Marrying The Wounded King: My Ex's Regret

I stood in the center of the rose garden, convinced the Underboss of the East Coast was finally going to defy his father and put a ring on my finger.

Instead, Desmond walked toward me holding another woman's hand.

"Dallas," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is Chelsea. My fiancée."

He told me it was just business, a merger to secure shipping routes. He expected me to stay in the shadows as his mistress, his "pet canary."

When I refused to be his dirty little secret, his family sold me like cattle to Kennedy Simmons, the crippled Don of the West Coast, just to get rid of me.

But the ultimate betrayal happened the night before I left.

On the family yacht, Chelsea pushed me overboard. I screamed for help in the freezing dark water.

I watched Desmond dive in.

I reached out for him, but he swam right past me.

He chose to save his wealthy fiancée, the "asset," and left me to drown.

In that moment, the girl who loved him died.

I realized his brother Antone, who I thought was my friend, was just a stalker using me to get close to Chelsea. I was nothing but collateral damage to the people I had worshipped.

I didn't die that night. I boarded the plane to Seattle with a frozen heart.

They thought they were selling me to a monster. They didn't realize they were handing me a King.

The next time the Morgans saw me, I wasn't their victim.

I was the woman coming to burn their empire to the ground.

Chapter 1

Dallas Cole POV:

I stood in the center of the rose garden, the silk of the white dress Desmond Morgan had bought me clinging to my skin in the humid air.

I was convinced that tonight, the Underboss of the East Coast would finally defy his father and put a ring on my finger.

Instead, I watched him stride toward me, his fingers interlaced with another woman's.

My heart didn't just break.

It exploded.

It was a silent detonation, the kind that happens deep underwater where the pressure crushes your lungs before you even realize you're drowning.

Desmond looked lethal in his black suit. He was the heir to the Morgan crime family empire, a man who had slaughtered three rivals before his twenty-fifth birthday.

A man whose knuckles I had kissed clean of blood more times than I could count.

I loved him.

God, I was stupid.

The woman beside him was Chelsea Taylor. I knew her face from the society pages. She was the daughter of the Chicago Tech-Syndicate boss.

She was blonde, pristine, and looked expensive.

She was an asset.

I was a ward. A charity case the Morgans had collected after my parents' lab exploded. I was the pet canary they kept in a gilded cage to ensure no one asked questions about why their chemists kept dying.

Desmond stopped three feet away from me. His eyes, usually warm when we were alone in the dark, were now cold obsidian.

"Dallas," he said. His voice was devoid of emotion. "This is Chelsea. My fiancée."

The word hung in the humid night air like a guillotine blade.

Fiancée.

Chelsea smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on the white silk that was far too bridal for a casual Tuesday night.

"Oh, Desmond," she purred, her voice dripping with practiced condescension. "Is this the little ward you told me about? The orphan?"

"Yes," Desmond said.

He didn't look at me. He looked through me.

"She's pretty," Chelsea said, sounding bored. "Like a little sister. We'll have to find her a nice associate to marry. Someone low-level."

My stomach lurched. I felt bile rise in my throat.

"Go inside, Chelsea," Desmond commanded. "I need a moment to explain the... transition to Dallas."

Chelsea patted his chest, staking her claim, and walked toward the mansion. Her heels clicked on the stone path like a countdown.

The moment she disappeared, I stepped forward. My hands were shaking.

"Desmond," I whispered. "You promised. Last night. In my bed. You said-"

He closed the distance between us in a blur of motion. His hand wrapped around the back of my neck.

It wasn't a caress. It was a vice.

"Stop," he hissed.

"You're marrying her?" My voice cracked.

"It's a merger, Dallas. Her father controls the shipping routes in Chicago. It's business. It's for the Family."

"And what am I?" I asked, tears stinging my eyes. "What was last night?"

He leaned down. His breath brushed my ear, carrying the scent of whiskey and expensive tobacco that used to comfort me. Now, it made me want to retch.

"You are mine," he whispered darkly. "This changes nothing between us. Chelsea is for the public. She is for the treaty. You... you stay where you belong. In my bed. In the shadows."

He wanted a wife for power and a mistress for pleasure.

He wanted to reduce me to a Goomar. A side piece.

He tightened his grip on my neck, his thumb pressing warningly into my pulse. "Do not make a scene, Dallas. You know what happens to things that become inconvenient to this family."

He released me abruptly and walked away.

I stood alone among the thorns, realizing that the man I had worshipped as my savior was actually my jailer.

