The Billionaire's Vendetta Bride

Morgan's POV

My friend Penny dropped me off at my apartment, giving me a tired smile. "Get some beauty sleep, Morgan. You have the appearance of having been pulled through a hedge by the wrong end." I snorted, saluting her with a mock salute as she teared off in an obscenely large SUV that likely drank gas like a frat boy during happy hour. I watched until her monstrosity of a car disappeared around the corner, then trudged toward my building, snowflakes settling into my hair as if they'd paid rent.

I was excited and bubbling to surprise my boyfriend, Ethan. I'd been on a business trip that was longer than the line at the DMV, and I couldn't wait to see his stupid, handsome face. I'd been fantasizing about him nonstop, all while crushing my sales goals and pretty much saving my company's entire Asian arm. I was 50 percent proud, 50 percent elated and 500 percent prepared to face plant into my bed for like three days.

When I arrived at my building I wondered how Ethan might take my unplanned return. I'd attempted to call him from the cab at the airport, but the calls dropped faster than my New Year's resolutions. A flutter of discomfort pinched my stomach as I ascended the stairs to our second-floor apartment. I inserted the key in the lock but when I turned it, the door opened freely. My heart does a bit of gymnastics routine. This wasn't right. We always locked the door - Ethan was almost paranoid about it.

I cracked the door open with the stealth of a cat burglar, senses on high alert. The apartment was dim, the curtains drawn against the winter afternoon. The TV flickered with some action movie, soft music from the Bluetooth speaker and the smell of takeout filled the air. But no Ethan in sight.

"Ethan. Honey, I am home, I called dramatically, back from the war. Silence was all I got in response. My heart raced with nervousness as I crept deeper and deeper inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkness around me, almost as if I was roaming a cave.

I picked up a baseball bat we had stored on the wall by the front door (Ethan's idea - he'd watched too many home invasion movies) and tried again. "Ethan, your queen has returned from conquest." Still nothing. It was full of space but not space, as if someone had quantum-physics-ed the apartment.

I slowly walked toward our bedroom my knuckles white on the bat. But as I got nearer, I heard noises that didn't require a detective's badge to interpret - rhythmic creaking and moans that definitely weren't from someone putting together IKEA furniture.

My heart now going full on pole-dancing routine in my chest, I tiptoed to the door and threw it open with the dramatic flourish of a telenovela star. What I saw caused my internal organs to do a synchronized dive into my shoes. Ethan was in bed with someone else, their bodies, her breasts, jiggling in MY Egyptian cotton sheets I'd forked over MY bonus money to decorate MY bed.

"Oh Ethan, right there... Don't you dare stop!"

"I'm... So close... There... Can't just... Hit... Pause... Now..." I grunted back as he continued his rhythmic movements as though I was the invisible woman.

The passionate score dropped to background noise as I held my chest, feeling like someone had reached inside and was using my heart as a stress ball.

"Ethan, you two-timing tornado!"

"Holy shit!"

Ethan squealed and also sort of Levitated off the other man and turned to me firing eyes wider than dinner plates. "Babe, that's not what your eyes are seeing right now. I-"

But I couldn't stand to look at his lying face. My eyes went to the woman in my bed, and I felt my knees buckle. It was my sister, Kylie.

"Kylie!"

She pulled the sheet up to her chin, her face turning redder than a baboon's ass.

"One, how could you two stab me in the back with such Olympic precision?" I screamed, as though I had been struck by an emotional freight train.

I picked up the first thing I could reach - an ugly lamp Ethan's mother had given us - and threw it in his direction. He ducked with impressive reflexes for someone who had criticized basic yoga. The lamp fucking exploded against the wall, just like my trust.

"Cupcake, can you just take a deep breath," Ethan tried to come to me, hands raised as if surrendering to the police.

I stepped back, my eyes almost shooting laser beams. "Deep breaths? Should I meditate while you give me the story of how you found yourself naked with my sister? Was it an accident? "Oh, did you trip and fall on my bed naked?

"You were fucking around with this backstabbing snake! I spat, venom dripping from the words.

