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The Kane Contract: Vows of Venom

The Kane Contract: Vows of Venom

Romance
last updateLast Updated : 2026-01-28
By:  Amelia HartCompleted
Language: English
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7.7
3 ratings. 3 reviews
79Chapters
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Synopsis

Contemporary

First-Person POV

Goodgirl

Pregnant

Revenge

Divorce

One night. One kiss. One viral humiliation. Livia Harper built Theo Whitford’s dying company into a billion-dollar empire while carrying his child in secret. On their second anniversary, in front of two hundred cameras, Theo introduced his college sweetheart as “the woman I’ve always loved” and kissed her like Livia never existed. Twenty-four hours later Livia is Mrs. Alexander Kane (the most ruthless billionaire in America and Theo’s oldest enemy). The contract is simple: one year of fake marriage, seventy-five million dollars, and the total annihilation of Theo Whitford’s life. Rules: No feelings. The baby stays a secret. When the year ends, she disappears forever. But contracts weren’t made for the kind of fire that ignites when the woman who has nothing left to lose marries the man who’s never lost anything. Some vows are made to be broken. Others are made to burn the world down.

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Chapter 1

Two Pink Lines

A sharp sting on her neck snapped Holly Sullivan out of her daydream.

She looked up, her eyes clouded with confusion. She saw Luke Hoffman's attractive face flushed with intense passion and longing.

"Holly, can you stay here with me?"

Luke's voice was low and laced with a hint of seduction.

He drew her closer with a firm squeeze on her waist, his rhythm intensifying—a wordless punishment for her wandering attention. After a contented sigh, he nestled into Holly's arms, relaxing at the touch.

What followed was the familiar declaration of love.

"Holly, do you have any idea how much I love you?

"I'd be lost without you."

The lingering desire within her unfurled, wave after wave.

His words of devotion shattered what was left of her composure.

Luke had a craving for breast milk, and as fate would have it, she was naturally well-endowed. Ever since she hit puberty, she had to change her undergarments constantly. They were a perfect match.

Her voice shook with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

"Luke, let's get married. I'm nearly 28, and it's—"

She could not finish her thought.

Luke, who had been so close just moments ago, suddenly withdrew.

He stood up. His physique featured broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist.

Turning his back to Holly, he methodically got dressed. His tone reverted to its usual detached chill.

"Why bring that up now? It's too early. Plus, the company's got me swamped, and I don't have time for a wedding."

Holly gripped the fabric beneath her, her lower lip caught between her teeth in a bashful plea, "We don't have to have a wedding. I just want to make it official."

Luke froze in his place.

As the silence grew heavy, his ringing phone broke the tension.

He stepped away to take the call, and Holly started to get dressed.

A misstep sent her tumbling into the bushes, and a flash of red caught her eye.

Shaking, she grabbed a tiny camera hidden among the leaves.

Holly dashed towards Luke without even bothering to fix her half-done buttons.

After a frantic search, she finally found him. She needed to tell him about the secret video, but she stopped short when she heard his icy voice on the phone.

"Got the video? Make sure it's crystal clear, especially Holly's face."

It felt like a thunderclap exploded right next to her ear. Her steps faltered and her mind sounded like a whirlwind of noise.

Through the speaker, a man's sleazy chuckle oozed through. "Luke, you're too kind to share such a prize with us."

Luke's laugh was light, dripping with mockery. "She's just a plaything. If you want, I might let you have a turn next time.

"If not for Cecilia, she wouldn't have even caught my eye.

"The competition is in two days. If Holly doesn't mess up, Cecilia won't stand a chance at the title. It's always been her dream.

"I can't bear to see Cecilia upset."

So that was it. He was with her just to help his childhood sweetheart, Cecilia Porter. To him, Holly was nothing more than a toy.

A chill engulfed Holly, freezing over her heart. Her face went ghostly white while her body tethered in fear.

Her phone buzzed. It was Ronald Hoffman.

[Holly, are you sure about turning down the marriage proposal? The guy's a catch.]

Tears spilled from Holly's eyes. With her back to Luke, she walked away and texted back.

[I've made up my mind. I'll go through with the marriage.]

Ronald's response came back almost instantly, his happiness palpable even through the screen.

[That's settled then. His family was just waiting on your 'yes' to book the wedding abroad. It'll be in two weeks.]

