Pocket Library-zsc-12 Facebook ad: “The Untouchable Tyrant Is Obsessed with Me Click to read…”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

2352055821954522

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, Messenger and Threads

Relaunches

0

How we count

Ad text

Chapter 1 A Different Kind of Rebirth Splash— A bucket of ice-cold water crashed over Wynne Sinclair's head. The shock ripped her awake. She sucked in a sharp breath, vision swimming, a dull ache pounding behind her eyes. Blinking hard, she lifted her head—and froze. "Boss, she's awake." The voice came from somewhere ahead. An abandoned warehouse. Dim light. Dust in the air. And a handful of thick-built men who looked like trouble even on a good day—now staring at her with cold, predatory eyes. "If you've got someone to blame," one of them sneered, "blame your bad luck. Once we get paid, we'll take care of both of you." Both? The man waved his hand lazily and led the others outside to smoke and play cards. Wynne turned her head. That's when she saw him. A little boy—four, maybe five—tied up beside her. Soft cheeks, tear-streaked face, mouth sealed with tape. His eyes were huge, glossy with fear, tears slipping down one after another like broken beads. He looked at her like she was his last chance. Wynne exhaled slowly. Great. Out of everything that could've gone wrong, she'd woken up to this. Kidnapped. And— Her mind went blank. Nothing. Not a single memory. She knew her name—Wynne Sinclair. She knew, instinctively, that she was sharp, dangerous, not someone to mess with. Everything else? Gone. "…Seriously?" She flexed her wrists. Crack. Then again. Crack. With a quick, practiced motion, she dislocated her joints and slipped free of the rope like it was nothing. The boy froze mid-sob. His tears stopped. His mouth hung open behind the tape as he watched her calmly pop her joints back into place. Crack. Crack. Wynne didn't even flinch. She leaned over and untied him next. But her gaze drifted. To the corner. A steel pipe lay there—discarded, forgotten. The air around her shifted. Something cold flickered in her eyes. She was in a very bad mood. And she needed somewhere to put it. "Well," she muttered under her breath, "not everything sucks." She picked up the pipe. And headed for the door. — Sandmere Isle. Storm clouds pressed low against the sky. Inside the grand hall, the atmosphere was suffocating. No one spoke. Dozens of people stood rigid, their eyes fixed on the man seated in the center—alone on a black leather sofa. Jerome Cromwell. Black shirt. Collar open. A cigarette balanced between long fingers as smoke curled lazily around his sharp, sculpted features. A string of black rosary beads looped around his wrist. At his feet, a man knelt—trembling. "Who told you to do it?" Jerome's voice was low. Even. Almost gentle. Which made it worse. Across the marble floor, a massive white python slid forward, its body thick and silent, its tongue flicking in the air. Cold. Unsettling. It coiled up onto the sofa, resting its heavy head against Jerome's leg. The kneeling man collapsed completely, terror stripping him of speech. Jerome didn't even look at him. He slid the rosary off his wrist, slow and deliberate. That alone was enough to send a ripple of fear through the room. Several people broke into a cold sweat. No one dared breathe too loudly. He stroked the python's head, absent-minded. "Hungry?" he asked softly. That was all it took. Two men stepped forward, dragging the kneeling man away like he weighed nothing. "Mr. Cromwell—please! I'll fix it! Just give me one more—" His screams stretched— Then cut off. Silence fell again. A bodyguard stepped forward. "Mr. Cromwell, we have a location." Jerome lifted his eyes. The temperature dropped. The man stiffened instinctively, a chill shooting down his spine. Jerome's only nephew was missing—this was a disaster of the highest order. "Thirty minutes," Jerome said. — Back at the warehouse. The fight was over. Completely. Wynne sat on the only chair still intact, one leg crossed over the other, lazily rolling her neck. The steel pipe in her hand dragged lightly against the concrete floor. Screech— Screech— The sound alone made the men on the ground flinch. Minutes ago, they were loud. Confident. Now? Bruised. Bleeding. Some on the verge of tears. Hands raised. Bodies shaking every time the pipe moved. What the hell did we kidnap…? Wynne sat where light and shadow split across her face, making her look even colder. Then— A faint rustle. Behind her. Soft. Careful. Like a mouse testing the air. Stop. Start again. Stop. Then— A small hand reached out and tugged lightly at the hem of her shirt. Wynne stilled. She glanced down. The boy. Their eyes met. He broke into an awkward, overly eager smile—clearly not something he was used to doing. His eyes were still red, lashes damp, but there was something disarmingly cute about him. He