The CEO Wants Me- Heiress Has Risen Again

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

Claire, what is this show?" Adrian's grip on her wrist was strangling, his face unyielding with fury. "Harrington Enterprises might be a sham, but are you so hungry for fame you'd sell your mother's final shred of dignity for a front-page headline? Do you even have any idea who you're stripping in front of? These men are journalists and politicians—they feed on scandal!

Claire flinched but didn't struggle, her eyes burning with defiance. "Isn't this just what you wanted, Adrian? A public spectacle? A final, total humiliation? I'm just giving the media exactly what the CEO of Blackwood Corporation lives on!"

She tried to turn away and continue onto the stage.

"Don't you dare dance another step." Adrian's voice was frigid, his hard gaze sweeping over her exposed skin.

The music had stopped. The sudden silence hung, thick with the shock of two dozen-plus media crème de la crème.

"She… she isn't Jasmine Clarke!" a frightened young hostess cried out.

Before anyone could move, Jasmine Clarke herself—her face spotty and speckled with a rash—broke in, followed by the club manager and security. "That is the woman who stuck me in the locker room!"

The manager, realizing the PR disaster in the making, frantically motioned for the bodyguards to grab Claire.

Claire threw up her chin, her noble presence—a remnant of the powerful Eleanor Harrington—jerkily surging to the forefront.

"Right. I am not Jasmine Clarke," she said, her voice ringing out above the stillness. "I am Adrian Blackwood's wife. But today, I am no longer. Because today I am divorcing you, Adrian. I am the one who walked out."

She would not be a victim discarded like rubbish. She would repay him the public shame he had inflicted on her with a public scandal of her own.

Victor Cross (Daniel) stared. "She just. divorced the CEO of the Blackwood Corporation in front of a room full of reporters?"

"Shut up," Charles Whitman (Martin) growled, throwing him a warning look.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you just caused? You're fiddling with all the fabrications your mother ever wrote!" Adrian curled his hand into a tighter fist, his eyes flashing with the threat of naked power.

Claire was not afraid. She rooted in the small pouch and drew out the divorce papers his lawyer had delivered to her, waving them in a defiant smile. "Adrian, do you think I have anything more to fear? You stole my home and my mother's name. This was the only way I could get your attention."

With glacial, half-mad pleasure, Claire laughed.

This is the last piece of performance I owe you. Adrian, I want a divorce. Effective immediately, I am free. I can write scandal, I can be the scandal, I can be an editor at Whitestone Media or a stripper—and it is absolutely, wonderfully none of your business."

The papers drifted to the expensive carpet, with her final, heartless vow.

From now on, your marriage, your reputation, your happiness, and your power struggles are no longer my problem. I hope you have a long, solitary life under the spotlight of the media you own."

The entire room gasped. No one had imagined that this beautiful, devastated woman would have such raw, devastating obstinacy.

"Claire, words don't mean anything." Adrian's voice was cold. He leaned in, his eyes menacing. "Do you think I can make you disappear from Ashford City's headlines tomorrow?"

"I do, Adrian. How could I not trust the man who makes a living with the press as his weapon?" Claire taunted, twisting her red lips. "But so what? Do you think I care anymore about disappearing?

She yanked her wrist free in a wild, desperate spurt of power, took two staggering steps backward. Her arm was almost out of joint, but she didn't feel it. Claire ignored Adrian's enraged, frozen form and looked around at the aghast faces of the assembled power brokers.

She smiled—a final, defiant smile. "Sorry to be a disruption, gentlemen. Enjoy your privileged tale."

She spun about, adjusted her crumpled costume, and ran out of the door.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

The room was stuck in place.

"Mr… Mr. Blackwood." Harold Sutton stammered, not sure what to do.

Adrian was stuck in place, eyes staring at the slammed door, his face horrendously black. The great slamming of the door had been like a gunshot.

She lived up to the name Harrington after all, he considered, as Eleanor had. She enjoyed chaos.

It took a long, excruciating silence before he finally moved. "Please continue with your meeting."

He returned to his seat, piling up the cards on the table, but the incomprehensible shadow in his eyes did not lift.

Victor Cross coughed nervously, darting in to save the situation. "What are you all loitering here for? You're not getting paid to stand watch! Get back to the bargaining. Get the dancers out on stage again!" but even while he spoke, the incomprehensible shadow persisted.

The manager of the club ushered the girls away hastily, and the room attempted to return to normal. Charles and Victor exchanged nervous glances, afraid of provoking Adrian's temper yet again. He remained aloof, unapproachable, and bitterly cold.

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Claire stumbled out of The Sterling Club, the biting air a harsh reminder to wake up.

How could she dare?

The adrenaline rush faded, and she trembled. She had publicly humiliated the most powerful man in new media, essentially writing her own professional obituary. But beneath the fear, was a deep relief. She had stood up, on her own terms.

He was too proud, too dignified to simply seek business contacts. It all—the wedding, the early public acceptance—had been a cynical, revenge-oriented campaign founded on her mother's previous media indiscretions.

She was at last free. But she was homeless, penniless, and her name was media poison. This giant, cynical Ashford City had no use for the scandalised daughter of a mogul.

She was walking lost when the phone rang loudly.

"Claire, where the blazes are you? Your home is abandoned! Did that bloody Adrian do this? I bloody well will reveal him to the press myself!" Ryan Gallagher (Terry), an old racing foe and her sole true friend, bellowed with typical rage.

"Ryan…" Claire's hardened mask disintegrated. She collapsed onto a nearby bench. "It's all over. I'm divorced…"

"Don't shed tears, don't cry, bloody hell! Where are you?"

Ryan hung up and thundered away from the empty villa in his red Iron Cup sports car. "Stay right there! Don't budge!"

Claire waited for one hour. Finally, she spotted Ryan's shiny car. Under the hostile glances of strangers, she crawled into the sports car's cold interior. He drove her straight to his spacious Ashford City city center apartment.

"I warned you about Adrian being a snake with his family's Blackwood Corporation revenge fantasy. Now you've lost everything but your spine!"

Ryan led her into the 400-square-meter flat, which had an incredible 360-degree view of the city. Claire was momentarily dazzled and moved to the French window. The lovely view of the river seemed to soothe her frazzled nerves.

"This penthouse… this has gotta be a major Redwood Properties building, right? At least $8 million?"

"A ball park figure. Listen, I compete for my dream now, but you know my family's money is old. Claire, I'm serious. Marry me. I don't care that you're divorced and smashed. I'll make sure the press never gets near you."

He didn't explain that the apartment belonged to his mother's Grand Prix Association trust and a very generous act of sacrifice.

"Cut the nonsense, Ryan." Claire spun around, pulling out two tissues from her pocket. "I'm crashed here for a couple of days. When I find a job, I'll pay rent."

Ryan was smart enough not to let her fake toughness get the upper hand. "Stay as long as you like, Claire. It's my Iron Cup sponsorship and all included."