The Ruined Heiress Makes A Comeback

Julian's Porsche idled outside the crumbling brick facade of Cierra's Brooklyn apartment building.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come up?" Julian asked, his brow furrowed with deep concern.

"I'm sure," Cierra said, her voice completely dead. She handed him back his cashmere coat, her wet clothes sticking uncomfortably to her skin. "Thank you, Julian."

She stepped out of the car and walked up the concrete steps.

Cierra unlocked her door, stepped inside, and threw the deadbolt. The silence of the cramped apartment pressed down on her.

She walked straight into the tiny bathroom, turned the shower dial to scalding hot, and stepped under the spray with her clothes still on.

She stood there for twenty minutes, letting the boiling water burn her skin, desperately trying to scrub away the phantom feeling of Carlisle's hands shoving her away.

When the water ran cold, she peeled off the ruined clothes, wrapped herself in a faded flannel pajama set, and walked back into the main room.

Her eyes locked onto the MacBook sitting on the desk.

Inappropriate document. The words from the HR email echoed in her skull.

Cierra walked over to the desk. Her legs felt like lead. She opened the laptop and typed in her password.

The screen woke up. It was still sitting on her email client.

Cierra moved the cursor to the left sidebar and clicked on the Sent folder.

She found the email she had sent to Carlisle at 4:30 AM.

Her eyes drifted down to the attachment icon.

It didn't say Lumina_Pitch_Final.

It said Untitled Document.

Cierra's heart stopped beating. The air was violently sucked out of the room.

Her hand hovered over the trackpad, trembling so violently she could barely control the cursor. She double-clicked the attachment.

The document opened.

The very first sentence stared back at her: Carlisle's grip tightened on the back of her neck, his dark eyes burning with a filthy, possessive hunger as he forced her to her knees.

Cierra violently jerked her hands away from the laptop.

A wave of absolute, paralyzing horror crashed over her. The blood drained completely from her face, leaving her dizzy and nauseous.

Oh my god.

The puzzle pieces violently slammed together in her brain.

Cheap tricks. Red-light district. My bed isn't for women like you.

Carlisle hadn't been insulting her marketing data. He had read the fan-fiction. He had read her deepest, most degrading sexual fantasies about him.

He thought she had sent it on purpose. He thought she was trying to prostitute herself for a corporate contract.

A choked, agonizing sob ripped out of Cierra's throat. She covered her face with both hands, her fingernails digging into her scalp.

The humiliation was absolute. It was a physical weight, crushing her chest, suffocating her.

She couldn't explain this. She couldn't walk into a boardroom and say, Sorry, I accidentally sent you my erotic diary because my laptop froze. He would never believe her. He already thought she was a monster.

Cierra lowered her hands. Her eyes were completely dead.

She had lost.

She reached out and closed the horrific document. She clicked 'New Email'.

She typed Carlisle's direct email address into the recipient bar.

In the subject line, she typed: Resignation and Penalty Acknowledgment.

Her face was a mask of pure apathy as her fingers hit the keys.

Mr. McLean,

I am formally withdrawing from the Lumina contract. I acknowledge the breach of contract penalty.

I will be liquidating my personal assets, including my designer bags and jewelry, and breaking my apartment lease to cover the initial payment. You will have the funds by the end of the month.

I will not attend the dinner tomorrow. Do not contact me again.

She didn't offer an excuse. She didn't apologize. She just surrendered.

Cierra clicked Send.

She closed the laptop, walked over to her closet, and dragged out a massive black suitcase.

She unzipped it and began mechanically pulling her Chanel and Dior bags off the top shelf. She tossed them into the suitcase like they were garbage.

Tears streamed silently down her face, splashing onto the quilted leather. Her fake life was over. Carlisle had finally destroyed her.