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Complete If I Break Series Bundle

Complete If I Break Series Bundle

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Begin the If I Break series with book 1: Wrecked.

Cal Scott is hell in a Armani suit. Find out why thousands of readers love him and why they are shocked by his secret in this whirlwind romance now.

★★★★★ "This book kept me on the edge of my seat and I could not put it down. From a beautiful romance, to complete dread, shock and then brought back up. The feels……." -Reviewer


“Can you stay?” I blurt out and immediately regret it. 

He stops in his tracks, his back toward me—there’s silence, and I remember I’m supposed to be asleep. But here I am, punishing him for his last act of decency toward me. 

“Just—just until I fall asleep,” I manage to squeak out without my voice breaking, my old self content that the words have been spoken. The jaded, vindictive woman I’ve become these last few months cringes at the sound of them.

He doesn’t answer, but he walks back toward the bed. I slowly release the sheets trapped between my fingers. He sits on the edge of the bed, still not facing me, and rests his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together. I feel the burning sensation in my chest followed by the stinging coming up in my throat. In the next few minutes, I’m not going to be able to stop crying.

I immediately regret asking him to stay. I tell myself he has to be here out of pity, or some fucked up sense of duty, granting his desperate wife a last request. A wife who doesn’t even know where the fuck he’s going and what’s making him sit so far away from me on our bed as if I’m disgusting. I change my mind. I want him out, but I can’t tell him without unleashing what will be an uncontrollable, hideous wail. So I quickly force myself back onto the bed, pull the sheets over my face, and try my best to whimper as quietly as I can.

His weight shifts, and I know he’s risen. I knew this would be too much for him. Why should he have to sit here and deal with this? He’s leaving anyway, and being here now isn’t going to make the resolution of this any better. He shouldn’t have come back in. He should have left me in my grief, lying on the floor alone. After all, that’s what he’s ultimately going to do.

When the sheet lifts off me, it’s like a splash of water on my face. When he climbs in beside me and pulls me toward him, it’s a comfort so conflicting, it almost gives me a headache. My mind tells me to push him away, overriding every other thought. I attempt to do it, placing my hands on his chest, but he pulls me toward him, wrapping his strong arms around me, and I don’t put up much more of a fight. He holds me tightly. I feel his heart beating rapidly, but when I look at him, his expression is calm. He stares past me, and I wonder if he’s in this moment with me. I don’t know if I want him to be, but I do know what I want. 

I shift in his arms, and he looks down at me. I bring my lips to his, pressing against them, holding my breath as I do. When he pulls away, my heart drops, and I can’t face him. I quickly make a break from the bed, but he grabs my arm. He looks confused and conflicted, and it’s just making things worse. One thing that Cal has never denied me is his kiss, his touch, his body—they were all mine, and it’s breaking my spirit that he’s doing this now.

“I—I’m still going to have to leave.”

His voice is unyielding but soft, and it makes me melt. His grip on my wrist is gentle but firm enough to not allow me to run away, which was my absolute intention. I wish I could stop him from running away so easily. I replay his words in my head, trying to decipher the meaning, and in my clouded, emotional state I realize he’s trying to give me a choice. For once, he’s not trying to use sex as a bandage or as a means of control or manipulation. But I have to say his timing sucks.

I take a deep breath and command my voice to be steady. “I want to go to sleep.” 

My voice is raspy and somewhat harsh. I clear my throat and wipe away any vulnerability and sincerity. I want him to know that him giving me his body wouldn’t be a knife stabbing through me, that this isn’t about trying to keep him here—but that I need this now. His guilt about it is not a priority to me now.

“Put me to sleep,” I say, sternly commanding my normal voice to return...

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Main Tropes

  • Billionaire Romance
  • Secret Baby
  • Broken Hero


This is not your typical happily ever after...

Lauren Brooks wants to accomplish three things: escape the small town she grew up in, get accepted to her dream school in Chicago, and graduate without drowning in debt. Now, she's working her ass off to do just that.