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reviews

PTJ
PTJ
Great storyline.. fresh ..no second chances for exes and what a beautiful way for FL to win back everything:).well done author! just few editing errors but that doesn't spoil the book at all.
2026-05-23 16:43:22
0
0
Sheila
Sheila
What a great story this was. Vengeance at its finest, with a fabulous love story to boot! Good job author!
2026-03-14 22:37:47
0
0
Empress Wolfe
Empress Wolfe
DNF @ Ch17. This is obviously "written" by an AI. I was honestly so hooked in the beginning, but then terrible continuity and the repetitive scenes and dialogues started happening lmao
2026-06-12 09:38:25
0
0
79 Chapters
Two Pink Lines
I peed on the stick at 6:12 a.m. because I couldn’t wait another second. I’d bought the test at 11:47 last night in the twenty-four-hour store on California Avenue, wearing sunglasses and Theo’s Stanford hoodie like some kind of criminal. The cashier didn’t even look up. I stood in the feminine hygiene aisle for ten full minutes pretending to compare brands while my heart tried to punch its way out of my ribs.I slid down the bathroom wall and sat on heated Italian floor that cost more per square foot than my mom made in a month when I was growing up. I was twenty-nine, married to a man every magazine called “the future of tech,” and I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.Eight weeks. I did the math in my head like I was back in my dorm at Stanford, hunched over problem sets at 3 a.m. with cold pizza and Red Bull. That night in Aspen after we closed Series B. Theo had carried me over the threshold of the cabin like an idiot, dropped me on the rug, kissed me until we forgot our own n
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The Toast
I’m halfway across the ballroom when the lights dim for the first speech of the night. Some senator drones on about innovation and job creation while I weave through the crowd, smile glued on, heart hammering so loud I’m scared people can hear it.I just need to find Theo. Touch him. Feel his hand on my back the way he used to do when these events made me want to hide under a table. One squeeze and everything will settle.But he’s still at the bar with Red Dress. She’s leaning in now, saying something against his ear. He throws his head back and laughs, the same laugh he used to give me when I did something ridiculous like try to cook him dinner and set off the smoke alarm.I stop walking. People bump into me, murmur apologies, keep moving. I’m frozen, staring like some pathetic stalker.Get it together, Livia.I force my feet forward. The senator finishes. Applause. Then an editor who once called me “Theo Whitford’s brilliant accessory” in print takes the stage.“And now, the woman w
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The Kiss That Ended Everything
I don’t remember leaving the stage.One second I’m staring at Theo’s mouth on hers, the next I’m shoving through bodies, past trays of champagne, past people calling my name like it still belongs to me.I need a bathroom. Any bathroom. Somewhere I can lock the door and scream without two hundred phones recording it.I find the private one behind the ballroom (meant for brides and VIPs), slam the lock, and fall against the door.Then I throw up.Not dramatic little heaves. Full-body, soul-ripping vomit. Ginger ale and the three bites of toast I managed this morning splatter the floor. My knees hit the tiles so hard the pain shoots up my thighs, but I don’t care. I’m shaking too hard to stand.The baby. Oh God, the baby.I curl over the toilet like I can protect it from what just happened.My phone is blowing up in my clutch (buzzing against my hip like a trapped wasp). I yank it out with wet fingers.312 new notifications.The top one is a push alert:BREAKING: Whitford Tech CEO Theo W
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Leather and Vengeance
The Maybach smells like money and something darker. Sandalwood, maybe. Or just predator.I’m shivering in my fourteen-thousand-dollar dress, barefoot, mascara crusty, clutching the broken heel like a weapon. Alexander Kane doesn’t speak until we’re three blocks from the Rosewood and I still haven’t looked at him.“You’re bleeding,” he says.I glance down. My palm is sliced open from the ultrasound photo edges. Blood smears across the cream leather seat. I don’t move to wipe it.“Good,” I mutter.He exhales through his nose (half laugh, half something else) and reaches forward to tap the privacy glass. It lowers an inch.“Hotel Vitale. Penthouse,” he tells the driver. “And kill the location tracking.”The glass rises again.I finally turn my head.Alexander Kane in person is worse than memory. Black suit, no tie, top button undone like he never finished getting dressed. Or like he’s always ready to ruin someone’s night. The streetlights stripe across his face, sharp cheekbones, the kin
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The Price
The bar is almost empty. Just low amber lights, a jazz trio packing up, and Alexander Kane at the far corner table like he owns the concept of dawn itself.He’s ditched the jacket. White shirt rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with ink (black lines, Cyrillic letters, one thin white scar shaped like a crescent moon). He’s nursing something dark in a heavy crystal glass and watching the door like he already knows I’m coming.I walk straight to his table like I’m being pulled by a wire. No heels, wet hair twisted into a knot, wearing the black hoodie the concierge handed over with a whispered “Mr. Kane said you might need this.” My eyes are swollen, lips cracked from biting them bloody. I look like a crime scene.Alexander doesn’t stand. Just watches me with that unreadable stare and nudges the second glass forward (orange juice, two ice cubes, a single mint leaf floating like it’s mocking me).“Sit, Livia.”I sit.For a solid minute we do nothing but breathe the same air. H