Ethan was about to say something when Kylie jumped up, swaddling herself in MY sheet as if it were couture.

"Morgan, you don't even think about calling me a snake!" it snapped suddenly finding its voice.

I looked at her with enough heat to melt steel. "Oh, sorry, should I say 'slimy, duplicitous reptile'? You're my sister! "You're supposed to be giving me skin care tips, not sleeping with my boyfriend!"

Kylie moved closer, her face twisting ugly. "You don't know everything, Morgan. It's complicated."

I barked out a laugh, which came out like a seal having a breakdown. "Complicated? What's complicated? The only thing complex right here is how to fit both your corpses in one suitcase!

Kylie slitted her eyes, but before she could open her mouth to whatever ludicrous excuse she had come up with, Ethan interjected. "Sugar, I-

I cut through his words like a hot knife through oil. "Why, Ethan? What kind of cosmic excuse might you have for this betrayal?"

Ethan's gaze fell to the ground, suddenly interested in the pattern on my carpet. "I... I don't know, Morgan. It just happened."

I laughed again, tears carving mascara rivers down my cheeks. "Just happened? What, like the weather? 'Slight chance of thunderstorms, and sleeping with your girlfriend's sister today, folks!' "

"You were always off gallivanting to save the corporate world, honey... I really tried to behave, sweet pea... But I have needs. "He was so blubbering, his eyes were fluttering around as if he were a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"It's been so cold recently ... I wanted warmth with this cold weather..."

I folded my arms, and my eyebrows nearly hit my hairline. "Oh, sure, Ethan. "What did you need warmth for in this weather?" I teased, my tone with more attitude than an incel subreddit. "And it was broken, the thermostat? And then all the blankets just burst into flames? What about the sweaters I got you for Christmas, you total walnut?"

Ethan's face turned fire hydrant red as he stammered for words. "Babe, you know I'm not talking about that kind of heat. ... I'm talking about human connection..."

I interrupted him with a roar that must have startled the neighbors. "GET OUT!!! "

Ethan's mouth unhinged like he was trying out for a fish documentary, his eyes big with fear. He appeared to shrink physically, his shoulders hunching as if he were trying to disappear. He looked at Kylie, then back at me, then rushed to pick up his clothes that had been strewn all over the floor. The way he moved, it struck me like a skittish squirrel trying to recall where it hid its nuts.

I held my ground, arms still folded, rage emanating from me like a nuclear reactor. It made me want to throw something other than lamps to see them together.

"Just get out! And don't you dare take anything that I paid for. The clothes had been charged to my credit card. So get out of this apartment with your partner in crime this minute!"

Ethan's mouth practically dropped open in disbelief. Yes, I was throwing him out in his underwear." I stood my ground despite his pathetic begging. Damn winter - let him freeze like my heart just did.

Just then, a sharp rap on my door shattered the tension, and I thought, Who else was going to join this circus of horrors...

Morgan's POV

It was like someone was trying to drum the "Immigrant Song" on my front door. "Morgan? Open this door right now," my stepmother said, her voice as warm as an arctic blizzard. I paused, asking myself who'd planned this family reunion from hell at precisely the moment my life was exploding. But when the knocking turned into what sounded like someone trying to break in with a battering ram, I heaved myself up and went to the door.

Much to my utter dismay, my stepmother, Victoria, stood there with my father, Richard. His expression was grimmer than a mortician with a toothache. "Stepmother, Father, I'm sort of in the midst of my life crashing spectacularly to the ground..." I started, but my dad interrupted me with all of the subtlety of a chainsaw.

"We must address an urgent matter that cannot wait under any circumstances," he said in his CEO voice - the voice he used when firing people or ordering at expensive restaurants. Anxiety swirled with my already roiling emotional cocktail.

"What calamity brings you to my door?" "Why?" I asked, stepping aside, reluctantly. My father's laser-focus zeroed in on Kylie and Ethan on the couch, his eyebrows narrowing with the disappointment he usually reserved for my career choices and haircuts.

