The Magnate Who Claimed My Heart

To help my fiancé's tech startup, I poured my entire inheritance into his dream and even underwent ninety-nine humiliating hymen reconstruction surgeries to satisfy his bizarre fetish.

But just one procedure away from our wedding, I overheard the truth. He called me his "cash cow" and the surgeries were just "pure theater" to lure in investors with a virgin fetish.

He never loved me. He never even touched me.

Instead, he drugged me with "protein shakes" to keep me compliant and paraded me in front of old perverts.

His plan was to publicly humiliate me at the altar, expose my most private medical secrets, and then marry his childhood sweetheart, Kimberli.

He was going to destroy me, dance on the ashes of my dignity, and leave me with nothing.

But if he wanted a show, he was going to get one. Just not the one he planned. I picked up my phone and texted the one man I had blacklisted, the ruthless East Coast magnate Constantine Russell: "Crash my wedding. I need you."

Chapter 1

My stomach clenched, a familiar wave of nausea washing over me as the local anesthetic began to wear off. The sterile scent of the clinic clung to my skin, a suffocating reminder of where I was and what I just endured. This was the ninety-ninth time. Ninety-nine times I had laid on this table, enduring the precise, painful reconstruction of a hymen that had never been truly broken in the first place.

"You're very brave, Ms. Byers," Dr. Elena said, her voice soft, laced with a hint of concern she couldn't quite mask anymore. She looked at me over her rimless glasses, her gaze searching. We both knew this wasn't normal.

I offered a weak, practiced smile, pulling my silk robe tighter around me. "Just eager for my big day, Doctor." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. My big day. A wedding that felt like a trap I was willingly walking into.

She nodded slowly, a faint frown line etching itself between her brows. "Of course. Ninety-nine… just one more to go, then?" Her question lingered in the air, a silent plea for an explanation I couldn't give.

"Yes. Just one more," I confirmed, my voice barely a whisper. My cheeks burned with shame. What could I say? That I was doing this for a man who claimed to love me but demanded proof of an innocence I didn't truly possess? It sounded pathetic, even to my own ears.

I was Annie Byers, the "fixer" of Los Angeles, the socialite who could orchestrate any event, smooth over any scandal. My public image was one of unflappable composure, sharp wit, and effortless grace. But beneath the polished facade, I was crumbling.

For five years, I had poured my heart, soul, and considerable fortune into Christian Smith. He was younger, ambitious, with kind eyes and a boyish charm that had disarmed my usual cynicism. He was a promising tech startup founder, and I believed in him.