Hades – Stephanie and the Ruthless Mogul (Ruthless MC #6) Read Online Theodora Taylor

Categories Genre: Biker, Mafia, MC, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Ruthless MC Series by Theodora Taylor
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Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 70911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

Hades - Stephanie and the Ruthless Mogul (Ruthless MC #6)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Theodora Taylor

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B09XTTMC6Y
Book Information:

Is my husband a dream come true? Or the nightmare I was trying to escape before I lost my memory?
I didn’t know true desire until the first time I laid eyes on him. Tall, dark, beautiful as a god—completely forbidden. He was the penniless son of the help born in the Lousiana bayou, and I was a pretty southern princess, cultivated like a hothouse flower to become the trophy on some well-pedigreed man’s arm.
My mother slapped my face when she saw us together and warned me he would ruin me. A few weeks later, my father made me sign a contract vowing I wouldn’t have relations with anyone until I married.
So, I tried to forget him. Until one day I woke up to find out I actually had. There’s a near-decade hole in my memory. My disapproving parents have passed away. And the biggest surprise of all: that boy my mother warned would ruin me?
He’s my husband now. He’s still beautiful as a god, and he’s now rich as one, too. He’s made himself over from a poor Cajun boy living on the bayou into a ruthless mogul with enough money to give me anything my heart desires. A huge house on a lake, the perfect job, and endless pleasure.
He’s a total dream husband. Until one day I receive a note from someone I trust, telling me three unsettling things.
1. The beautiful god I sleep next to every night is not my real husband.
2. Before he re-invented himself as a ruthless mogul, he was the even more ruthless leader of a notorious motorcycle gang, and…
3. I was hiding from him all the way up until my accident.
Could it be? Is my dream-come-true actually the nightmare I was trying to escape? What would you do if you were me? Live with the perfect illusion? Or do whatever it takes to uncover the truth?
Books in Series:

Ruthless MC Series by Theodora Taylor

Books by Author:

Theodora Taylor



CHAPTER 1

STEPHANIE

My eyes flutter open like I’m a princess in a fairy tale, brain fuzzy with the confusion of having slept a long unintended time.

Where am I?

My head pulses around a brain stuffed with cotton and my body feels…weird. I’m not in pain, but I’m not entirely free from it either. I’m dwelling in a place between “something’s not right” and “it could be way worse.”

There’s also an IV line in my right hand. What the…

Am I in the hospital? I must be. I track the IV line to a bag of clear liquid hanging from a tall rod. It stands like a guard next to the bed, along with a couple of other machines—one of which appears to be tracking my heart rhythm and blood pressure. Two lines wave and bump across its black screen, flashing a set of rapidly rising numbers. I can’t tell if they’re good or bad.

Doc would probably know.

Wait….who’s Doc?

The thought appeared in my head, so sure and certain. But I can’t attach a face to the name. Or any context.

I strain to remember, but…nothing. Fear spikes in my stomach like the bottom line on the heart monitor.

Why can’t I remember—this Doc person or how I got here? What in the world happened to me? Why am I—

“You’re awake. Thank God…”

My panicked thoughts cut off.

There’s a man with thick black hair sitting next to the bed, holding my left hand in both of his. His eyes are red-rimmed with purple bruises underneath, as if he’s been crying on top of not sleeping. Deep lines have creased his forehead. Worry or age? I can’t be sure.

But the extra lines and dark circles barely detract from the sharp symmetry of his face. And they don’t make his silver eyes any less mesmerizing. He’s still beautiful. And, unlike Doc, I recognize him in an instant.

It’s him.

The boy my mother told me to stay away from—the boy she warned could ruin me.

My introduction to ruin began with my mother, Lady Perreault, discovering a cracked drain plate floating at the top of our pool.

“I better call Amy in to fix it,” my mother announced to my father, little sister, and me at breakfast.

Lady wasn’t nobility. She hailed from Ohio, in fact. But she never volunteered that information to anyone. And she spoke with that highly affected accent that almost all formerly poor Black girls from her generation took on when they landed a rich Southern husband and a mansion to match.

So, she did vaguely sound like an English aristocrat when she decreed, “The pool must look pristine for our big event.”

Our big event was what my mother called the episode of SuperRich Sixteen she’d signed us up to tape—ostensibly for my birthday, but really so we could be the first people in all of Baton Rouge to appear on the popular Video Music Hits show. And Amy was what she called our longtime nanny/housekeeper.

I called her Mama Fairgood, though. And my heart sank on her behalf when Lady threatened to call her while she was on her well-deserved winter vacation.

We used to have a live-in groundskeeper named Jorge. But he disappeared around the same time Mama Fairgood announced she was pregnant with a second child. So now my mother insisted on calling our long-suffering housekeeper whenever anything went wrong on the property. As if Mama Fairgood was responsible for the man who abandoned her.

It was ridiculous, really, especially in the age of the internet.

“I bet I can figure out how to fix it,” I told my mother. “Don’t bother Miss Fairgood on her vacation.” Again.

I didn’t add the last word—just thought it silently.

I also made sure not to call her Mama Fairgood to Lady’s face. That nickname had turned sour for my mother when I hit double digits, even though it was true. Our housekeeper had been more of a parent to me than either of the self-absorbed adults sitting at the table.

Lady had spent nearly all her time since my birth either social climbing or showing off. And my father spent most of his hours outside of work doing the same.

Antoine Perreault had been born into one of the wealthiest and oldest Black families in the state before becoming a lawyer. But he liked to provide his society friends and clients with constant reminders of how much better than them he still was, even after marrying a nobody from Ohio.

Dressed for work in a crisp blue suit, he calmly kept reading the latest edition of The Economist, as if the discussion about the pool wasn’t even taking place. I couldn’t imagine him making his own coffee, much less actually volunteering to take over any of Jorge’s duties.

He was a Perreault, after all, and Perreaults didn’t do menial labor—not since the days of slavery when a several greats grandmother “improved the circumstances she had been born into” by becoming the master’s common-law wife.


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