Dallas Cole POV:

The garden felt like a cage, the air too thin to fill my lungs. Desperate, I fled toward the only other person in this fortress of stone and blood who had ever shown me a shred of kindness.

Antone.

Desmond's younger brother. The Enforcer. The chaotic element in a rigid world.

He had always been the softer landing. When Desmond was cold, Antone was charming. When the Don was cruel, Antone brought me chocolate.

I shoved open the heavy oak door to his suite, bypassing the courtesy of a knock.

Hot, humiliating tears blurred my vision, warping the room into soft, indistinct shapes.

"Antone?" I called out.

The room was empty. The shower was running in the adjacent bathroom, steam curling out from under the door like a creeping fog.

I sank onto the edge of his bed, burying my face in my hands. I needed a friend. I needed someone to tell me I wasn't just collateral damage.

A soft chime pinged from the desk.

It was his laptop. The screen was glowing eerie blue in the dim room.

I glanced over, intending to ignore it, but my name caught my eye.

The Charity Case.

My breath hitched. I stood up and walked to the desk. It was an encrypted chat window with his crew.

Soldier: Did Des drop the bomb on the girl yet?

Antone: Tonight. It's hilarious. She actually thinks she has a shot at the throne.

Soldier: You gonna comfort her?

Antone: Obviously. I need to get close to Chelsea. The best way to the new Queen is through the pathetic little sister.

My blood ran cold.

I scrolled up, my stomach churning.

There were photos. Not of me. Of Chelsea.

Hundreds of them. Chelsea walking her dog. Chelsea at a gala. Chelsea unaware she was being watched.

Antone wasn't my friend. He was a stalker obsessed with his brother's fiancée. He was using me as nothing more than a bridge to get to her.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Antone stepped out, a towel slung low around his waist. Steam clung to his skin. He saw me standing by the desk. He saw where I was looking.

The charming smile evaporated instantly.

"You shouldn't snoop, Dallas," he said. His voice lacked its usual warmth. It was hollow, stripped of all pretense.

"You're sick," I whispered, backing away. "You don't care about me. You never did."

He laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound. He walked toward me, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet.

"Care about you?" He looked at me with open disdain. "You're a stray, Dallas. We feed you so you don't bite. But you have your uses."

He cornered me against the wardrobe. The smell of his soap was overpowering, cloying and sharp.

"Desmond broke you tonight," Antone said, his eyes glazing over. He looked at me, but he wasn't seeing me. He was seeing a blonde heiress.

"You're vulnerable. You need comfort."

"Get away from me," I warned, my voice trembling.

"You're wearing white," he murmured, reaching out. "Just like she will."

He grabbed my arm. His grip was bruising.

"Let go!" I screamed.

"Pretend I'm him," he slurred, suddenly sounding drunk on his own madness. "Pretend I'm Desmond. Or I can pretend you're Chelsea. The math works either way."

He yanked me forward. The fabric of my dress tore at the shoulder.

Panic spiked in my chest. This wasn't the brother I knew. This was a predator who had been hiding in plain sight all along.

I didn't think. Instinct hijacked my limbs.

I swung my hand and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength I possessed. The sound was like a gunshot.

Antone stumbled back, shock replacing the lust in his eyes.

He touched his cheek. He looked at me, and for a second, the mask of the charming brother tried to slide back into place.

"Dallas, I-"

"Don't," I spat, clutching my torn dress. "Don't you dare lie to me again."

I saw him then. Really saw him. He wasn't a savior. He was just another monster hiding inside a tailored suit.

Dallas Cole POV:

I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I spent the night dissecting the digital ghost of my life.

I guessed Antone's phone passcode on the third try. It wasn't his birthday, and it certainly wasn't mine. It was Chelsea's.

The gallery was a shrine. There were hundreds of them. Photos of her zoomed in from across streets, captured through bedroom windows. And in the notes app, I found the scripts. Drafts of messages to me-step-by-step guides on how to make me trust him so he could be near her.

Tell the orphan she looks pretty. Touch her shoulder. Make her feel safe.

I felt dirty. I felt used down to the marrow.

I packed one bag. Just the essentials. No jewelry Desmond gave me. No clothes Antone bought me. Just the things that were irrevocably mine.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted me.

"The Don wants to see you," a guard said from the hallway. He didn't wait for an answer.

I walked to the study. My legs felt like lead, but my spine was steel. I had nothing left to lose.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were sitting behind the massive mahogany desk. Desmond was there, staring out the window, refusing to look at me. Antone was leaning against the bookshelf, nursing a fresh bruise on his cheek.

