Running Away With a Billionaire’s Heir

Five years into my marriage to Ethan Morgan, the famous business tycoon in the whole continent.

The entire business world knew he loved me more than anything.

He’d even registered a private Island in my name, a gesture of love and affection no one could ever think of.

However, a text from his secretary ruined everything.

She sent me a picture of her lying almost naked in his arms, her neck full of hickeys while he rested his hand leisurely on her chest.

They were making out on the very Island he had dedicated to me.

[He says his wife doesn't satisfy his real needs. Only with me can he really turn on]

[Only if he doesn't need an heir from her, she would be out of the picture already.]

At that moment I knew what I needed to do. I just made a single call.

“I need a new identity. And a divorce agreement for my husband.”

One month ago, I was the happiest person alive on the earth.

Ethan, my husband of five years, spared no limits showing his affections for me. He even insisted I stop designing dresses for elites because he just couldn't tolerate seeing me tired.

To prove his love, he even bought a private Island and named it after my name, making me the most envied woman of the city.

And all that he wanted from me was a baby just like me, an heir to his empire.

I have been trying for five years and I was pregnant.

Finally!

I wanted to disclose the news to Ethan as soon as possible.

But, my phone buzzed. The name of the buyer who had transferred a fortune to my account just to buy my limited edition dress a week ago was revealed.

Though Ethan did not like it, I continued my career with a different name.

However, the floor beneath me trembled as the name of the buyer of my dress popped up on my screen.

Ethan Morgan.

He bought the dress for a hundred million a week ago yet I had no idea about it. I never received the gift if he intended to buy it for me.

Just then my phone buzzed again. This time it was a review from a female customer wearing the same dress while lying on a beach. Next to her lay a man, half naked.

With one glance I could recognise this man. Ethan, my husband. And the woman, he spent millions for, was his secretary he told me not to worry about.

My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the plush Persian rug, the luxury of our home suddenly feeling like a cold, sterile tomb. The woman in the photo—Maya, his ‘hardworking’ secretary—was wearing the dress I had poured my soul into.

And the worst part, they were laying on the very Island he had bought for me.

The phone almost slipped off my hands. But, it didn't stop buzzing my head. I picked up with trembling