leaned in and rubbed his cheek against her hand. Wynne raised a brow. "What's your name?" She pinched his nose lightly. He tilted his head—but didn't speak. Instead, he grabbed her hand and slowly traced letters across her palm. Careful. Deliberate. "Dylan… Cromwell?" His name. Mute? The moment she said it, his face lit up. He nodded quickly, then—somehow—produced a small phone and shoved it into her hand. Wynne blinked. Where the hell did he hide that? Before she could question it, the phone rang. Caller ID: Cromwell. She answered without thinking. "Had your fun?" A deep, magnetic voice slipped through the line. Wynne arched a brow. "Mr. Cromwell," she said, clearing her throat, tone casual, "your son's with me." Silence. Heavy. Pressing. Then— "Is that so?" the voice came again. "Of course—" But she froze mid-sentence, because she realized the voice hadn't come from the phone. It came from behind her. The air shifted. Something suffocating rolled through the room, like all the oxygen had been sucked away. Wynne's body went still. Slowly—she turned. And met a pair of cold, piercing eyes. He stood against the light, tall, composed, his silhouette cut in pale gold—but there was nothing warm about him. Absolute. Untouchable. Even surrounded by men in black, he felt… singular. Like something carved out of frost and steel. His hand lifted slightly. Black rosary beads slipped into view. A sudden pain exploded behind Wynne's eyes. Sharp. Blinding. "Alex." His voice was quiet. Final. A shadow moved. Before Wynne could react, something struck the back of her neck— Darkness swallowed everything. — Morning. Soft sunlight filtered through the curtains. Wynne stirred. Something cool brushed along her leg. Smooth. Slow. A faint hiss followed. Instinct kicked in—she reached out to push it away— And froze. Her eyes snapped open. A massive white python lay coiled beside her. Its body gleamed pale in the light, tongue flicking inches from her face. "Hiss…" Then a low voice followed. "Awake?" Chapter 2 Is He Insane? Wynne turned at the sound of his voice. Morning light spilled across the room, catching on the man lounging by the window. He wore a black robe, loosely belted, the fabric falling open just enough to reveal hard, sculpted muscles beneath. Long legs stretched out with effortless ease, one hand holding a cup of coffee, the other resting on an open file. The black rosary at his wrist swayed faintly, making him seem like an unfathomable abyss in the depths of a winter sea. That was the first thing she saw. Wynne dragged her tongue along the back of her teeth, a spark of wild defiance still flickering in her eyes. "You—" He looked up. The instant their gazes locked, everything rushed back—the warehouse, the fight, the moment she'd blacked out. On the bed, the massive white python slithered lazily across the sheets. Its sheer size should've been terrifying, yet there was something oddly… docile about it. "Rolly." Jerome's voice was low and cold. Rolly? Wynne's brow twitched. Naming a giant snake something that cute? This man had to be out of his mind. At the sound of its name, the python slid off the bed, coiling neatly beside him before draping its heavy head over his shoulder like it belonged there. It even nudged him, almost affectionately. Wynne stared for half a second longer than she meant to. Then she looked back at him. "So—you're Dylan's father?" She needed to make this clear. She wasn't part of the kidnapping. She'd been tied up right along with the kid. Jerome didn't answer. His fingers moved slowly over the python's head. His gaze stayed fixed on her—cool, unreadable. The kind of look that made your skin prickle. Then, as if by accident, the file on his lap slipped. Photos scattered across the floor. Wynne stopped mid-sentence. Because every single photo—was of her. Childhood. Adolescence. Recent. A full dossier. So he already knew. He knew she had nothing to do with the kidnapping… yet he still said nothing? Testing her. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her body leaning back against the headboard, relaxed but alert. "Mr. Cromwell," she said coolly, "you enjoy messing with people?" No answer. He simply lifted a hand and pointed to the side. Wynne frowned, then turned— —and froze. The mirror. Her reflection stared back at her. Or rather… a disaster did. Heavy, smeared dark makeup clung to her face like it had been applied in a storm. Thick eyeliner, uneven shadow. Add in the cluster of skull earrings crawling up her ears— It was chaos. Full-on trashy punk. Wynne blinked once. "…That's me?" She reached up and touched her face, disbelief flickering across her expression. Beneath the mess, though, her features were sharp—refined, almost strikingly so. The makeup couldn't hide that. "Mr. Cromwell," she muttered, already throwing the blanket aside and stepping onto the cold floor barefoot, "I need to fix this." … Steam fogged the