"Sit," The Don commanded.

I remained standing.

"We have a situation," the Matriarch said. She was a cold woman who looked at me like I was a stain on her expensive Persian carpet. "Your parents' accident... left us with certain liabilities. And with Desmond's engagement, your presence here is becoming... complicated."

"Complicated," I repeated, my voice hollow. "Is that what you call sleeping with your son for two years?"

Desmond stiffened but didn't turn around.

"Watch your mouth!" The Don slammed his hand on the desk. "You are a ward of this family. You are property."

"We found a solution," the Matriarch interrupted smoothly. She slid a black folder across the desk.

I looked down.

Marriage Contract.

Groom: Kennedy Simmons.

My breath hitched. Kennedy Simmons. The Don of the West Coast. The man they called the Wounded King.

He was a myth and a nightmare. A tech genius who ran the entire cyber-crime network west of the Mississippi. Rumor said a car bomb took his legs five years ago. Rumor said he was a recluse who flayed his enemies alive.

"He needs a wife to secure his East Coast expansion," The Don said, his tone dismissive. "We need his servers for our operation. It's a trade."

"You're selling me," I said. It wasn't a question.

"We are securing your future," the Matriarch corrected. "He is wealthy. You will be taken care of. And you will be far away from here."

Away from Desmond. Away from Antone.

"I'll take it," I said.

Desmond spun around. "What?"

"I accept," I said, looking straight at the Don.

"No!" Antone pushed off the bookshelf. "She stays. We can't send her to that cripple. She's... she's family."

It was a performance. He didn't want to lose his pawn. He didn't want to lose his access to Chelsea through me.

"Silence, Antone," his mother snapped. "It is done."

Antone looked at me, his eyes wide with fake panic. "Dallas, tell them no. Tell them you want to stay with me. I'll protect you."

I looked at the bruise on his face, then at the lies hidden behind his eyes.

"I would rather marry a monster I don't know," I said softly, "than live with the ones I do."

Desmond stepped forward, his jaw tight. "You're doing this to spite me."

"I'm doing this," I said, picking up the pen, "to survive you."

The hallway narrowed around me, feeling less like a corridor and more like a tunnel closing in.

I walked out of the office, the ink on the contract barely dry. I had just signed my life away to a stranger in Seattle, yet for the first time in years, the air tasted clean.

Antone was right on my heels. He snatched my wrist.

"Let go," I warned. My voice was low, vibrating with danger.

"You can't go to him," Antone whispered urgently, panic lacing his tone. "Simmons is a machine. He doesn't feel anything. Stay here. Be my... be my assistant. We can figure this out."

I yanked my arm back, breaking his hold.

We spilled into the main foyer now. Chelsea was descending the stairs, looking immaculate in baby blue. Desmond stood framed in the doorway of the study.

"Assistant?" I laughed, and the sound tore from my throat, sharp and jagged. "Is that what you call a shield now? Someone to hide behind while you stare at her?"

I pointed an accusing finger at Chelsea.

Chelsea paused on the stairs, hand hovering over the railing. "Excuse me?"

"Tell them, Antone," I challenged him. "Tell your brother why you really want me to stay."

Antone's face drained of color.

"She's hysterical," he said quickly, pivoting to Desmond. "She's just upset about the marriage."

"I'm not upset," I said, addressing the entire room. My voice echoed off the cold marble floors. "I am relieved."

I swept my gaze to Desmond, then to his parents, who had just emerged from the office.

"My only sin," I said, tears finally stinging my eyes, "was loving any of you."

I looked at Desmond. "I loved you, and you treated me like a whore."

I shifted my gaze to Antone. "I trusted you, and you treated me like a tool."

Finally, I turned to the Don. "I respected you, and you sold me like cattle."

"That is enough!" The Don roared. "You will sign the NDA and you will leave."

"I already signed it," I shot back. "I signed it as Dallas Cole. Not a Morgan. I want nothing from you. No trust fund. No clothes. And certainly no name."

I turned to the door.

"Dallas," Desmond called out. There was a crack in his voice. A fissure in the stone.

I didn't turn back.

I reached the heavy front door and shoved it open. The sunlight hit me like a physical blow, blinding and harsh.

My knees buckled.

The adrenaline that had held me upright, that had acted as my spine, vanished. The betrayal, the fear, the absolute exhaustion crashed into me all at once.

I collapsed on the threshold.

The last thing I heard was Chelsea asking, "Is she dead?"

And then, Desmond screaming my name.