The Jilted Heiress's Ruthless Billionaire Revenge

I collapsed into the leather chair behind Barrett's desk.

My chest rose and fell in slow, measured rhythms. There were no tears. Crying was a biological response to pain, and right now, I didn't feel pain. I felt a cold, terrifying clarity.

I pulled out my phone and connected it to the laptop.

I dragged the entire C & A folder, the bank transfer receipts, and the DNA report into my heavily encrypted cloud drive.

Once the progress bar hit one hundred percent, I unplugged the USB, wiped the system's access logs, and shut the laptop down.

I stood up. My legs felt completely steady.

I walked over to the massive bookshelf lining the wall. I dropped to my knees and reached under the bottom shelf, pressing a hidden latch. A small, secret compartment popped open.

Inside sat a dusty metal tin.

I pulled it out and opened the lid. Resting on a bed of faded velvet was an old, chunky BlackBerry.

It was the only piece of my past I had kept when I walked away from the Montgomery family five years ago to play house with Barrett Marks.

I plugged the dead phone into a wall charger.

I sat on the floor, watching the battery icon slowly fill with juice. Memories of my grandfather's furious face flashed behind my eyes. He had warned me. He told me Barrett was a parasite. I hadn't listened.

The screen flickered to life. Full signal.

I typed in a twelve-digit internal secure line. A number burned into my brain.

It rang half a time before a voice answered.

"Montgomery Trust, William speaking." The elderly lawyer's voice was sharp, professional.

"William," I said.

A sharp intake of breath hissed through the speaker. "Miss Harlow? Good God. Is it really you?"

"It's me." I looked out the window at the darkening sky. "I'm done playing the peasant."

"Thank the heavens," William breathed, his voice trembling with suppressed excitement. "Are you ready to return to the estate?"

"Yes," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "But if I come back, the board will demand I fulfill the strategic marriage contract from five years ago."

"They will," William confirmed. "The family needs stability."

"Who is the current candidate?" I asked.

"Commodore Clayton IV," William said. "The conservative shareholders in the Clayton empire are highly skeptical of his aggressive overseas expansion plans. They are demanding a strategic marriage with the historically grounded Montgomery family to prove he respects tradition and seeks stability before they confirm his Chairman seat next month."

Commodore Clayton IV.

The name sent a phantom shiver down my spine. The man was a ghost, a ruthless predator in the financial world. And he was exactly the weapon I needed to gut Barrett Marks.

"Draft the prenup," I ordered. "I want an informal meeting with him. Tonight."

"Miss Harlow, Mr. Clayton's schedule is locked down months in advance. He is highly private-"

"I don't care, William. Use the family's leverage. Get me an invitation to wherever he is having dinner tonight."

"Understood," William said, his tone shifting back to the ruthless efficiency of a Montgomery employee. "I will make it happen."

I hung up.

I put the BlackBerry back in the tin and shoved it into the hidden compartment.

I walked out of the office and straight into the master bedroom's walk-in closet.

I stared at the racks of clothes. Beige cardigans. Plain pencil skirts. Cheap, unassuming dresses I had bought to make Barrett feel like he was the provider. Like he was the king of our little castle.

A wave of intense disgust washed over me.

I grabbed the beige cardigans and ripped them off their hangers. The plastic snapped. I threw them onto the floor. I tore down the skirts, the blouses, the cheap denim. I piled it all into a massive trash bag in the corner.

Then, I walked to the very back of the closet.

I unzipped a thick, black garment bag.

Inside hung a vintage, black velvet haute couture gown. It was a piece from my past life. A piece of armor.

The front door of the penthouse chimed. The electronic lock clicked open.

"Harlow?" Barrett's voice echoed through the hallway. "I brought Le Coucou."

I stripped off my plain clothes and stepped into the black velvet. The fabric clung to my skin, heavy and expensive.

Barrett appeared in the doorway of the closet, holding a brown paper bag smelling of duck confit.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked at the trash bag full of clothes. Then, his eyes dragged up my body, taking in the black velvet gown. His brow furrowed in deep confusion.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

I turned to face him. I didn't smile. I didn't yell. I just looked at him like he was a piece of trash stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

Barrett swallowed hard. The absolute zero temperature in my eyes made him take a step back.

"Look, about the call today," he started, his voice losing its boardroom arrogance. He set the food down and took a step toward me, reaching out to touch my arm. "I was stressed. The merger-"

I sidestepped him. His fingers brushed the air.

I reached up and brushed my shoulder, right where he had almost touched me, as if flicking away a dead bug.

"You smell like Tom Ford," I said softly.

Barrett's face drained of color. His hand dropped to his side. "It's... someone in the elevator was wearing it. It rubbed off."

I didn't even blink at the pathetic lie.

I picked up a black clutch from the vanity and walked past him, heading for the front door.

"Where are you going?" Barrett snapped, his panic turning into anger. He grabbed my elbow. "It's nine o'clock at night. Dressed like that?"

I looked down at his hand gripping my arm.

"Let go," I whispered.

He released me as if my skin burned him.

"No comment," I said, repeating his favorite PR phrase.

I walked out the front door and let it slam shut behind me.