bathroom mirror. Wynne wiped it clean with one sweep of her hand. A completely different face emerged. Bare, flawless skin—clear as porcelain, still flushed from the heat of the shower. Her fox-like eyes blinked softly, revealing a warm amber glow beneath long lashes. Innocent at a glance— —but distant. Untouchable. There was a quiet chill to her beauty, the kind that kept people at arm's length. A small beauty mark rested just below her collarbone. Her long hair fell down her back in smooth, glossy waves. She studied herself for a moment. Still nothing. No memories. No past. Just a name. Wynne Sinclair. When she stepped out, the room was empty. No Jerome. No snake. Only the scattered photos and files remained. She crouched, picking them up one by one, flipping through. "Wynne Sinclair. Eighteen…" Expelled from First High. Chronic truancy. Failing grades. Rebellious. Estranged from family. A younger sister—enrolled at Inber Academy. Flipping to the next page, her fingers paused. She wasn't even the Sinclairs' biological daughter. A flicker of cold light passed through her eyes. So that was it. The Sinclairs obviously knew all along. They had treated them differently since childhood. Yet somehow, a family with modest means could afford the sky-high tuition of an elite academy? Interesting. Very interesting. Just as she turned the page— BANG. BANG. BANG. "Ms. Sinclair!" The door rattled under heavy knocks. "Ms—!" It swung open before he could finish. Brian Hood nearly stumbled forward, fist cutting through empty air as Wynne stepped aside cleanly. He looked up— —and froze. His jaw dropped. Where the hell did this beauty come from? This was the same girl from yesterday? That walking paint disaster? This— This was a completely different person. Wynne didn't care about his reaction. "Here to kick me out?" she asked flatly. Dylan was safe. She had no reason to stay. "Ms. Sinclair, please—come with me!" Brian snapped out of it, urgency slamming back into his voice. Just thinking about the state of the kid's room made his scalp prickle. I'd rather fight mercs for a month than deal with that kid, he muttered under his breath. Wynne's gaze sharpened. "Something wrong with Dylan?" Her chest tightened slightly as she followed him toward the elevator. Third floor. The moment the doors opened— CRASH. A glass vase flew straight at them, smashing against the wall into a thousand shards. Wynne raised a brow. The floor was worse—fragments everywhere, not a single safe place to step. "…Impressive." She glanced at Brian. "He did all this alone?" Brian nodded so hard it looked like his neck might snap. Wynne walked in. The deeper she went, the worse it got. Servants stood off to the side, silent, not daring to intervene. "Replace them. Let him keep smashing." Jerome's voice cut through the room—cold, absolute. No softness. Just command. Within moments, more antiques were brought in—rare pieces, each one worth a fortune. Dylan stood in the middle of the chaos, tiny fists swinging at anyone who got close. "Hmph! Hmph!" Rolly coiled beside him, letting the boy climb onto its body, guarding him like a living throne. Wynne's gaze dropped. The kid was exhausted. On the verge of collapsing. Barefoot. Broken glass littered the ground at his feet. Something in her expression snapped cold. She turned sharply to Jerome. "Are you insane?" Dylan shifted, trying to step forward. "Don't move." She stepped toward him, slow and steady, eyes locked on his. "I'm coming to you," she said, her tone softer—but firm. "Stay right there." The moment Dylan saw her, his eyes lit up— —and immediately filled with tears. His lips trembled. He looked like he'd been holding it in for far too long. Then he lifted his small arms toward her. Silent. Needing. Chapter 3 You've Never Asked My Name "Up."Dylan didn't make a sound, but the word formed clearly on his lips. Tears rolled down his cheeks, heavy and relentless. He wanted to be held. "Don't pick him up." Jerome's voice cut in—cold, absolute, leaving no room for disobedience. The already chaotic room seemed to tighten under it. Wynne didn't even look at him. She simply reached out and covered Dylan's ears, her voice low and casual. "Ignore him. He's talking nonsense." For a second, even Jerome went still. Brian, sensing danger, tried to quietly edge toward the door—only to freeze mid-step when Alex shot him a lethal glare. When giants clash, it's the little ones who get crushed. "Wynne." It was the first time anyone had openly defied Jerome. He smiled. And somehow, that made him even more dangerous. "Mr. Cromwell," Wynne said lazily, lifting Dylan into her arms anyway, "you're not exactly young anymore. Why pick a fight with a kid?" Her tone carried a faint, mocking edge. Jerome's lips pressed into a thin line. His expression cold and unreadable. He just watched her quietly. The air froze solid. No one dared breathe. This girl… is asking to