Too Late To Beg The Heiress

The drive to Manhattan took three hours. The Maybach glided to a halt in front of The Grand, an ultra-exclusive private club on Fifth Avenue.

Four valets in crisp uniforms rushed out into the humid night air. The head valet, wearing white gloves, pulled open the rear door of the Maybach.

Kevin stepped out first, immediately turning to the valet to give rapid-fire instructions about securing the vehicle. He turned back, reaching his hand into the cabin for his sister.

He was too late.

Ellis had already exited from the street side and walked around the rear of the car. He stepped in front of Kevin, physically blocking him. Ellis leaned down, extending his large, long-fingered hand into the dimly lit cabin.

Arielle stared at the hand. The platinum Patek Philippe watch on his wrist caught the streetlights. She hesitated, her heart beating a steady, cautious rhythm against her ribs. She didn't want to touch him again.

But a terrified girl wouldn't refuse help.

She placed her small, cold hand into his.

Ellis's fingers immediately closed around hers. His grip was firm, almost possessive, leaving no room for her to pull away. He pulled gently, and Arielle stepped out of the car, her muddy boots sinking into the plush red carpet rolled out on the sidewalk.

The heat from his palm seeped into her freezing skin. She tried to subtly slide her hand out of his grasp, but his fingers only tightened, locking her in place.

Kevin frowned, stepping forward. "I've got her, Ellis."

Ellis turned his head. He shot Kevin a look so cold and authoritative that Kevin's feet stopped moving, his fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to argue, but Ellis's gaze held the weight of a thousand board meetings, a silent promise of consequences Kevin couldn't afford for his sister.

"The family dinner is in the penthouse suite," Ellis said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Go up and clear the security perimeter. I will bring her up."

Kevin ground his teeth, but the hierarchy was absolute. He shot Arielle a reassuring look before jogging up the steps and disappearing through the glass doors.

Ellis turned back to Arielle. He didn't let go of her hand. He led her up the steps and through the revolving doors into the lobby of The Grand.

The interior was blinding. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, casting a golden glow over the marble floors. The air smelled of expensive champagne and rare orchids.

The moment Arielle stepped inside, the ambient chatter of the room died down.

Dozens of eyes turned toward them. The contrast was violent. Surrounded by women in haute couture gowns and men in bespoke tuxedos, Arielle stood in her cheap jacket, still damp from the earlier storm, her jeans caked in dried mud.

Whispers erupted like hissing snakes. Two women in diamonds openly pointed, their faces twisted in disgust.

Arielle hunched her shoulders, letting her chin drop to her chest. She made her breathing shallow and rapid, the perfect picture of a girl breaking under the weight of high society.

Ellis didn't even blink. He walked with a slow, predatory grace, completely ignoring the stares, his grip on her hand the only anchor in the room.

Near the center of the lobby, by a towering champagne pyramid, Kimora stood holding a crystal flute. She was clinging to the arm of Preston Vaughn, her weight shifted subtly off her bruised hip as she showed off her electronic concert tickets to a group of minor heirs.

Kimora turned her head to laugh at a joke. Her eyes landed on the entrance.

The laugh died in her throat. Her eyes bulged.

Panic, hot and suffocating, clawed at Kimora's throat. How is she here? she thought wildly. She left me in the mud! Fear quickly mutated into a desperate need to humiliate. Kimora couldn't let anyone see her sweat. She grabbed Preston's arm and pulled him across the marble floor, her heels clicking sharply as she masked the ache flaring in her hip.

She stopped three feet away, blocking their path to the elevators.

"Arielle?" Kimora shrieked, her voice echoing off the marble walls. "Did you actually follow me here? Are you stalking me?"

Half the lobby turned to watch the spectacle.

Preston looked Arielle up and down, his upper lip curling in profound revulsion. He had dumped her the moment the Tysons announced she wasn't their real daughter.

"This isn't a soup kitchen," Preston sneered, puffing out his chest. "You can't just follow us into The Grand begging for scraps. Have some dignity."

Kimora popped open her clutch. She pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills and held them out, her face a mask of fake pity. "If you're really that hungry, Arielle, just take it. But you have to leave. You're ruining the atmosphere."

The surrounding crowd let out a collective, mocking chuckle.

Arielle didn't look at the money. She kept her head bowed, but from beneath her lashes, she shifted her gaze to the man standing beside her. She waited.

Ellis stopped walking.

The temperature in the lobby seemed to plummet by ten degrees.

Ellis didn't let go of Arielle's hand. Instead, he took a half-step forward and pulled her firmly behind his broad back, shielding her completely from their view.

Preston finally looked at the man holding Arielle. He didn't recognize him. "Hey, buddy," Preston scoffed, pointing a finger at Ellis's chest. "I don't know what sob story this gold-digger sold you, but you're making a fool of yourself."

Kimora nodded eagerly. "She's a liar and a thief. You should drop her before she steals your watch."

Ellis slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes were dead, devoid of any human empathy. He looked at Preston and Kimora as if they were insects crawling on his floor.

His lips parted.

"Scram."

The single word was spoken softly, but it carried the weight of an executioner's blade.