With a full course load and a waitressing job at one of the hottest nightclubs in Chicago, she doesn't have time for distractions - namely, ones who only want to get into her pants. She's been burned before.

Only a fool goes for a second round... With just two semesters left until graduation, everything's on track. Until she meets Cal. Enter distraction. At six-foot-two, with ebony hair, deep grey eyes, and a smile that could hide an agenda, she knows he's trouble. And for the first time in her life, a little trouble might be just what she needs.

No, what she wants. It isn't like she'd ever marry the guy. Until she does.

What she thinks will be her happily ever after is only the beginning.

Cal has a secret. One that makes loving him come with a price, and being his wife costs more than she bargained for.

Chapter 1

April 26th,


Here he comes. My very
own Prince Fucking Charming, Cal Scott. He walks in, and his eyes quickly skim
the packed suitcase in my hand and briefly rest on my face. He lets out an
exasperated sigh, tosses his keys on the table, and takes off his coat. His
eyes fall on the empty bottle of wine I finished today. A smirk spreads across
his face before he passes me, heading into the living room.

I expected his lack of response, but it hurts all the same.
I’m pretty sure he regards me more as his personal high-class escort than his

I clutch my suitcase, full of the very few things that are
mine. He can keep the cars, the money, and the penthouse—the things he believes
should comfort me in my loneliness. All the material things in the world can’t
make up for the growing disconnect between us. The four-carat yellow diamond on
my finger is a beautiful but painful reminder of the vows he broke.

I look at him now, slouched on the couch with a
self-assured cocky grin plastered on his face, the same one he wore the day I
met him. I walk into the living room. He’s watching a basketball game on his
obnoxiously big television screen as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

He glances back at me, still not speaking, and my anger
boils over. If I were a man, I would kick his ass! I pull the calendar marked
with the very few days he’s been home from my bag and force it into his lap.

“Don’t start this shit, Lauren. I texted you,” he says with
obvious exasperation.

My questions come rapid fire as I walk between him and the
television, waving my suitcase in his direction and trying my best to obstruct
his view. “You texted me? That makes it okay? Do you see my bags at the door
and the one I’m holding? Do you not get it? I’m leaving, Cal. Fuck you and your

He shifts his position on the couch and gestures to the
empty wine bottle I forgot to discard. “I’m not talking to you while you’re
drunk,” he says dismissively.

“Yes, you are!” I insist, moving closer to him.

“Weren’t you leaving?” he asks sarcastically. His face is
stern while his eyes smile.

He’s not taking me seriously, so I lean down and growl in
his face. “You are such an asshole!”

He kisses me—right on the lips—and laughs. He fucking
laughs! I try to slap him, but he’s quick, and my fingertips barely graze his

“I hate you!” I roar and storm away from him. I start to
take off my wedding ring. I want to throw it at him, but then I realize I like
my ring. It’s fucking gorgeous. So I throw the stereo remote at his head
instead before I march to the door.

He’s off the couch, coming after me, but I keep walking. He
grabs my arm, turns me to face him, and takes my suitcase.

“I’m done. Leave me alone!” I yell, struggling to break
free from his iron grasp. Suddenly, I’m picked up and swung over his shoulder. “Let
me go! Stop it!”

But he doesn’t listen. I’m failing miserably in my attempts
to escape.

“No more bottles of wine for you, Mrs. Scott,” he utters,
unfazed by my protests.

“Let me go!” I scream again, punching him in the back as he
carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom, where he drops me
unceremoniously on the bed.

“Sleep this off,” he says simply.

Who the hell does he think he is? I rush toward the door,
but he quickly slips out and shuts the door. I get to the door a split second
later and yank on it. It’s locked. The bastard has locked me in.

“So you’re kidnapping me now? You’re adding that to your
résumé as a shitty, emotionless husband? You can’t keep me here! I’m leaving
you! I’m tired of this! You’re never home! I didn’t sign up to be the only
person in this marriage!”

