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. I believed in us.

My entire inheritance, painstakingly built connections, my reputation – all were leveraged, all sacrificed for his dreams. I had hosted lavish parties, introduced him to powerful investors, and navigated the shark-infested waters of Silicon Valley and Hollywood on his behalf. I was his rock, his strategist, his devoted partner.

And for what? To satisfy his peculiar demand, his bizarre fetish. He' d promised me marriage, a real marriage, after the one-hundredth procedure. It was his way, he' d explained, of ensuring our union was pure, untainted. He wanted to feel like he was the first, the only. And I, like a fool, had agreed. I wanted to be loved so badly that I let him dictate the terms of my very body.

My legs felt wobbly as I stepped out of the clinic. The Los Angeles sun, usually a comforting warmth, felt harsh, exposing. A dull ache throbbed between my thighs, mirroring the deeper ache in my chest. I just wanted to go home, curl into a ball, and pretend the world didn' t exist.

My driver, a stoic man named Daniel, pulled up silently. As I slid into the back of my luxury sedan, I noticed a familiar car parked a few spaces down. Christian's sleek, black Tesla. He must have been waiting for me. A small flicker of warmth, quickly extinguished, bloomed in my chest. He was usually so busy.

I paused, about to text him, when I heard voices. Christian' s laugh, loud and boisterous, cut through the afternoon quiet. My heart gave a strange little flutter. He rarely laughed like that with me anymore. Curiosity, a dangerous thing, kept my hand from reaching for the door handle.

"Dude, what are you doing here?" a man's voice, deeper, boomed. It was Demonte Frank, Christian' s closest friend and co-founder.

Christian snorted. "Picking up my cash cow, what else?"

My breath hitched. Cash cow? My blood ran cold, fear and confusion battling for dominance.

"Still playing the devoted boyfriend, huh?" Demonte chuckled. "She still believes that virgin bride bullshit?"

Christian scoffed, a sound of pure disdain that twisted something inside me. "Of course she does. Annie's so desperate for a ring, she'd believe anything. Especially from me."

My hands trembled, clutching the door handle tightly, my knuckles turning white. It couldn't be. Not Christian.

"But seriously, man," Demonte continued, a hint of genuine concern in his voice. "She looks... gaunt. And those constant 'medical appointments.' Is she okay?"

Christian laughed again, a harsh, grating sound that vibrated through my bones. "Gaunt? Probably all that 'training' for her big day. Look, Demonte, she's perfectly fine. A little less... vibrant, maybe, but that just makes her easier to manage."

"Manage?" Demonte repeated, sounding genuinely puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Christian leaned against his car, his voice dropping slightly, but I could still hear every damning word. "Come on, man. You really think I'd actually touch her? She' s a walking ATM, not a wife. Those procedures? Pure theater. The real show is for our investors."

The world tilted. My vision blurred. It was like a physical blow.

"The investors?" Demonte asked, his voice lower now, almost conspiratorial.

"Yeah, the old pervs with the 'virgin' fetish," Christian sneered. "They love the idea of a pure, untouched socialite. Keeps them coming back, keeps the money flowing. And Annie, bless her heart, is too dense to realize she's the bait."

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. Bait. I was bait.

"But... she's always so compliant during dinner, almost dreamy," Demonte said, clearly disturbed. "How do you pull that off?"

Christian chuckled, a chilling sound. "Protein shakes, my friend. A little something extra in her protein shakes before our 'dates.' Keeps her mellow, keeps her smiling, keeps her... unaware."

The words hit me like a physical punch. Protein shakes. The special blend he always insisted on, claiming it was for my health, for my skin. The hazy memories of those dinners, the strange detachment, the feeling of being observed but unable to fully connect – it all flooded back with terrifying clarity. He drugged me. He used me. He never even touched me.

My head spun. The betrayal was a gaping wound, tearing through my chest. All those years, all that sacrifice, all that pain... for this? To be a prop in his perverse game, a drugged offering to his lecherous investors?

"And the wedding?" Demonte asked, his voice breaking through my daze. "It's next week, right? What's the plan?"

Christian's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Oh, the wedding is happening. But not with Annie as my bride. That's where the real fun begins. I' m going to publicly expose her, humiliate her in front of everyone. It' ll send a clear message: don't mess with Christian Smith."

My vision narrowed to a pinprick of white-hot rage. Public humiliation.

"And Kimberli?" Demonte prompted.

"Kimberli is back," Christian purred, his voice suddenly soft, almost tender. "My childhood sweetheart. She understands me. She's the one I'm actually marrying. Annie was just... a stepping stone. A very expensive, very useful stepping stone."

The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. Kimberli. The name pierced through the fog of my shock. He was going to marry Kimberli. He was going to discard me like trash.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. I pushed the car door open, stumbled out, and leaned against the cold metal, my breath coming in short, shallow pants. The world spun. My five years of devotion, my entire fortune, my very self, had been nothing but a cruel, elaborate joke. He saw me as a means to an end, a puppet to be played, a body to be exploited.

I remembered the countless dinners, the forced smiles, the unsettling feeling of being admired by men whose eyes held no respect. Each time, I'd returned home, exhausted and vaguely disgusted, only for Christian to be there, praising my efforts, reinforcing the lie that I was doing it for 'us.' He had promised me a future, a family, a love that was real. All of it, a meticulously crafted deception.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me away from the clinic, away from the sound of his triumphant laughter. I walked aimlessly, the pain in my body a distant hum compared to the shattering agony in my soul. I remembered the early days of my career, fresh out of college, navigating a world that often judged women by their looks and connections. I' d learned early on how to use those perceptions to my advantage, building a reputation as a shrewd businesswoman, a social architect. But with Christian, I'd let down my guard. I'd fallen for his innocent facade, his grand promises, his professed need for my help. I' d believed I was finally building something real, something that transcended the transactional nature of my world.

Now, it was all ash. My sacrifices, my love, my pain – all mocked, all for naught. He was going to destroy me. He was going to dance on the ashes of my dignity.

A cold, hard resolve settled deep within me, replacing the despair. If he wanted a show, he would get one. But it wouldn't be his show.

My fingers, still trembling, fumbled for my phone. I scrolled through my contacts, past names I hadn't thought about in years, past the one I had actively blacklisted. Constantine Russell. The notorious East Coast private equity magnate. Dangerous. Powerful. And the man I had cut out of my life two years ago for reasons I couldn't even recall clearly now.

My thumb hovered over his name. Then, with a surge of icy determination, I typed out a message.

Crash my wedding. I need you.