"We'll talk inside," Victoria said, stomping into my apartment, as if she were checking out a property about to lowball herself. My father trailed behind, eyes glued to the guilty pair. I shut the door and surrendered to this new layer of nightmare.

As we stepped into the living room, Victoria's meticulously penciled-in eyebrows flew toward her hairline. "Kylie? What are you doing here, pour a pea? she snapped, her voice crisper than her stiletto heels. My father's face darkened to a shade I'd seen only when someone scratched his vintage Porsche.

"Kylie, you will explain yourself this instant," he thundered, the very furniture seeming to cower. Kylie clenched in on herself, tears springing in her eyes as though she were auditioning for a soap opera.

"I...I can explain," she stuttered, with all the authority of a toddler caught coloring on the walls. Victoria squinted into dangerous slits, her arms folding across her designer blazer.

"Explain what exactly?" She spat out, each word laced with venom. Kylie hesitated, her gaze bouncing between Victoria and my father like a nervous ping-pong ball.

"I ... I ..." she stammered, words seemingly on backorder. Victoria's anger made her expensive foundation work overtime.

"Well? We're waiting!" she barked, hands on her hips as if she were auditioning for "Intimidating Stepmother Monthly." The room was suddenly quiet, the tension thick enough to be sliced and served at an upscale dinner party.

As Kylie kept up the excellent work of a mute, Victoria turned to me like a military turret. "Morgan? Tell me what is going on and what this is..." she pointed accusingly at Ethan with a manicured finger, "specimen is doing here?" Ethan whitened as pale as my walls.

I took a deep breath, combing my fingers through my hair as though to comb out the chaos. "Well...I just got home and found Kylie having an intimate Netflix and chill episode with my boyfriend. The words dropped into the air like a stink bomb, the space going as quiet as a library after hours.

Victoria's face twisted with fury, her eyes popping as if she'd seen someone wear white after Labor Day. "WHAT?! " she shouted, her voice likely triggering car alarms three blocks away. "This is why you don't wear out with family at all," wrote one user. "Well, you're engaged, for Christ's sake!" She stalked toward Kylie like a predator closing in for the kill.

Kylie melted into tears, mascara running in impressionistic rivulets down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, I just..." she blubbered, her sentence fading into nothingness.

Victoria was furious in a most nuclear manner. "You just what?" she snapped, nearly vibrating with rage. "Thought your sister's boyfriend seemed like a fun ride? Do you have the FIRST CLUE how sky high this is?" She threw her hands up dramatically, appearing disgusted enough to require a hazmat suit.

Kylie looked up at her mother with green-brown puppy eyes that had stopped working by the time she was twelve. "It's not what it looks like," she protested feebly, with all the credibility of a politician's pledge.

Victoria raised her eyebrow skeptically, as if she was judging a science fair. "Oh really? Please, do tell us what that looks like, Kylie. Because I'm so confused right now." She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot - tap tap tap - as if trying to send morse code signals of disapproval.

Kylie fell back a step, her eyes darting around like she was looking for an escape hatch. "I...I love you both, but...but..." she stammered, words hanging ineffectually in the atmosphere like discarded Christmas ornaments.

My father's face turned as dark as thunderclouds. "How dare you bring shame on this family? We didn't pay good money for your education to act this way!'" He moved toward Kylie, his voice lowering to the dangerously whispery pitch that usually warned someone was about to get cut out of the will.

Kylie's eyes filled again, her face desperate. "Please, you can just listen to me," she insisted, her voice splintering like cheap glassware. "There's more to this story than meets the eye."

Victoria presented an 'unconvinced' pose with raised eyebrow and head tilt. "What plot twist could make this OK?" she said, sarcasm oozing on to my carpet. She shifted her weight, as if waiting for a particularly underwhelming magic trick.

Kylie looked at the floor like she was looking for her dignity. She froze like a deer caught in headlights - if the deer had just been busted sleeping with her sister's boyfriend. Her shoulders shook as if she were standing in an earthquake that only she could feel.

Richard crossed his arms, his face more stone than diamond wrapped around Victoria's finger. "Kylie, your behavior is simply disgusting," he bellowed, his voice ricocheting off the walls like a racquetball.

