Jilted Heiress: Her Reign Has Begun

Etta Stark POV:

The shareholder' s meeting was in three weeks. Three weeks until Fremont Warren would officially be handed the scepter of power-the CEO title of the Warren-Stark empire. It was a mere formality, a coronation he had been preparing for his entire life. In his mind, he was already king.

I retreated. The world outside my rooms ceased to exist. I didn' t eat. I didn' t sleep. The house staff would leave trays of food outside my door, and they would be taken away hours later, untouched. The only thing I consumed was the silence, and it was a bitter meal.

The wound on my hand scabbed over, a jagged, ugly line that served as a constant reminder. It throbbed with a dull ache, a physical manifestation of the rot that had set into my life.

Then the messages from Corina started again. A relentless barrage of poison delivered directly to my phone.

Are you two even really engaged? Fremont says it' s just a business arrangement. He says he' s never even slept with you.

You' re just a relic from the past, Etta. An obligation. He told me he can' t wait to be free of you.

Why don' t you just disappear? It would make things so much easier for everyone.

Let him go. He loves me. He wants to be with me and our baby.

Then came the picture. A selfie. Corina, wrapped in Fremont' s bedsheets, her pregnant belly proudly on display. Fremont was asleep beside her, his arm thrown protectively over her. She was smiling, a triumphant, vicious little smirk.

The caption beneath it read: He still makes love to me every night, even with the baby. When was the last time he touched you like this, Etta? Or has he ever?

My thumb hovered over the screen. I felt nothing. No rage, no tears. Just a vast, cold emptiness. I calmly blocked her number and deleted the entire message thread.

A week later, a formal family dinner was arranged. An attempt by the Warren elders to project an image of stability in the face of the swirling scandal. My attendance was not optional.

I dressed in a severe black dress, the bandage on my hand a stark white contrast. I walked into the grand dining room, my head held high. The long, polished mahogany table was filled with the faces of the Warren clan-uncles, aunts, cousins. Their gazes were a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. I could feel their unspoken apologies hanging in the air like a bad smell.

My designated seat, the one to the right of the head of the table where the patriarch would sit, was my birthright. It was the seat my mother had once occupied, the seat that signified my position as the future matriarch of the family.

I walked toward it, each step a deliberate act of reclaiming what was mine.

And then I stopped.

My breath caught in my throat. The world tilted on its axis.

Sitting in my chair, nestled beside Fremont, was Corina Gonzales.

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