The Billionaire's Runaway Genius Heiress Fiancee

The heavy financial analysis report hit the mahogany desk with a dull, definitive thud.

The sound severed the suffocatingly polite chatter in the Richmond family study. Three pairs of eyes snapped toward Annabell.

"Have you lost your mind?" Ethan Richmond demanded. He leaned his large frame forward, pressing his knuckles into the polished wood, trying to fill the room with his presence. "You don't throw things in this house. Learn your place."

Annabell did not flinch. She simply extended a single finger and tapped the third page of the report.

"Cayman Islands," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any heat. "Three offshore accounts. Empty."

Carisa's breath hitched. She immediately shrank back, her eyes welling with practiced tears. She pressed her face against Julian's arm. "She's doing it again, Julian. She's just jealous of my trust fund shares. She wants to ruin everything."

Julian wrapped a protective arm around Carisa's shoulders. He shot Annabell a look of pure disgust. "Apologize to her. Now."

A slow, mocking smile curved Annabell's lips. She didn't look at Carisa. She kept her eyes locked on Ethan.

"AX-772. BR-901. CQ-445," Annabell recited. The three hidden leverage trading codes hung in the air.

Ethan's face drained of color. The muscles in his neck went rigid. Panic flared in his eyes, raw and ugly. He lunged across the desk, his hand swiping frantically to grab the report.

Annabell was faster. She yanked the thick stack of papers back. The sharp edge of the binding sliced cleanly across Ethan's expensive suit cuff, leaving a frayed tear in the fabric.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Carisa let out a fake gasp of terror and stumbled backward. As she did, the heel of her designer stiletto clamped down hard on the strap of Annabell's canvas duffel bag resting on the Persian rug.

Annabell didn't hesitate. She gripped the canvas handle and pulled with a sharp, violent jerk.

The sudden loss of resistance sent Carisa pitching backward. She hit the floor with a hard, ungraceful thud, her skirt tangling around her knees.

"You bitch!" Julian roared. He lunged forward, his hand raised high to strike Annabell across the face.

Annabell shifted her weight. She stepped inside his guard, caught his descending wrist, and twisted it sharply downward.

Bone popped. Julian screamed, dropping to his knees, his face contorted in agony and absolute disbelief.

"Get the guards!" Ethan bellowed, clutching his torn sleeve. He pointed a trembling finger at the heavy oak doors. "You are done in this house! You get nothing! I am stripping you of every right, every cent!"

Annabell released Julian's wrist. She dusted her palms together, a slow, deliberate motion. She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The inheritance renunciation declaration.

She uncapped her fountain pen. The metal nib scratched aggressively against the paper as she signed her name in one fluid motion.

She threw the paper. It hit Ethan squarely in the chest and fluttered to the floor.

"You didn't fire me," Annabell said. "I fired you."

She turned her back on them and walked toward the doors.

"Don't do this!" Carisa wailed from the floor, her voice dripping with fake concern, though the triumphant gleam in her eyes was unmistakable. "Don't be stupid!"

Annabell didn't break her stride. She pushed open the heavy carved double doors and walked out of the study.

She walked down the grand corridor, her boots silent on the marble, and pushed open the front doors of the estate, stepping out into the freezing rain.

The icy downpour soaked through her thin jacket instantly. Annabell pulled her hood up. There was no grief in her chest. Only the sharp, clean air of absolute freedom.

She walked to the dark corner of the street and threw her leg over the heavy, modified motorcycle waiting in the shadows. She jammed the key into the ignition.

The engine roared to life, a guttural beast tearing through the quiet, wealthy rain-slicked streets of the Upper East Side. She pulled the solid black full-face helmet over her head.

She twisted the throttle. The bike shot forward into the curtain of rain, leaving the Richmond estate far behind.

Miles away, in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, the firelight danced across Harrison Dixon's aged face. His fingers, trembling slightly, gripped a yellowed photograph of a baby girl.

Mr. Finch, the elderly butler, stepped forward. He handed over a top-secret dossier from their private investigators.

Harrison took the file. His eyes scanned the first page. He saw the address of the Richmond family. His breath stopped in his throat.

He stood up so fast his knee caught the edge of the table. The crystal glass tipped. Amber whiskey spilled across the priceless rug, soaking into the fibers.

Mr. Finch reached out to steady him. "Sir. The target... the girl. She was thrown out of the foster home tonight."

Rage and profound heartbreak exploded in Harrison's eyes.

"Find her," Harrison commanded. His voice was a whip crack in the quiet room. "Use everyone."

He turned and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the rain-drenched grid of Manhattan. "Lock down the entire district. No one leaves until I have my daughter."

Lightning flashed, illuminating the hard, unforgiving lines of his face. The storm had just begun.