What Happens At The End Of Swindle?

My husband is poor. We've already been married for three years, but I've covered all our expenses during that time. Even when I'm interested in a cheap bag when we go shopping, he says it's too expensive. He tells me not to buy it. Later, I discover that he gives his first love a four-million-dollar diamond necklace for her birthday. It turns out he's not broke and heavily in debt—he's the heir to an affluent family with a net worth of billions of dollars.

Irina Volkov has three most important rules: no emotions, no real names, and never meet in person. For two years she has survived on those rules alone — running romance scams on wealthy men, funneling every stolen dollar toward the crushing debt her abusive stepfather signed in her name before she escaped. She is not greedy. She is desperate. And she is very, very good. Until she targets Nikolai Dragunov. What Irina doesn't know is that Nikolai has known about her from the beginning. He created the perfect bait — a lonely businessman with money to burn — and waited for her to find him. Because in a world Nikolai controls down to the last detail, Irina Volkov is the only unpredictable thing left. He wanted to see how far she would go. Now the game is over. The con is exposed. And Nikolai isn't asking for his money back. He's keeping her. Trapped in his penthouse with nowhere to run and a Bratva boss who looks at her like she's both a puzzle and a prize, Irina has to survive the most dangerous mark she's ever made — and somehow stop herself from falling for him in the process. She's a liar. He's a monster. And neither of them expected to fall. "You took my money, Malyshka. Now you belong to me."

In my previous life, my husband had suddenly died of a brain hemorrhage, leaving behind a massive mountain of debt. For the sake of my son, who was still in high school, I sold the house my parents had left me, gritted my teeth, and worked three jobs to pay off the debt. Overworked and exhausted, my health deteriorated, and I eventually collapsed in the hospital. From my bed, I could hear my son, now a graduate from a prestigious university, smiling as he spoke on the phone. "Hello? Dad, it's me. Yeah, she's about to die. I bought insurance for her, so we should get close to one million. You and Aunt Rena should come back home right away." The "Aunt Rena" he spoke of was none other than my husband's childhood friend and neighbor who had known him for years. It turned out that the debts were all part of a massive money-laundering scheme between my husband and his childhood sweetheart. They had fabricated false accounts to hide their crime, and he had faked his death to escape the law. My son, eager to become the heir to wealth, had stood by and watched me work myself to death. When I next opened my eyes, I was back in the moment of my husband's feigned brain hemorrhage, the day it had all begun.

Chelsea is caught in a web when she is captured by Dylan Cross, the most notorious mafia don of Miami's underworld. But on the surface, he is the sweetheart of the city and a highly generous philanthropist. She tries to escape but all her efforts prove futile. Over time, she accepts her fate and decides to plot carefully on her next escape plan. She also plans to gain his trust and swindle him in the end before escaping. However, she begins to see a side of Dylan that is both endearing and lovable. She is torn in her feelings but she still clings to her plan. Over time, events spiral out of control and put her in an ultimate dilemma. What will she do? Will she fall in love with this devilish mafia don? Or will she go through with her plan to escape?

Through tear-blurred vision, she saw a figure emerge—a man walking toward her, the fire parting in his wake. His eyes and claws gleamed gold in the firelight, and black and gilded scales covered his face and body, reminiscent of a serpent. But something more specific hovered at the tip of her tongue. His beastly form slowly faded, leaving a beautiful man with warm skin and firm flesh behind. “Help me,” she croaked. “I don't remember…” “Anything?” the stranger asked, his voice deep and ominous. “Only my name. Araheen,” she whispered, her lips trembling.“What happened to me? What is this place?” “You fell behind the Mad End's Wall.” A shadow of a smile crossed the stranger's lips, though it was far from reassuring. Before she could dwell on it, he slid his powerful arms beneath her, lifting her effortlessly as though she weighed nothing at all. “Who are you?” she asked, feeling small in his grasp. He studied her with an enigmatic gaze before replying, I'm Gildeon.” A pause.“Your husband.”

When I opened my eyes, I found myself supposedly transmigrated to some ancient era. Every morning, before light touched the sky, someone would yank me out of bed to haul trash, chop wood, and do whatever filthiest job needed doing. Somehow, I'd become the lowest-ranked servant in the entire estate. The estate lord's son would climb onto my back and ride me around the courtyard like some pet he was proud to show off. Anyone in the household could hit me, kick me, or shove me aside, and not a single soul would speak up. Five years passed like that, so awful that I almost lost my mind, as if I were living in hell. Then one day, a group of servants cornered me. They didn't bother hiding their intention. The moment I saw their faces, I knew I was in trouble. Fists flew, boots landed, and everything blurred. Just before I passed out, I heard them whispering, "We're going to kill him if we keep this up." "Come on. This place only looks like some old noble estate. It's not an actual one. If he dies here, we're the ones who'll get dragged to court!" "Relax. Ms. Shaw will handle it. The idiot pissed off her childhood sweetheart. Getting tricked into this place is exactly what he deserves." Fear swallowed everything, and the world went dark. When I woke again, the lady of the house had conveniently "returned from visiting her family." The lord threw a grand celebration with tables full of food, wine flowing, and musicians playing like nothing had happened. I carried dishes into the banquet hall and lifted my head. Her face was the same as my wife's, Melissa Shaw. I set the final dish down, stepped closer, and in a voice only she could hear, asked, "Ma'am… are you enjoying your little game?"