Scars Of Betrayal: The Heiress's Revenge

She found a black turtleneck sweater in the back of the closet. Martha, bless her, had managed to save a few of her old things, hiding them here. It smelled like mothballs, but it covered her neck, her arms, and most importantly, the scar.

She pulled it on and opened the door.

Benito was still there. He was leaning against the wall in the hallway, smoking a cigarette. The gray smoke swirled around his head like a halo of toxicity.

He looked her up and down as she stepped out.

"Dressed like a nun now?" he drawled, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Trying to play the saint?"

She didn't answer. She started walking toward the stairs.

He pushed off the wall and stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He crowded her, forcing her to step back until her shoulders hit the wall.

"Back in the bathroom," he said, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive murmur that made her skin crawl. "You left the door unlocked on purpose, didn't you?"

She looked at him like he had grown a second head. "The lock is broken, Benito."

He chuckled, a dark, arrogant sound. "Stop pretending. You knew I was coming. You wanted me to see you. You think if you seduce me, I'll take you back. You think I'm your ticket back into society."

He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek. "After all, I'm the only chance you have."

She jerked her head away, his touch feeling like a brand. "Don't touch me. You make me sick."

His hand froze in mid-air. His expression shifted from amusement to anger. "Sick? You're a convict, Alice. You have a record. Who else would look at you? Who else would want damaged goods like you?"

Gary would. The thought was a lifeline. Gary, the man she wrote to for two years. The man whose name was on the document tucked away in a safety deposit box-the only real thing she had left. He wasn't rich, he wasn't powerful, but he was her anchor.

"Move," she said, her voice icy. "I'm going to see my father."

Benito grabbed her wrist. His grip was tight, painful. "Listen to me. Tonight at the Gala, you stay in the shadows. Do not try to upstage Estelle. Do not talk about prison. And do not try to cling to me."

She looked down at his hand on her wrist. The same hand that had sanitized itself after she breathed the same air as him.

"Let go," she said, enunciating every word. "Or I will scream. And I will tell every maid in this house that you're harassing your 'ex' fiancée."

He released her as if she had shocked him. He took a step back, straightening his tie, smoothing his suit jacket.

"You're delusional," he spat. "Remember your place, Alice. You are nothing but a stain on the Stafford name now."

He turned and walked away, his Italian leather shoes clicking rhythmically on the floor.

She watched him go. The lingering affection, the desperate hope she had held onto for three years... it was gone. Evaporated.

He wasn't just cruel; he was stupid. His arrogance blinded him. He actually thought she still wanted him.

That arrogance was a weakness. And she would exploit it.

She took a deep breath and walked to the top of the stairs. Below, in the grand foyer, she heard laughter.

Estelle's laughter. It was light, airy, practiced.

She looked over the banister. Estelle was standing there in a white silk gown, looking like an angel. She was clinging to Benito's arm, gazing up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

Benito leaned down and kissed her forehead. The tenderness in the gesture was unmistakable.

She gripped the wooden railing until her knuckles turned white.

They were playing a game. A game of perfect couple, perfect family, perfect life.

She stared down at them from the shadows.

Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought. Because she was about to flip the board.