My outburst is futile. I can hear the play-by-play of the
Bulls game echoing up the stairs, and I’m certain he’s turned up the volume on
his stupid-ass giant TV in order to drown me out. I sit on the floor and cry
until I can’t cry anymore, until I’m too tired to do anything but sleep.


I adjust my eyes as I wake. My head is pounding. The bottle
of wine I consumed is coming back to haunt me. I realize I’m no longer on the
floor but in our bed with the covers over me.

The moonlight, rather than the sun my conscious brain last
saw, shines through the window. I’ve been out of it for a while. I place my
feet on the plush carpet, leave my bed, and head out onto the terrace to enjoy
the fresh evening breeze. Looking over Chicago’s glittering downtown, I think
about how many nights I have spent out here alone, staring at the skyline and
wondering where my husband is. I feel sick.

I move back inside. The bedroom door is now unlocked. I
open it only to find that all the lights in the penthouse are off and it’s
silent. He’s gone again, which doesn’t surprise me. Being inside alone feels
suffocating. I walk back out onto the terrace.

The loneliest time of my life didn’t begin until I married
the one person I would have given my life for. His touch awakened every nerve
in my body, his words and promises hypnotized me, and in his arms, I felt safer
than I’d ever felt anywhere else. For so long, I couldn’t breathe without him.

Nothing is certain now. The bond between us, once so
real—so tangible, I believed in it with every ounce of my being—is now in
tatters. Whatever we had has been lost. Our home is void of warmth and love and
filled with anger instead. We are participants in a war of words that continue
to be recycled over and over. Any hope I had for us now lives in the past, and
that is really fucking depressing.

I laugh at my naiveté and wipe a few tears from my cheek.
Dammit. I promised I wouldn’t cry over him anymore, but what’s another promise
broken to myself? I try to not care so much, but I’m not fooling anybody. I
know I still do.

The front door opens. I walk back inside and into the hall
and look over the banister to see that he has a dozen pink roses in his arms. I
watch him place them on the table before I go back into our room, saying

Returning to the terrace, I survey the city. After a few
minutes, the bedroom door opens, and I sense him walking up behind me, his
scent giving him away before he’s even near me. He’s wearing my favorite
cologne. As smoothly as ever, his strong arms wrap around my waist.

I hate that I still get chills when he touches me. I wish I
would cringe instead. I hate it even more that he knows the effect he has on
me. His lips find the back of my neck, making his way to the crook of it, while
his hands caress my stomach, moving lower before finding the button on my
pants. He begins to undo them. I hate him so much sometimes. I hate even more
that no matter how mad I am, somehow, some way, my body always betrays me and
forgives him.

Taking my hand, he turns me around to face him. He knows
exactly how his beautiful gray eyes affect me, and he uses it to his advantage.

I know he feels me giving in. He knows I’m faltering,
because he smiles at me with that subtle, self-assured grin of his before he
leans down, places his lips on mine, and parts them. When I don’t pull away, he
slides his tongue into my mouth, playing with mine, daring me to resist.

I don’t.

A soft moan escapes my lips. What the hell am I doing? I was supposed to be leaving him tonight.
His grip tightens on my waist. He knows he has me, and damn it, I know it too.
I hate that he knows it first. I hate even more that he knows me so well.

I pull away and look up at him, frustrated by how he can
read me like the back of his hand.

“I hate you sometimes,” I say bitterly.

But even with my tone, the moment he looks at me, he knows
I don’t mean it. Those freakin’ eyes of his have hypnotized me out of my better
judgment—and my clothes—since I’ve known him. They tend to see right through

“I know,” he says before pulling me into one of his
intoxicating kisses that make me feel as if I’m floating.

He carries me inside to our bed. This is what he does,
after all. He’s the master of manipulation, the king of allure. He knows me
inside and out—and probably better than I know myself. That I allowed that to
happen at all was my first mistake. My second was falling in love with him. But
how could I resist someone so irresistible? How could I run away from something
that had already caught me? That’s what happened to me. I was caught before I
even knew I was being hunted, and by the time I realized it, it was far too

He has me addicted, and that’s how he wants it. How the
hell did I let this happen?


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