CEO's Attractive Bride: You've Become My Favourite

For seventeen years, I was the crown jewel of the Kensington empire, the perfect daughter groomed for a royal future. Then, a cream-colored envelope landed in my lap, bearing a gold crest and a truth that turned my world into ice. The DNA test result was a cold, hard zero percent-I wasn't a Kensington. Before the ink could even dry, my parents invited my replacement, a girl named Alleen, into the drawing room and treated me like a trespasser in my own home. My mother, who once hosted galas in my honor, wouldn't even look me in the eye as she stroked Alleen's arm, whispering that she was finally "safe." My father handed me a one-million-dollar check-a mere tip for a billionaire-and told me to leave immediately to avoid tanking the company's stock price. "You're a thief! You lived my life, you spent my money, and you don't get to keep the loot!" Alleen shrieked, trying to claw the designer jacket off my shoulders while my "parents" watched with clinical detachment. I was dumped on a gritty sidewalk in Queens with nothing but three trunks and the address of a struggling laborer I was now supposed to call "Dad." I traded a marble mansion for a crumbling walk-up where the air smelled of exhaust and my new bedroom was a literal storage closet. My biological family thought I was a broken princess, and the Kensingtons thought they had successfully erased me with a payoff and a non-disclosure agreement. They had no idea that while I was hauling trunks up four flights of stairs, my secret media empire was already preparing to move against them. As I sat on a thin mattress in the dark, I opened my encrypted laptop and sent a single command that would cost my former father ten million dollars by breakfast. They thought they were throwing me to the wolves, but they forgot one thing: I'm the one who leads the pack.

I was a top cardiac surgeon, trapped in a dead marriage with a ruthless billionaire. One afternoon, he brought his mistress to my hospital, ordering me to perform her high-risk heart surgery. When I refused and handed him our divorce papers, he violently tore them up and threatened to erase my name from the medical community. Worse, I discovered they had a five-year-old surrogate son—bought and born the exact same year I bled out on an operating table, losing our baby. The mistress mocked my trauma, calling me a barren piece of trash who couldn't give him an heir. I slapped her across the face. The next morning, the NYPD publicly handcuffed me in my own hospital. She had framed me for attempted murder, claiming I injected her IV with a lethal dose of potassium. My husband cornered me in the interrogation room. "Just confess to me. I will throw enough money at the DA to make this entirely disappear." I looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing but raw, unfiltered suspicion. He actually believed I was a jealous murderer. I swore I would rather rot in a concrete cell for the rest of my life than bow down to them. Just as my childhood savior miraculously appeared to bail me out, my phone rang. The mistress had gone into full cardiac arrest. Only I had the surgical skill to save her. I turned around, deciding whether to let the woman who ruined my life die, or pick up my scalpel.

Summer woke up to the blinding light of a crystal chandelier, only to realize she had transmigrated into the trashy romance novel she read last night. She was now the universally despised contract wife of Julian Sterling, a ruthless New York billionaire who immediately threw down a leather folder and demanded a divorce. Faking a drunken stupor to survive the night, Summer thought she could at least enjoy the wealthy lifestyle, but reality hit her hard. Her bank account had exactly fifty cents. The original owner had secretly sent every penny of her massive allowance to a parasitic, gambling-addicted brother. Worse, the maids were serving her daily fertility pills—a direct violation of her ironclad prenup that would leave her penniless on the streets if Julian found out. Even her rebellious teenage stepson and his vicious friends treated her like a joke, openly mocking her in her own foyer. A billionaire's wife with fifty cents? It was a cruel, terrifying joke. She was completely trapped with a husband who despised her, a stepson trying to humiliate her, and a toxic brother threatening public ruin if she didn't pay up. But Summer refused to be a victim in this new life. She flushed the forbidden pills down the toilet, permanently blocked her leeching brother, and effortlessly thwarted a vicious plot to drug her stepson. When Julian coldly called to order her to a high-society charity gala, he left a sharp warning. "Do not embarrass the Sterling name again tonight. Keep your mouth shut." Summer simply smirked. She bypassed the pastel dresses and zipped up a striking emerald green silk gown, her eyes burning with cold ambition, ready to show New York exactly who they were dealing with.

