The Fake Heiress Cancels Her Engagement

Three days later.

The afternoon sun beat down on the sprawling rooftop terrace of the McConnell penthouse. The glass table was covered in imported British bone china and a three-tiered silver tray of pastel macarons.

Candice Ruan, Diana's cousin, sat lounging in a wicker chair. She wore a vibrant, floral Gucci summer dress that screamed for attention.

"And then the casting director told me I had the exact look Spielberg was going for," Candice boasted, waving a manicured hand in the air.

Diana sat quietly across from her, sipping her Darjeeling tea. She kept her back straight, playing the role of the perfect, attentive socialite.

The glass doors slid open. The butler escorted Harriet onto the terrace.

Harriet wore the exact same faded gray hoodie she had worn three days ago. She looked completely out of place among the manicured hedges and expensive furniture.

Candice stopped talking. She looked Harriet up and down, her face twisting into an exaggerated mask of disgust. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her purse and pressed it against her nose.

"Aunt Eleanor," Candice said loudly, making sure the maids pouring water could hear. "Is this the stray you picked up from the Ohio slums? Does she even know how to use a fork?"

Eleanor, sitting at the head of the table, stiffened. She picked up her teacup, her eyes fixed on the liquid inside. She didn't say a word to defend Harriet.

Harriet ignored them completely. She pulled out an iron-wrought chair, the metal scraping harshly against the stone floor, and sat down. She didn't look at Candice.

Candice's eyes narrowed. Being ignored was the one thing she couldn't stand.

Candice reached across the table. She grabbed a small porcelain plate holding a delicate, gold-leafed French pastry and shoved it roughly across the glass surface. It stopped right in front of Harriet.

"Eat up," Candice sneered. "I'm sure you've never seen anything this expensive in the country. Just try not to get your greasy fingerprints all over the tablecloth."

The terrace went dead silent. The maids lowered their heads, staring at their shoes.

Diana set her bone china teacup down on its saucer.

Clink.

The sharp sound cut through the heavy, suffocating tension.

Diana pulled the silk napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. She stood up slowly.

She walked around the table until she stood right beside Harriet. She reached down, picked up the porcelain plate with the gold-leafed pastry, and casually tossed the entire thing into the brass trash can next to the serving cart.

Candice gasped, her eyes going wide. "Are you crazy? That was flown in from a Michelin-star bakery in Paris!"

Diana looked down at Candice. Her eyes were as cold as the ice water in the crystal pitchers.

"She doesn't need to eat your garbage," Diana said, her voice carrying clearly across the open terrace.

Candice's face flushed dark red. She slammed her hands on the table and stood up.

"Who do you think you are?! " Candice shrieked. "You're defending this... this nobody? She's a stray dog!"

Diana let out a short, humorless laugh. She dug her nails into her palms, feeling the familiar sting of pain to keep her adrenaline in check.

"Get your facts straight, Candice," Diana said, enunciating every single word. "Harriet is the only true bloodline of the McConnell family sitting at this table."

She paused, letting the silence stretch until it felt like a physical weight pressing down on the terrace.

"I am the fake," Diana said clearly. "I am the one who was switched at birth."

The words dropped like a live grenade.

Eleanor's hand spasmed. The teacup slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the stone floor, hot tea splashing over the tips of her pristine Chanel heels.

Candice's jaw dropped. She stared at Diana, completely paralyzed, her brain failing to process the magnitude of the scandal she had just heard.

Two floors below, in the meticulously secured confines of his sunlit guest room, Jorden sat motionless before a stolen, heavily modified tablet. He had tapped into the penthouse's external security cameras the moment he woke up. Watching the silent, high-definition feed of the terrace confrontation, his hands slowly clenched into tight fists. He couldn't hear the words, but he could read lips perfectly. His eyes widened in absolute shock as he deciphered Diana's stunning confession.

Harriet finally looked up. She turned her head, her dark, bottomless eyes locking onto Diana's face, studying her with a terrifying intensity.

Diana stood tall, her spine rigid, meeting the shocked stares of everyone on the terrace without a single flinch.

Candice was the first to recover. A vicious, greedy light sparked in her eyes. Her hand immediately darted into her designer purse, her fingers wrapping around her phone.