The Billionaire's Revenge She Returned to Destroy Him

Henry had thrown that land at me like scraps to a stray dog—pure humiliation.

Now? It was a goldmine worth billions.

Amelia sat frozen on the sofa, her face bloodless. Her manicured nails dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood. She hadn't expected my luck to be this monstrous.

"Henry, Anna knew!" she shrieked. "She refused to divorce just for this land! That bitch played us!"

Tears streamed down her face—a well-rehearsed performance. It worked. Henry's temper exploded.

"I knew she wouldn't leave easily! She dug the pit and waited for me to jump!" He snatched the phone from the table, hands shaking. "I'm going to kill her!"

He dialed. This time, I answered.

"Anna Pruitt! You fraud! That land belongs to the Sanchez family!" His roar nearly blew out my speaker. "Return the deed now! Or I'll make sure you never show your face in Harbor City again!"

I held the phone away from my ear, unbothered. I was sitting in an upscale salon, studying my reflection. The long, heavy locks were gone—replaced by a sharp bob that framed my jaw like a blade.

The timid stand-in was dead.

"Mr. Sanchez, the divorce agreement is signed in black and white," I said coolly. "Property division is final. If your memory's failing due to early-onset dementia, I can burn you a copy—like an offering to the dead."

He was hyperventilating now.

"Anna Pruitt! That's two billion! You think you can swallow that without choking?!"

I laughed softly, smoothing a stray hair into place.

"Mr. Sanchez, thank you for your generosity. Consider it a service fee for your... performance these past three years. Though frankly, your skills in bed were mediocre at best." I paused. "But I'm not short on cash. Consider it a generous tip."

I hung up and blocked his number again.

The woman in the mirror smiled back—radiant and dangerous.

Henry Sanchez, this is only the beginning.

The real show hasn't even started.

With two billion in my account, I moved fast.

Pruitt Capital was born overnight. The name was a declaration of war—I wanted all of Harbor City to know the Pruitt bloodline wasn't extinct.

My first target: the Deep Bay project.

The Sanchez Group was fighting tooth and nail for it. Their lifeline for the fiscal year. Henry had already leveraged half his fortune greasing palms to secure the deal. If he lost this, the Sanchez family's capital chain would snap clean in half.

Night fell, and with it came a lavish gala where Harbor City's elite gathered to preen. Rumor had it Henry was bringing Amelia to announce his victory with Deep Bay.

I couldn't miss the chance to offer my congratulations.

I donned custom haute couture—crimson red, deep-V, completely backless. Around my neck hung a pink diamond worth eighty million, fresh from the auction block.

My outfit alone cost more than Sanchez Group's profits for the last six months.

At the entrance, I spotted them. Sycophants swarmed Henry and Amelia like flies. She wore pure white, playing the innocent saint to perfection. Henry looked haggard, barely holding his composure as he forced smiles for the cameras.

"Henry, surely Deep Bay is yours?" a guest simpered.

"Naturally," another chimed in. "Who in Harbor City dares compete with Mr. Sanchez?"

The bootlicking was deafening. Amelia clung to Henry's arm, gazing up at him adoringly.

"My, isn't this lively?"

I pushed the heavy doors open. My stilettos struck marble—sharp, rhythmic.

The chatter died. Every eye locked onto me.