Scars Of Betrayal: The Fallen Heiress Returns

The door opened.

The world exploded into white light.

"Imogen! Imogen over here!"

"Did you do it?"

"How was prison, Imogen?"

"Is it true you're suing your sister?"

The shouts were a physical assault. Imogen blinked, blinded. She felt a wave of dizziness.

Ford stepped out first. He buttoned his jacket, flashed a perfect, practiced smile at the cameras, and then turned to offer her his arm.

It was a performance. The dutiful fiancé standing by the fallen woman. The perfect image for the stability clause.

Imogen hesitated. If she refused him, the headlines would be about her arrogance. If she took it, she was complicit in the lie.

She took his arm. His muscles were tense, hard as rock under the wool suit.

They walked the red carpet. Imogen focused on her feet. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. She tried to hide the limp, but the heels made it impossible.

They reached the massive double doors of the ballroom. The noise inside was a dull roar of conversation and clinking glass.

They stepped in.

Silence rippled through the room. It started at the door and spread outward like a wave, until five hundred people stopped talking and turned to look.

The judgment was heavy in the air. It tasted like expensive perfume and hypocrisy.

Ford immediately unhooked his arm from hers.

"Find a corner," he whispered, barely moving his lips. "Stay there."

He walked away without looking back, heading straight for the center of the room where a cluster of people stood.

In the middle was Bella.

She was wearing white. Pure, angelic white. A ballgown that took up space, demanding attention. She was laughing, holding court with Imogen's parents.

Imogen stood alone at the entrance. She felt exposed, naked despite the fur stole.

She lowered her head and moved toward the periphery, aiming for the shadows behind a massive floral arrangement of hydrangeas and white roses.

She passed a group of young women-debutantes she used to go to school with. They didn't lower their voices.

"God, she actually showed up?" one whispered loudly. "If I were her, I'd have jumped off a bridge."

"I heard she joined a gang inside," another giggled. "Look at her hair. So... butch."

Imogen gripped her empty hands together. Her nails dug into her palms. Keep walking.

She reached the safety of the flowers. She leaned against the wall, trying to slow her breathing.

On the other side of the greenery, two older women were talking. They couldn't see her.

"Richard is losing his mind," one matron murmured. "Handing the foundation to Bella? The girl is charming, but she's not bright."

"Shh," the other hissed. "He has no choice. Imogen is ruined. Besides... you know the rumor about Bella?"

"What rumor?"

"She's not Claudia's. Not biologically."

Imogen froze. Her breath hitched.

"No!"

"Yes. Adopted. A distant cousin or something. That's why Claudia spoils her so much. Guilt money. Or hush money."

Imogen's mind raced. Bella... adopted? But Richard, her father, treated Bella like the golden child. If she wasn't his blood... why? Why cast aside his own daughter for a stranger?

Unless... unless Bella knew something. Or was something else entirely.

A sudden impact jarred her shoulder.

"Oops!"

Imogen stumbled. A cold, wet sensation spread across her white fur stole.

A waiter stood there, holding an empty tray. Red wine dripped from the white fur, looking like a fresh wound.

"I am so sorry!" the waiter shouted. He wasn't sorry. His voice was projected, designed to draw attention. "I didn't see you there, Miss Willis!"

Heads turned. The whisper network ignited again.

Imogen looked at the red stain. It was ruined. The one shield she had against the world was destroyed.