The Discarded Heiress's Spectacular Comeback

The yellow taxi crawled to a dead stop in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge. Red brake lights stretched for miles ahead.

Alycia checked the Cartier watch on her wrist. Her heart rate spiked. Julian's flight from London was landing in twenty minutes.

She pulled two crisp fifty-dollar bills from her wallet, threw them onto the passenger seat, and pushed the door open. "Keep the change."

She stepped out into the gridlocked traffic. The wind off the East River whipped her hair across her face. She gripped her briefcase and started power-walking down the narrow space between the stopped cars, her Louboutin heels clicking frantically against the asphalt. She pushed her way off the bridge and onto the first exit ramp she could reach, then ran down the nearest street toward the closest subway entrance. She swiped her MetroCard and sprinted down the stairs to catch the A train.

Forty minutes later, she sprinted out of the subway station and onto the curb outside JFK Terminal 4.

She was out of breath. Her lungs burned. She walked quickly toward the arrivals hall, her head down as she dug through her Birkin bag, frantically searching for the VIP pickup pass. She had grabbed a large iced coffee from a street vendor near the station and was holding it in her other hand.

She didn't see the massive black vehicle parked illegally in the VIP drop-off lane.

Thud.

Alycia slammed hard into the solid metal door. The impact knocked the breath out of her. Her briefcase slipped, spilling design portfolios all over the concrete. The large iced coffee flew out of her hand and splashed directly onto the pristine, polished black door of the car.

She gasped, stumbling back. She looked up and froze.

It was a black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

A violent shiver ripped down her spine. The shape of the car, the heavy, oppressive aura it gave off—it triggered a phantom smell of wet mud and exhaust fumes in her brain.

The front door popped open. C.J. stepped out, his brow furrowed in anger. He looked at the brown coffee dripping down the custom paint job.

"Are you blind?" C.J. snapped, reaching for a towel in his pocket.

Before Alycia could apologize, the heavy, tinted rear window rolled down with a soft mechanical hum.

Hiram Houston sat in the back. He had a Bluetooth earpiece in his right ear, his eyes locked on a tablet. He was listening to a rapid-fire report on the NASDAQ market.

He slowly turned his head and looked out the window. His blue eyes landed on the coffee stain, then flicked up to Alycia.

A flash of extreme irritation crossed his face.

Alycia's lungs stopped working. All the air vanished from the world.

She stared at that face. The sharp jawline. The cold, dead eyes. Six years vanished in a microsecond. She was back in the freezing rain, bleeding on the pavement, listening to him order his driver to throw her away like garbage.

Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She forced her shaking hands to ball into tight fists at her sides.

Hiram looked right at her. He saw a well-dressed, clumsy designer. He didn't recognize her. Not at all.

He tapped his earpiece, muting his call. He looked at C.J. "Leave it. We are already late for the Wall Street merger meeting. I don't have time for this."

C.J. sighed. He pulled a thick, gold-embossed business card from his inner pocket and shoved it toward Alycia. "Call our insurance company. You're paying for the detailing."

Alycia's arm felt like lead. She slowly reached out and took the card. Her fingers brushed the thick cardstock. It smelled faintly of expensive, cold cologne.

Hiram didn't give her a second glance. He pressed a button on his armrest. The window rolled up, sealing him inside his soundproof vault, completely cutting off her view of him.

The Rolls-Royce accelerated instantly. The heavy tires hit a puddle near the curb, splashing dirty water toward Alycia's legs.

She jumped back just in time, the dirty water missing her Tom Ford skirt by an inch.

Alycia stood alone on the curb. She looked down at the card in her hand. Hiram Houston. CEO, Houston Group.

The paralyzing fear in her chest suddenly boiled over into pure, white-hot rage. Her breathing turned ragged.

She walked over to the metal trash can on the corner. She gripped the thick cardstock with both hands and ripped it straight down the middle. The sound of the paper tearing was loud and satisfying.

She threw the pieces into the 'Non-Recyclable' slot.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and forced the memories back into the dark box in her mind. She locked it. She smoothed down her skirt, adjusted her posture, and walked through the sliding glass doors into the terminal. She was never going to see that arrogant bastard again.