass of whiskey and a lethal smirk, daring anyone to speak first.

Your ex nearly dropped his drink when he saw you.

Color drained from his face like he’d seen a ghost—except ghosts didn’t wear designer heels and walk in like they owned the air.

His voice cracked. “You married him?”

You smiled. Sweet. Cruel.

“I call him daddy in bed now.”

Your sister froze mid-step. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes darted from the ring on your finger to the kiss your husband pressed below your ear, possessive and slow, as if marking you in front of everyone.

“You bitch,” she hissed.

But you just laughed, leaning into his chest as his arm curled around your waist.

“No, sweetheart,” your husband said, his voice deep and amused. “She’s a Voltaire now. And you’ll show her respect when she walks into this house.”

"Does anyone here object to my choice?" he asked, voice low, eyes cold—his smile nothing more than a threat in disguise.

Her mouth snapped shut immediately and everyone else went silent, his family, friends and business associates.

For the first time, your sister couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t touch what you had.