Kylie's head jerked up, a small rage-switch flipping to life. She prepared, squaring her shoulders as if she was readying for battle. "Mother...I can't marry him. "I can't marry Maxwell Prescott Fleming," she declared, her voice wavering, but resolute.

Victoria's perfectly shaped brow furrowed, rage replaced by confusion for one millisecond. "What do you mean you 'can't marry Maxwell'? she asked, her voice sharp enough for surgery.

Kylie met her eyes, finding her spine all of a sudden. "I'm pregnant with Ethan's child," she declared, tossing the words like a grenade in the room.

CRASH!

My heart broke like a wrecking ball, exploding pieces of emotional shrapnel through my entire body. My parents froze as if someone had pressed pause, their faces a master class in shock and horror. I felt sucker-punched by the universe, my lungs forgetting how to work. The man I believed loved me didn't just fuck around; he created life with my stepsister. The room lurched and swayed as though I was riding a carnival ride for which I'd never bought a ticket.

I couldn't breathe, my chest tightening as if it were in a vise. My fingers began to clutch at my heart, digging into my skin as if I could somehow physically keep the pieces together.

My head was spinning faster than a washing machine on final cycle. I staggered back, darkness closing in at the corners of my vision like spilled ink. I instinctively reached out, starving for help.

But there was nothing. No one rushed over to me, no one gave so much as a "there, there." I was alone, bleeding emotions into my IKEA rug.

Victoria's voice came out low and stretched, as if she were speaking through molasses.

"You...are...pregnant?"

She did take a step back, her eyes raking Kylie as a human lie detector.

Kylie answered back, her voice barely above a ghostly whisper.

"Yes, Mom." More tears streamed down her face, and her body shook like she was in a freezer.

Richard's eyes bored into Kylie with laser focus.

"Are...you absolutely certain?" he exclaimed, voice steady but laced with desperation that this was all some awful gag.

Kylie nodded so hard I thought her head would fall off. "Yes," she said, in a voice cracking like thin ice.

"I took a test. It was positive. And I took three others just in case."

The room fell into such absolute silence you could hear dust settling. Richard glanced at Victoria, who was looking as though she'd seen a ghost, in particular the ghost of her social standing and carefully managed family agendas.

Victoria raised a perfectly manicured finger to her mouth, her nail-biting habit rearing its ugly head like a groundhog on February 2nd - an obvious sign her conniving mind was at work.

Hushed and urgent, Richard prodded her.

"Victoria, say something, for Christ's sake.

But Victoria just stood there, staring at Kylie as if she were running an equation in her head about how much this whole thing had cost her in money and social capital.

Victoria's attention snapped to me like a small animal sighting prey. A chill colder than my ex's heart crept down my spine as she paused chewing on her nail - the international sign that Victoria had devised a plan. Her eyes captured mine with tractor-beam intensity, and I knew with sinking certainty that I was about to be collateral damage in whatever scheme she'd cooked up.

"I think I have a solution for our little hiccup," she said, a smile working across her face that would make a shark back away slowly.

My father sat up like a dog who hears the rustle of a treat bag, leaning in with interest. "Really? What good plan do you have?" he asked, every syllable dripping with hope.

Victoria's eyes were trained on me like a sniper scope. She stared at me as though she were choosing a sacrifice. "Maxwell Prescott Fleming will marry Morgan."

I dropped my jaw so quickly it almost popped out. "Hold up...WHAT?! " I squeaked, the sound fading into the stratosphere.

The nod of Victoria was sharp and definite as an executioner's axe. "Her character is just perfect for the situation.

It left me standing there, shellshocked, my mind barely able to process this new horror. Marriage? To Maxwell Prescott Fleming? Conversations with a man who had more syllables in his name than our entire relationship? This couldn't be happening. But Victoria was glaring at me, challenging me to say anything, her eyes threatening dire repercussions if I did.

And just when I was sucking back breaths for what would've been the protest of the century, she added the finishing touch: "You'll be leaving for the Fleming estate tomorrow, Morgan. Your wedding dress is already waiting for you..."