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Homecoming in Red
The Maybach glides to a stop in front of the Pacific Heights penthouse at exactly 11:12 a.m. The building still has my name on the deed. For now.Alexander kills the engine himself. No driver today. He wanted this moment private.He doesn’t open my door. He waits until I do it myself, like he’s testing whether I still can.I step onto the sidewalk in the nineteen-thousand-dollar white silk slip dress and the black diamond ring that feels like a loaded gun on my finger. My hair is blown out, makeup armor-grade. I look like a bride who just murdered the groom and wore the blood as highlighter.Cameras are already across the street (paparazzi spawned the second the marriage certificate hit the wires). Phones rise like rifles.Alexander rounds the car, two steps behind me, close enough that his shadow swallows mine. He’s in head-to-toe black, no tie, the white rose pinned to his lapel the only color on him. He doesn’t touch me. Not yet.The doorman (Marco, been here six years) sees me and
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Divorce Papers & Ultrasound
The morning after, I wake up in Alexander Kane’s guest wing at 6:14 a.m. The bed is arctic-white, ten-thousand-thread-count, and feels like a crime scene because I actually slept.There’s a single white rose on the pillow beside me. No note. Just the flower, dewy and perfect, like it grew there overnight.I’m still staring at it when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.Unknown number. San Francisco prefix.I answer.“Mrs. Whitford?” A nervous male voice, Theo’s lawyer. “Mr. Whitford would like to finalise the divorce today. He’s at the penthouse if you’re available to sign.”I hang up without replying and text Alexander one word: Now.He’s in the kitchen thirty seconds later, hair wet from his own shower, black T-shirt clinging to places I refuse to catalogue. He reads my face and doesn’t ask questions.“Want me to come up?”“No. I want you to wait in the car. If I’m not down in twenty minutes, come get me.”He nods once. “Take the obsidian letter-opener. Just in case.”I almost smile.
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One Bag and a White Rose
Livia's POVI have to go back one last time.The lawyers say everything is already in motion (accounts frozen, locks changed by end of week), but there are few things I refuse to let Amara paw through.Alexander offered to send security to retrieve them. I told him I’d rather burn the building down than owe him another favour.“One last time,” I say, to myself.So here I am, standing in the private elevator for the final time, clutching the obsidian letter-opener like a talisman.The doors open.Amara is exactly where I pictured her: sprawled across my side of the bed like a spoiled cat, legs stretched out, phone in one hand, glass of red wine in the other. She’s wearing my silk robe now (the ivory La Perla one Theo gave me for our first anniversary). It’s untied, hanging open just enough to make a point.She doesn’t even look up at first.“Third time’s the charm?” she drawls, scrolling. “Or are you just nostalgic for losing?”“Packing?” She continued “took you long enough. I was sta
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Separate Wings, Same War
The Kane penthouse is a cathedral of glass and black steel perched so high the city looks like a toy someone forgot to put away.Alexander stops in the cavernous foyer, keys the private elevator to require a new code behind us, and gestures down a hallway that disappears into shadow.“East wing is yours,” he says, voice clipped and professional. “Three bedrooms, two baths, sitting room, private kitchenette. Lock on the inside. Set whatever code you want.”He doesn’t offer to carry my duffel. He doesn’t offer anything.I nod once.He turns to leave, then pauses without looking back.“Staff knows not to disturb you unless you ring. Breakfast’s at eight if you want it. If not, don’t come out.”Then he’s gone, footsteps swallowed by sixty-five floors of money and silence.I stand there for a full minute, single duffel at my feet, white rose still pressed inside my coat pocket like a secret I haven’t decided to keep or destroy. Why did I bring it with me? It’s just a flower. A stupid, mani
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The Penthouse Rules
8:07 a.m.The scent of coffee drags me out of the east wing like a hook through the ribs. I didn’t sleep. I counted the hours instead (six, maybe seven) while the baby practiced kickboxing and my mind replayed every second of yesterday on a loop I can’t mute.I’m wearing the same black leggings and cream cashmere from yesterday, hair twisted into a knot that says I woke up like this and I dare you to comment. No makeup. Let him see the bruise-coloured shadows under my eyes. Let him see what his seventy-five-million-dollar purchase looks like when it hasn’t been polished for public consumption.The main living area is flooded with brutal golden light. Alexander is already at the island, black suit jacket draped over the back of a stool, white shirt sleeves rolled once, exposing forearms I refuse to notice… but damn, that’s strong.He’s reading a tablet, one hand wrapped around a matte-black mug. A second place setting waits opposite him: two poached eggs, avocado sliced into perfect fa
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