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