die. Then—after what felt like an eternity—Jerome's fingers moved slightly. It was enough. The staff exhaled in relief, like prisoners granted a pardon. They rushed in, cleaned the shattered mess, and disappeared in seconds. Wynne turned, carrying Dylan toward the door. She didn't get far. Alex stepped in front of her, expression blank. "Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Cromwell hasn't dismissed you." Wynne recognized him immediately—the one who knocked her out. Her gaze lingered on him for a beat. "Hmph!" Dylan suddenly leaned forward, trying to bite Alex's arm—but Wynne pinched his lips shut mid-motion. "Mmph?" He blinked, head tilting slightly, instantly turning from feral to… an adorable rubber duck. "Fine," Wynne said lightly. "I won't leave." She turned back, unfazed, and carried Dylan straight across the room. Then sat down, right across from Jerome. Facing him. Only then did she notice— The wheelchair. Custom-built. Sleek. Expensive. But wrong. Because she remembered him standing in that warehouse. Her eyes flickered. Was her memory off… or was something else going on? "You haven't even asked my name," Jerome said at last, his voice low and measured. His gaze locked onto her—dark, cold, like a frozen lake under moonlight. Every line of his face was sharp, controlled, dangerous. A man who held all the cards. Brian's eyes lit up instantly, practically vibrating with curiosity as he shot Alex a look. Alex shut him down with a single glance. "Do I need to?" Wynne frowned slightly, genuinely puzzled. Everyone froze. A beat later, she seemed to realize how that sounded and added, "I mean—I'll be leaving soon. Does it really matter what your name is, Mr. Cromwell?" Casual. Detached. The temperature in the room dropped another degree. Brian hunched his shoulders. Oh, god. Too blunt. Way too blunt. "Who said you could leave?" Jerome's voice sank lower, darker. His gaze sharpened, like he could see straight through her. He sat there, one hand lazily stroking the python draped across his lap, looking like a predator savoring the hunt. Excuse me? Wynne didn't flinch. A contract slid across the table toward her. "One hundred million. Stay. Take care of Dylan." His tone didn't change. Calm. Indifferent. Like he wasn't offering a fortune—but spare change. Wynne stared at the paper. Silent. Her lashes lowered slightly, hiding her expression. Jerome didn't rush her. He toyed idly with Rolly's tail, his gaze drifting over her clean, bare face—something darker flickering beneath. Beside her, Dylan looked up, eyes bright and hopeful. He rubbed his soft curls against her hand lovingly, regretting his earlier tantrum, worried he'd scared her off. Does she also think I'm a bad kid? Jerome noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Everything you need—food, clothes, living expenses—will be taken care of. All you need to do is stay with him." He said in an icy voice. Rolly reacted instantly, slipping off his lap and retreating to the corner, coiling quietly. "Alex…" Brian whispered, barely containing himself. "Based on every drama I've ever seen, she's about to flip—throw the contract in his face and yell, ‘Don't insult me with money!'" Alex didn't even blink. If Jerome ordered it, he'd drag her back by force without hesitation. "You…" Wynne finally spoke, lifting her head. Brian leaned forward, eyes shining. Here it comes. Jerome remained still, cold and imposing—even seated, he dominated the room. "Can someone give me a pen?" … Silence. Absolute silence. Everyone looked at the table. No pen. Jerome slowly turned his head toward Brian. That calm, expressionless face—somehow more terrifying than rage. The look in his eyes? Like Brian was already dead. Alex, save me. A pen appeared almost instantly. Wynne caught it between her fingers, spinning it once, smooth and effortless. "I've got one more question, Mr. Cromwell." She met his gaze directly. "You're really willing to spend a hundred million just to keep me here with this kid?" A pause. "Even if I turn out to be trouble?" She was giving him an out. Because something in her bones—memory or not—told her one thing: If she took the money, she'd see it through. Jerome didn't hesitate. A black card slid across the table. No-limit. International. "One hundred million," he said flatly. "PIN is six zeros." Wynne's lips curved. Her eyes lit up. "Then I want one more thing." "Say it." No hesitation. No resistance. "I want into Inber Academy." The top private school in the city. She was going. "No problem." Easy. Too easy. Wynne didn't hesitate anymore. She signed decisively. "It's a deal." Her meal ticket. "Mr. Cromwell—" Alex's voice cut in sharply. "Something's happened to Mrs. Rosalie." ...... For more exciting content, please download the "Tapon" app to continue reading.

Where the ad sends people

page.taponland.com

📕🔥The Untouchable Tyrant Is Obsessed with Me😍Click to read for free!!👉