Morgan's POV

The reflection I was looking at in my mirror would have made me think that I was experimented on by aliens and shipped to another world where I was body snatched. The wedding dress squeezed my body like an overeager snake, all satin and lace and asphyxiation. Breathing felt like an option in this contraption they were calling a gown.

"This is ridiculous," I mumbled, pulling at the bodice that was reconfiguring my internal organs. "I look like a marshmallow that got squeezed through a keyhole."

Victoria circled me like a shark that had just seen a particularly tasty surfer, her appraising gaze eyeing every inch of fabric and flesh.

"Stop it, Morgan," she said sharply, slapping my hand from the bodice. "This dress costs more than your yearly salary. Show some respect."

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain. "Oh, forgive me for not adequately worshipping the holy robe that's restricting blood flow to my extremities."

Victoria's nostrils flared as if she was about to breathe fire. Your attitude is not assisting anyone, and for the record least of all you. She fixed my veil with hands that preyed like they were dressing a corpse for viewing. "Reiterate why you're doing this."

How could I forget? The past seventy-two hours had been a fever dream of Victoria's schemes, my father's tacit approval, and my disbelief as I was wrapped and sent to the Fleming estate like a package from Amazon Prime. All because my sister had played house with my boyfriend and gotten pregnant before you could say "betrayal."

And here I was now, on the verge of marrying Maxwell Prescott Fleming - a guy with a name that sounded like he should be signing the Declaration of Independence not signing a marriage license with me. I'd seen precisely one photograph of him, looking stiff and uncomfortable in a navy suit, with a smile as genuine as a politician's promise.

I was still confused about why Maxwell was even going along with this bait-and-switch, I said, watching Victoria adjust a ruby-encrusted diamond tiara she'd practically staple-gunned to my head. "Surely, he's going to notice that I'm not Kylie?"

Victoria's smile was narrower than her patience. "They only care about bloodlines and business opportunities, not which daughter they get. Your father's company is what they're marrying, not you specifically." The implication in her look was that I should be damn grateful for this arrangement. "Besides, Maxwell hasn't placed eyes on Kylie in real life. The families arranged the engagement.

"How medieval, how lovely," I said to myself. "Will there be a moat and drawbridge at the ceremony?"

Victoria also narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. "This is not a joke, Morgan. The Prescott Flemings are an East Coast power family. Words cannot express how much I have loathed doing this," says this marriage that will save your father's company from bankruptcy and prevent our family's name from a scandal that your sister has caused." She came close enough I could count her pores. "(So you will smile, you will say 'I do,' and you will not embarrass us. Is that clear?"

I locked eyes with her; the rebel in me wanted to yell and run and do anything except cooperate with this nonsense. But the image of my father's haunted eyes when he'd told me how bad the company's finances were, when he'd told me how many jobs would be lost, made my protests die in my throat.

"Crystal," I said, my voice dead, like my hopes for a happy future.

Victoria stepped back and looked me up and down as if I were a prize cow at auction. "Good. Now, let's go over the plan again. You'd walk down the aisle, stand next to Maxwell, repeat your vows and smile for the pictures. A small reception will follow the ceremony. You will dance once with Maxwell and once with your father, and then we'll make our excuses and leave."

"And then what?" I asked, the bitterness seeping into my voice. "Am I to be sent away to Fleming Manor to live happily ever after with a man who believes he's marrying someone else?"

Victoria's face was inscrutable. "The specifics of your marriage are between you and Maxwell. "Our concern is to make it through today without incident." She looked at her diamond-studded watch, a gift from my father when he was still happy. "It's almost time. His father will be here soon to escort you down the aisle."

As if responsive to her words, there was a gentle knock at the door. Victoria opened it to show my father, dressed in an uncomfortable tuxedo, his eyes dodging mine like I was Medusa and he feared turning to stone.

"You're beautiful, Morgan," he murmured, so quietly.