For three years, I swallowed every humiliation to warm my billionaire husband's frozen heart. But at his birthday banquet, the obsidian cufflinks I spent three sleepless nights carving were crushed into worthless powder. Carly, the woman he truly loved, had intentionally tripped and slammed into my arm. When the velvet box fell, I dropped to my knees on pure instinct. My bare hands were deeply sliced by the jagged shards, warm blood dripping onto the pristine marble floor. But Dominic didn't even spare a single glance at his bleeding wife. He protectively cradled Carly, his voice thick with concern as he asked if she was hurt. He let the entire ballroom laugh at me, calling me a piece of trash that wasn't even fit to touch the hotel carpet. When I later confronted him about the secret estate where he hid her, he nearly broke my jaw. "A toxic bitch like you deserves to rot in a loveless marriage." I finally understood. My marriage was just a cruel prison designed to torture me for a debt I supposedly owed. I didn't shed a single tear. I went back to the penthouse, signed the divorce papers waiving all my assets, and walked barefoot into the freezing New York storm. To survive, I took a job as the personal executive assistant to his biggest enemy on Wall Street. But when I showed up at an industry dinner wearing a stunning designer suit next to another man, the cold tyrant who had thrown me away completely lost his mind.

Halie woke up to a sharp pain and a terrifying reality. She was in a new body, her face covered in a hideous web of scars, and her spiritual power reduced to a pathetic D-Class. Before she could even process the memories of being framed, her bedroom doors were violently kicked open. Her sister Seraphina sauntered in with a venomous sneer, followed closely by Halie's S-Class fiancé, Jett. "Look at the disgrace of the Avila family. What a waste," Seraphina mocked, throwing a mirror at her bed. "I can't be tied to a cripple. As an S-Class, I have to break our engagement," Jett added, his gaze full of disgust. The nightmare didn't stop there. Her father called, screaming about how she had shamed the family name. He officially stripped her of her inheritance, froze all her accounts, and exiled her to the decaying Southern District to rot. To make matters worse, a cold, mechanical voice suddenly echoed in her skull, warning her of an impending genetic collapse. Without an immediate energy infusion, she would face total organ failure in thirty days. A ruined face, a treacherous family, a world that wanted her dead, and a literal death clock ticking in her brain. The original owner had died in absolute despair, a tragic victim of sheer cruelty. But if they thought she would just sit there and die, they were severely mistaken. Armed with a mysterious system and her brilliant scientist mind from her past life, Halie packed her bags. She chose the craziest survival quest: head to the slums, find the exiled, sterile S-Class "madman" Coleman, and cure him to harvest his life energy. It was time to start her counterattack.

I was summoned home from boarding school for a funeral, thinking my family finally wanted me back. I stood in the pouring rain, watching a mahogany casket disappear into the mud, while the silence in my head felt like it was drowning me. That night, I hid behind a tapestry and listened through a vent to my father’s study. He wasn't talking about grief. He was talking about "tissue compatibility" and "near-perfect matches" with the family lawyer. They didn't want a daughter; they wanted a donor. My father’s voice was devoid of emotion as he discussed "the harvest." My half-sister was dying, and I was the spare part they had been growing for years. They had even removed the lock from my bedroom door so I could never truly shut them out. The realization shattered me. I was just a biological backup plan, a life deemed less valuable than the one they preferred. How could a father look at his own child and see nothing but a heart to be cut out and transplanted? I didn't wait for them to come for me. I stuffed a backpack, flushed my SIM card, and climbed out the window into a thunderstorm. I caught a bus to the middle of nowhere, ending up in a seat next to a massive, predatory man named Hoyt who looked like he’d killed people for less than a seat preference. He pinned my wrist with a grip like iron and growled, "Who sent you?" I couldn't speak to defend myself, but as we rolled into a dying town called Blackwood Creek, I knew one thing for certain. I would rather take my chances with a stranger with a gun than stay another night with the family that wanted me dead.