The CEO's Revenge Marriage

John Wilson never imagined that his fiancée, Lina Bishop, would call off their engagement ten days before their wedding. For months, he had thrown himself into wedding planning—carefully planning every detail, writing hundreds of ivory invitations by hand, imagining a day of eternal romance. Three years of devotion had finally led to this moment. He was excited, anxious, and full of energy. But when Lina Bishop spoke those cold, firm words over a candlelit dinner, the world froze. The flickering flames on the cake mocked him. He had given her everything. Paying for her father's medical bills. Funding her brother's education. Building a suburban house for her family. His savings? Gone. His time? Hers. All for a love he believed would outlast the stars. "You're a good man, John," she said, avoiding his gaze. "But Ethan's back. I can't live with regret." Ethan. It was the ghost of her college sweetheart, the one who had "left." John knew, of course. He was foolish to think loyalty could trump nostalgia. “Three years,” he whispered, fingers tightening around his wine glass. Memories stung like shrapnel—the mornings they’d spent together in this apartment, her laughter echoing off the walls he’d bought for her. Even a stray cat would show more gratitude. She narrowed her eyes, as if offended by his calmness. “You know, I’ll be 28 after today, and I don’t want to live in an apartment forever, while he has a big house…” She expected to hear the tears, pleas, and theatrics of a heartbroken man. Instead, he stood up and swiped on his phone, blocking her number. His voice was calm. “If that’s your choice.” “Wait!” She grabbed his sleeve as he reached the door. “Do you have anything else to say?” He paused. “Happy birthday, Lena.” The sound of the door closing was louder than her stunned silence. He just left?” Lena hissed into the phone, pacing their—no, his—living room. Her best friend’s screams hurt her ears: “You let him go?! Never let a man get away cheaply! You should have cleared his account first!” Lena felt guilty. The suburban apartment—technically her name—had been his “entry gift,” a placeholder until he could move up. Now, Ethan’s penthouse in the glittering CBD awaited her, all floor-to-ceiling windows and status. Now, John’s quiet departure made her uneasy. Where was the begging? Where was the anger? “Don’t worry, I know he’ll come back and beg me to buy me a bigger house. Our wedding will go on as usual in a week, as long as he promises to buy a bigger house.” Lena remained narcissistic. Meanwhile, in a dimly lit bar downtown, John drank bourbon with his oldest friend, Lucas. “Sell the apartment,” he said. "Aunt Lucy's got her eye on it. Five percent below market value." Lucas choked. "But you said it was for her brother—" "Change of plans." John's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The deed is in her name, but the payment records? All mine. She gets nothing." As they plotted, Lina's texts flooded his silent phone: We need to talk about the house. You owe me closure! He deleted them. Lucas was a man of action. He called his aunt immediately. When she heard that the penthouse at 15 Central Park West was selling for 20% below market value, she asked to see it the next morning. John checked the Goldman calendar. Although he had an IPO roadshow that afternoon, he still made time for 10 o'clock. "Enough whiskey," Lucas pushed aside the Macallan 25-year-old. "Focus on the venture capital fund. But cancel the wedding now? Our Harvard 2015 group chat is full. How do we explain it?" John gritted his teeth. It wasn't just classmates—every board member at Van Clare received an inscribed invitation. His mother even unlocked the Van Clare family trust fund for a prenuptial agreement... There was no exit strategy. "The wedding went on," John gritted his teeth. "The bride changed." John was alone in the Baccarat Hotel bar, watching the socialites twirl under the crystal chandeliers. Find a wife in seven days. After his third brandy, he passed out in his velvet cubicle. He woke up in the Peninsula presidential suite, the half-naked heiress straddling his Zegna suit. Her Graff earrings glittered as she fumbled with his belt. what the f**k ! He had drunk wine, not drugs. "Eight seconds," she said, sounding like Upper East Side ice. "Take off your pants and I'm yours." Her teeth sunk into his neck. Later, the only evidence was the Tiffany Victoria earrings and a note: Emergency board vote. Call 212-**-8888. -V.* The crimson stains on the sheets shocked him. Virgin? He vaguely remembered her mumbling about Russian hackers drugging her martini. An email flashed by: [Urgent] From: GRU Agent Name your price for hacking into the Quantum Server. He deleted it. His elite hacking team only targeted sanctioned oligarchs. — At the Van Klein Building, a woman adjusted the bite marks on her Hermès scarf. “Explain why the stock is down 27 percent,” she hissed, slamming the quarterly report. Under the chaos of the shareholder meeting, last night’s chaos was brewing. "Ms. VanKleer, I'm afraid we need to hire James, an elite hacker, to design a firewall. Our competitors are launching a full-scale cyberattack!" The woman dominated the conference room. "You have 24 hours to bring James here. The first person to contact him will receive a $1 million bonus!" ... John stayed in bed until 10 a.m. sharp. In the Hudson Heights neighborhood, Luke's aunt drove her Lexus around the block. She loved the neighborhood's amenities: great schools, Central Park access, and a subway station two blocks away. "John, why are you selling this gem? Upgrading to a Hamptons estate?" "Liquidate the assets first." He showed her around the vacant penthouse. When she immediately offered $350,000 million in cash, John texted his lawyer to draw up a contract. "Wire the $20,000 deposit today. We'll close the deal in three days." After she left, John packed his Rimowa suitcase. At Lina’s dresser, he pulled out the Tissot watch she’d given him—his most cherished possession in their three years together. Scanning her bottles of La Mer cream (at $600 each), he smiled wryly. This lopsided relationship was doomed from the start. He unlocked Lina on his iPhone and typed: [Lina Bishop—Move out your stuff by Thursday. Apartment sold. ] Meanwhile, at Van Clare Tower, Lina printed out her LinkedIn profile. She basked in the prestige that came with being an executive assistant at the Fortune 500 giant. Her iPhone buzzed—LV sales associate: “Ms. Bishop, your limited edition Capucines have arrived!” At noon, Lina rushed to the LV flagship store on Fifth Avenue. The $89,999 bag had haunted her dreams. If only John was making more than his pathetic cybersecurity salary… She swiped his American Express Platinum card using her birthday code. Rejected. “Your machine must be broken!” she snapped, her face flushing.