The Billionaire's Fatal Regret

In our five years of marriage, I gave him ninety-nine chances. For the sake of a trainee nurse, he pushed me down the stairs, scattered my mother’s ashes to the wind, and even had my liver cut out. He assumed I would forever remain his lowly appendage. But he didn't know that the moment the ninety-ninth love letter burned to ash marked the day I finally gave up on him—and stepped up to inherit my family’s massive business empire. Later, he knelt at my feet like a beaten dog, banging his head against the ground until it bled as he begged for my forgiveness. Looking at his blood-streaked face, I smiled and brushed his hand away: "Unless you die."