Rejected by Three, I Chose Revenge

The rejection letters hit Richard Whitman's mahogany desk with a sharp slap, the sound echoing through his expansive corner office like gunshots. Three pristine envelopes, each bearing the embossed seals of New York's most powerful families, lay scattered before me like accusations.

"Read them," my father commanded, his steel-gray eyes cold as winter stone. His voice carried that familiar edge of disappointment, the same tone he'd used whenever I'd failed to live up to his impossible standards.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the first letter, the expensive paper smooth beneath my fingertips. Jaxson Cole's letterhead gleamed in gold leaf, his family's hedge fund logo a symbol of old money arrogance.

*Miss Whitman,* the letter began, each word precisely chosen to wound, *after careful consideration, I must decline your father's proposal for our union. A woman of your... background... would hardly be suitable for the Cole family legacy. The daughter of a nanny, regardless of her current circumstances, cannot hope to understand the responsibilities that come with true wealth and breeding. I suggest you seek arrangements more befitting your station.*

The words blurred as rage and humiliation warred in my chest. My breathing grew shallow, each inhale feeling like broken glass.

"Keep reading," Richard's voice cut through my shock.

Ethan Hayes's letter was somehow worse, his racing champion arrogance bleeding through every line.

*I require a partner who brings genuine value to my brand and family name. Your reputation as a social climber and gold-digger precedes you, Miss Whitman. I cannot risk my career being associated with such... opportunistic tendencies.*

By the time I reached Dr. Damien Reed's letter, my vision had narrowed to a tunnel of white-hot fury. His medical authority lent weight to his cruelty:

*From a psychological perspective, I believe you suffer from delusions of grandeur. Your desperate attempts to secure wealthy suitors speak to deep-seated inadequacy. I recommend therapy rather than marriage proposals.*

The papers slipped from my numb fingers, floating to the floor like autumn leaves. Each word confirmed what I'd overheard at Jaxson's private club just before Christmas—their cruel laughter echoing in my memory as they discussed using me as a "stepping stone" to reach Vivian, the golden daughter, the beloved princess.

"Satisfied?" Richard's question dripped with disdain. "Your little fantasy of marrying into one of these families is over. You've embarrassed us enough."

I forced myself to meet his gaze, my spine straightening despite the emotional hurricane raging inside me. "What do you want from me?"

"Caleb Vance." The name fell between us like a death sentence. "The disabled heir of Vance Industries. West Coast tech empire, worth more than all three of these fools combined."

He gestured dismissively at the scattered letters. "He needs a wife for appearances. We need his money to save Whitman Group from bankruptcy."

The office suddenly felt suffocating, the walls closing in as the magnitude of his words sank in. "You want me to marry a cripple?"

"I want you to finally be useful."

His