Scars Of Betrayal: The Fallen Heiress Returns

Imogen waved the waiter away.

She needed to get the stole off. She needed to clean up. But she couldn't do it here, not with five hundred pairs of eyes dissecting her reaction.

She turned and slipped out a side door that led to the east wing of the estate-the library and game rooms.

It was quieter here. The thick Persian carpets swallowed the uneven rhythm of her footsteps.

She headed for the guest powder room near the library.

As she passed the mahogany door of the Poker Room, she heard laughter. Male laughter. Smoke drifted out from under the door.

She intended to keep walking. But then she heard his voice.

"All in."

Ford.

Imogen stopped. She shouldn't listen. She knew that. But her feet were rooted to the floor. She stepped closer to the slightly ajar door.

"You're brave, man," a voice said. It was Lee, a hedge fund manager Ford had gone to prep school with. "Marrying the convict? The stock price is going to tank."

Imogen held her breath, waiting for Ford to defend her. To say something about loyalty, or the contract, or even just tell them to shut up.

There was the clatter of chips hitting the table.

"It's just a merger, Lee," Ford said. His voice was lazy. Relaxed. "Once the trust releases her voting shares to me, who cares where she is?"

"But..." another voice laughed. "I heard she got... used up in there. You gonna touch that?"

Imogen felt like she had been punched in the gut.

Ford paused. "Damaged goods," he said. The words hung in the air, heavy and toxic. "Doesn't matter. Once I have the shares, you guys can have her. I don't care."

The room erupted in laughter.

Imogen leaned back against the hallway wall. She slid down until she hit the floor.

Damaged goods.

You guys can have her.

The final thread snapped. The tiny, microscopic hope that maybe, just maybe, this was purely business-it vanished.

He wasn't just a monster. He was a pimp, and her shares were the price.

Imogen looked at her left hand.

She was wearing a simple silver band-a placeholder ring Ford had given her because the diamond engagement ring had been "put in the safe for protection" when she was arrested.

She pulled it off.

It felt light. Cheap.

She stood up. There was a large Ming vase on a pedestal next to the door.

She dropped the ring inside. It made a quiet clink as it hit the bottom.

Inside the room, Ford shouted, "Royal Flush! Read 'em and weep, boys!"

Imogen turned away. She didn't go to the bathroom. She didn't clean the wine stain.

She adjusted the ruined stole, letting it hang loose.

She walked back toward the ballroom. Her limp was still there, but her head was up. Her eyes were dry. They were no longer the eyes of a victim. They were the eyes of someone with nothing left to lose.

She turned the corner and nearly collided with a wall of black silk.

Claudia. Her stepmother.

Claudia looked at the wine stain and curled her lip. "What are you doing lurking in the hallways? Get back inside. Bella is about to make her speech."

Imogen looked at the woman who had raised her since she was ten. "I'm coming," she said. Her voice was ice. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."