The Ruined Heiress's Vengeful Comeback

The VIP elevator dropped smoothly.

The metal box was dead silent. The only sound was the heavy, uneven breathing bouncing off the steel walls.

Collette clutched the lapels of Hartwell's suit jacket.

The aftershock of the cheap champagne hit her stomach like a fist. A violent cramp tore through her abdomen.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her eyebrows pulling together in raw pain.

Her legs gave out.

She slid down the freezing metal wall of the elevator, her knees hitting the floor. She pressed both hands hard against her stomach, trying to breathe through the sharp spasms.

Hartwell stood over her.

He stared down at her curled-up body. His jaw tightened so hard it looked like the bone might snap.

A brief, uncontrollable flash of panic cut through the cold anger in his eyes.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to the underground garage.

Hartwell didn't hesitate. He bent down and scooped her off the floor.

Collette let out a startled gasp. Her arms instinctively flew up, wrapping tightly around his broad shoulders.

She buried her face in his neck, breathing in the cedarwood scent that made her racing heart slow down.

A black Maybach sat idling steps away.

The driver, K. M. Sterling, pulled the rear door open, his eyes locked strictly on the concrete pillar ahead.

Hartwell placed her onto the leather seat with surprising care.

He slid in beside her and slammed the door.

"The penthouse. Fast," Hartwell ordered. His voice left no room for argument.

The interior of the car was dark.

Collette let her head fall against the cool glass of the window. She closed her eyes, pretending to pass out to hide the chaotic pounding in her chest.

A large, warm hand reached across the seat.

Hartwell gripped the side of her head. He pulled her away from the window and pressed her face firmly into the crook of his shoulder.

The Maybach sped into Tribeca, pulling into the private garage of a towering skyscraper.

Hartwell carried her out of the car and walked straight into the private elevator that opened directly into the penthouse.

The doors parted, revealing eight thousand square feet of cold, modern luxury overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

He walked into the massive living room and dropped her onto the soft velvet sofa.

He reached up and ripped the silk tie from his neck, tossing it onto a glass table.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Chloe Fletcher's number.

Collette kept her eyes half-closed, listening. Chloe was her only reliable connection to the elite circle, the sole gatekeeper who could sneak her into these exclusive, high-stakes events.

"Keep her out of those trashy banquets," Hartwell's voice was pure ice, cutting through the quiet room. "If I see her with those people again, your magazine loses its funding. Understood?"

He hung up before Chloe could answer.

Collette's heart did a strange, painful flip against her ribs.

Marta Kowalski, the Polish housekeeper, hurried out of the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Mr. Lara," Marta said, her thick accent filling the room.

Hartwell shrugged off his vest. "Make the stomach soup. Now."

Marta nodded quickly and disappeared into the kitchen.

Hartwell walked over to the marble island. He poured a glass of warm water and walked back to the sofa.

He dropped to one knee on the expensive Persian rug.

His fingers pinched Collette's chin, forcing her to open her eyes.

He pressed the rim of the glass to her lips.

Collette took two small sips. The warm water soothed her burning throat.

She pulled back slightly and deliberately darted her tongue out, licking the drops of water off her bottom lip.

Hartwell's eyes darkened instantly. The pupil swallowed the iris. His Adam's apple bobbed hard.

He slammed the glass onto the coffee table. The loud thud made Collette jump.

His large hand slid under the suit jacket, his rough palm gliding over the freezing skin of her waist.

A violent shiver ripped through Collette's body.

"Does your stomach still hurt?" Hartwell asked. His voice was completely wrecked, hoarse and low.

Collette slid her arms around his neck.

"It stops hurting when you're here," she whispered directly into his ear.

The last string of Hartwell's control snapped.

He stood up, pulling her entirely off the sofa, and carried her down the hall.

He kicked the heavy double doors of the master bedroom open.

He threw her onto the center of the massive king bed, the temperature in the room skyrocketing as he followed her down.