The Scarred Heiress's Spectacular Comeback

The black Aston Martin roared down the street and slammed its brakes, stopping violently right in front of the main entrance of The Scarlet Lounge.

The valet rushed forward, his hands shaking as he pulled the heavy door open. He kept his eyes glued to the pavement, absolutely terrified to look at the man stepping out of the car.

Emerson Oneal stepped onto the curb. His long legs and perfectly tailored, dark charcoal suit radiated a suffocating level of dominance.

He walked into the club with a cold, hard face. The heavy bass thumped through the floorboards, but as he moved through the crowded dance floor, the sea of people parted automatically. No one dared to stand in his way.

He walked straight to the back, pushing open the door to the exclusive VIP room. He dropped his heavy frame onto the dark red velvet sofa.

J. Moss, his chief assistant, was already waiting. Moss immediately stepped forward and handed Emerson a highly encrypted tablet.

On the screen was a live security feed. It showed the street across from the club, recorded exactly thirty minutes ago. It showed a black Maybach.

Emerson stared at the screen. He zoomed in. He could see the faint silhouette of Jerri sitting in the back seat.

A violent storm ripped through his dark eyes. He watched the video play. He saw Jerri's hand reach down and dig her fingers into the edge of the car window. He could see the tension in her shoulders. He knew exactly how much pain she was in.

Emerson's jaw locked so tight his teeth ground together. The fingers of his right hand, holding an unlit cigar, turned completely white from the pressure.

He suddenly raised his arm and slammed the tablet face-down onto the thick crystal coffee table. The heavy thud echoed loudly in the room.

Moss flinched, taking a quick half-step backward. He lowered his head, not daring to make a single sound.

Emerson reached up and violently yanked at his silk tie, loosening it. His chest heaved. The air in the room felt too thick to breathe. His lungs were burning.

He reached for the crystal decanter on the table, poured three fingers of straight whiskey into a glass, and threw it back. He didn't use ice. The raw alcohol burned a fiery path down his throat, but it did nothing to numb the ache in his chest.

He turned his head and looked out the one-way glass of the VIP room, staring at the main floor. He looked at the exact spot where the giant champagne tower used to sit.

The space was completely empty.

No one else knew why. For seven years, Emerson had issued a strict, unbreakable rule: no champagne towers were ever allowed inside The Scarlet Lounge again.

"Sir," Moss whispered carefully, breaking the silence. "The elder Mr. Oneal's men are downstairs. They are watching."

Hearing his grandfather's title, the raw pain in Emerson's eyes vanished. It was instantly swallowed by a layer of absolute, terrifying cruelty.

Emerson let out a dark, humorless laugh. He slammed his empty whiskey glass down onto the table so hard that a spiderweb crack fractured the thick glass base.

"Tell the brokers," Emerson ordered, his voice dripping with ice. "Double the leverage on the Anh Group acquisition. Right now."

Moss's head snapped up in shock. "Sir, if we double the leverage, the Oneal Group's short-term cash flow will be under massive pressure. The board will panic."

"Did I ask for your financial advice?" Emerson barked, his voice sounding like a tyrant demanding blood. "I don't care what it costs. Squeeze her until she has no choice but to show her face."

The heavy door to the VIP room suddenly swung open. Aliyah Oconnell walked in, her hips swaying perfectly in a tight designer dress.

She ignored the suffocating tension in the room. She walked straight to the sofa and sat down right next to Emerson, reaching out to loop her arm through his.

Emerson's entire body went rigid. A flash of pure disgust hit the back of his throat. He wanted to shove her across the room.

But out of the corner of his eye, he caught the tiny, blinking red light hidden in the air vent near the ceiling. His grandfather's camera.

Emerson swallowed the bile in his throat. He forced his muscles to relax. He reached his arm around Aliyah's waist and pulled her against his shoulder.

"Are you in a bad mood, darling?" Aliyah purred, tracing a finger down his chest. "Is it because of that bankrupt little heiress who just crawled back to the city?"

Emerson stared straight ahead at the empty dance floor. His voice was flat and merciless.

"She is nothing but prey," Emerson said coldly. "And she's about to lose everything."

Where Aliyah couldn't see, hidden in the shadows beside his thigh, Emerson's left hand curled into a tight fist. He squeezed so hard his fingernails broke the skin of his palm.