I just wanted to scream at him, to tell him he had to stand up to Victoria, to ask how he could treat his own daughter like this, selling her. But his slumped shoulders defeated told me it would be pointless. And the man I had once known as Richard Reynolds the mighty industrialist was now naught but a marionette on Victoria's hand.

Victoria eyed me for a last time, her hands tugging my veil into clinical order. "Remember, smile," she commanded, before sweeping from the room with the imperious demeanor of a general going into battle.

My father extended his arm stiffly. "Shall we?"

The dress tightened around my ribs as I inhaled, as if trying to choke out whatever fight remained in me. "Do I have a choice?"

Finally the eyes landed on mine, there was a mixture of guilt and resignation in them. "We all make sacrifices for our family, Morgan."

"Some more than others," I said, linking his arm.

As we walked, our heels clacked on the marble floor. The Fleming estate was a sprawling monstrosity of old dollars and older customs, corridors engineered to inspire a sense of smallness and insignificance. Perfect for today's theme.

As we neared the chapel doors, I heard classical music drifting out. My stomach twisted with a sickening cocktail of dread and rage.

"Wait," I said, stopping my father in his tracks. "Is he... is he in there? Maxwell?"

My father hesitated, his brow furrowing. "He should be. Victoria said everything was in place."

But something in his face made me feel my heart racing. "Dad, what are you not telling me?"

He squirmed, yanking at his bow tie as if it were a noose. "There were some ... complications. Maxwell was held up coming back from a business trip. Victoria reassured me that he would make it in time for the ceremony, but..."

"But what?" I yelled, my voice escalating despite the context.

My father glanced around nervously, as though expecting Victoria to appear from the woodwork. "He has not been seen since his plane arrived. Victoria has been calling all morning."

A bubble of hysterical laughter almost spilled out of my throat. "So I have to marry a stranger, but the stranger might not even come?" That's just perfect."

My father was about to answer, but the chapel doors flew open to show Victoria's tense face. "What is taking so long?" she hissed. "Everyone is waiting."

My father straightened his spine, to reclaim a modicum of dignity. "We're coming, Victoria. Morgan just needed a moment."

Victoria was glancing between us suspiciously. "Well, the moment's over. The officiant is getting antsy, and the Flemings are beginning to ask questions." She took hold of my arm with incredible strength, almost pulling me through the entrance. "Smile," she grated through clenched teeth.

I put on a smile that felt more like a grimace as the music swelled and the assembled guests turned to gawk. The chapel was crowded with faces I didn't know, all in that tasteful finery that only the truly rich can wear well. My heart beat so fast, I was sure they could see it through all the layers of satin, as I looked for my mystery groom by the altar.

But the space where Maxwell should have stood was glaringly empty.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and I felt Victoria's grip on my arm tighten to vise-like proportions. My father's face looked pale, perspiration breaking out on his brow despite the chapel's oppressive air-conditioning.

"Where is he?" Victoria's fierce whisper through the blaze of her fury-riddled eyes never left her smile.

An elegant older woman who could only be Mrs. Fleming stood up in the front row, her face a perfect combination of concern and irritation. "Victoria, dear, is something wrong?"

Victoria's laugh sounded like breaking glass. "Not at all, Eleanor! Just a slight delay. You know what men are like, always late."

Before Mrs. Fleming could answer, the chapel doors exploded open with a bang that startled half the guests out of their seats. I turned, eager at last to look upon Maxwell Prescott Fleming himself, in all his blue-blooded glory.

Instead, a tall, ruggedly handsome man stood in the doorway, suit rumpled, tie askew, expression a total thunderstorm. His eyes drilled into me with such ferocity that I felt my breath hitch.

"Sorry I'm late," he proclaimed to the room at large, his voice deep and authoritative. "Traffic was a nightmare." He walked down the aisle with the swagger of a man who owned the joint and stopped right in front of me.

"You must be Morgan," he said, shaking his hand. "I'm Max. So, I guess we're getting married today.'

The chapel went berserk when Victoria produced a noise that sounded like a teakettle when it's about to boil over, and I understood with growing horror and sick fascination that my "perfect solution" wedding day had just gone spectacularly, cataclysmically off the rails...