The Ruined Heiress Plans Her Vicious Revenge

Farah pushed through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant. The cool night air hit her skin, whipping the hem of her red silk dress around her legs.

She ignored the valet holding the door of Brook's Maybach. She waved him off with an apologetic shake of her head, pointed vaguely toward the street as if she had already ordered a car, and walked quickly down the sidewalk. The valet shrugged and turned his attention to the next arriving vehicle.

She walked quickly down the sidewalk, turning the corner to where she had parked her Porsche earlier that afternoon. The car sat exactly where she had left it, swallowed by the deep shadows of the oak tree. She unlocked the door, slid into the driver's seat, and rolled the window down exactly three inches. She kept the engine off. She stared at the illuminated entrance of Le Bernardin.

She pulled out her phone. She opened the encrypted messaging app and found the contact she had connected with hours earlier—a Page Six stringer who went by the handle "RosieNYC" and who had messaged her back within twenty minutes of her initial tip, hungry for the story. She sent a single question mark.

A reply came back instantly: In position.

Farah looked across the street. Deep inside the thick decorative bushes lining the sidewalk, a piece of glass caught the light of a streetlamp and flashed for a fraction of a second.

She sat in the dark car and waited.

Twenty minutes later, the restaurant doors swung open. Brook and Livia walked out together.

Livia had clearly consumed too much wine. Her steps were uneven. As she stepped off the curb toward the waiting car, the heel of her shoe caught on the concrete. She stumbled forward.

Brook reacted instantly. He shot his arm out and wrapped it tightly around Livia's narrow waist, pulling her flush against his side to keep her from falling.

Livia gasped, dropping her head against his chest. The open bottle of wine she had insisted on taking with her sloshed, sending a few dark red drops splashing onto the collar of her white silk blouse.

Brook frowned. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out his white pocket square, and leaned his head down. He began dabbing the wine off her collarbone, his face inches from her neck.

From Farah's angle, and from the angle of the bushes across the street, it looked exactly like Brook was burying his face in Livia's neck for a passionate kiss.

Across the street, the bushes erupted. A rapid-fire burst of blinding white flashes lit up the dark street like lightning.

The paparazzi held the shutter button down, capturing dozens of frames of the highly compromising position.

Brook jerked his head up, squinting against the harsh light. Panic flashed across his face. He realized instantly what it looked like.

He ripped his suit jacket off and threw it over Livia's head, shielding her face. He turned toward the bushes, his face twisted in rage. "Security! Get them!" he roared.

Brook roared for security, but in the chaos of flashing lights and shouting, the photographer slipped through the stunned onlookers, jumped into a waiting sedan that screeched away from the curb, and vanished into the crosstown traffic before anyone could react.

Farah sat in her car, watching Brook scream at the valets. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across her face.

She reached for the ignition to start the car. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt a heavy, physical weight pressing against the side of her face.

She turned her head to the left.

Parked fifteen yards away, sitting perfectly still in the shadows, was a massive black Rolls Royce Phantom.

The tinted window of the backseat was rolled halfway down. A man was sitting in the darkness, staring directly at her.

The faint orange glow of a streetlamp illuminated his sharp, unforgiving jawline. He was holding a lit cigar between his fingers.

The man slowly exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke. He raised his other hand, holding a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, and tipped it toward Farah in a silent, mocking toast.

He had seen everything. He knew she had orchestrated the entire scene.

Farah's heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the stranger, refusing to look away, refusing to show fear. She glared at him, her eyes cold and defiant.

She reached over and hit the window switch. The glass rolled up, cutting off his view.

She twisted the key. The Porsche's engine roared. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal, shooting the car into the Manhattan traffic.

Farah didn't see the man in the backseat of the Rolls Royce watch her red taillights disappear. A low, amused chuckle vibrated in his chest as Eloy Rhodes leaned forward and tapped the glass partition. "Run the plates on that Porsche," he told his driver. "I want everything on her by morning."

Farah drove fast. Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat. She glanced down. It was a message from RosieNYC on the encrypted app. Attached was a high-resolution photo of Brook and Livia. It was absolutely devastating.