Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

The air inside the exclusive Upper East Side private club was suffocatingly thick with the smell of white lilies and expensive perfumes. Ina stood near the entrance of the memorial hall. She wore a severe, tailored black Givenchy dress. Her face was a pale, emotionless mask. She mechanically shook hands with the Wall Street executives and socialites who walked past. They offered her words of sympathy, but their eyes were greedy, searching for signs of the Holman family's weakness. Her older brother, Jett, walked over. He held a crystal flute of champagne. His face was flushed with anger. "Did you see the Wall Street Journal?" Jett hissed, keeping his voice low. "They are calling the explosion a 'family curse.' Our stock took a nosedive this morning. The board is panicking." Ina turned her head slowly. She stared at him with dead eyes. "Our sister's body is in an urn behind you, Jett. And you are worried about a stock ticker?" Jett's face tightened. He glared at her, his pride stung. "Someone has to keep this family afloat," he spat, turning on his heel and walking toward a group of wealthy investors. Faron Levine approached her from the opposite direction. He wore a sharp black suit. He arranged his facial features into a mask of profound sorrow. "Ina, my love," Faron murmured. He reached out, aiming to pull her into a comforting embrace for the benefit of the watching crowd. As he stepped close, the heavy scent of Tom Ford cologne hit Ina's nose. Underneath it, that same faint, lingering scent of cheap vape smoke clung to his lapel, triggering a violent wave of revulsion. Ina's stomach violently contracted. Bile rose in her throat. She forcefully stepped sideways, dodging his arms completely. Faron's hands grasped empty air. A flash of pure irritation crossed his eyes. He quickly lowered his arms, forcing a tight, embarrassed smile for the onlookers. Inside Ina's black velvet clutch, her phone vibrated. Two short, aggressive bursts. She needed an excuse to get away from Faron. "I need the restroom," she muttered, turning away before he could respond. Ina walked swiftly down a dimly lit, empty corridor lined with antique oil paintings. She stopped under a brass wall sconce. She opened her clutch and pulled out her phone. The screen showed two text messages from an unknown number. She opened the first one. Did you take the morning-after pill? Ina's pupils dilated. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her fingers began to tremble uncontrollably. Only one person in the world knew what happened that night. The man with the B. W. initials. Before she could process the panic, the second message appeared. The security cameras in The Plaza hallway are 4K resolution. And the audio recording on my phone is crystal clear. A block of solid ice dropped into Ina's stomach. The cold spread through her veins. He had recorded her. He had proof. She was completely at his mercy. She gritted her teeth. She hit the call button on the unknown number. She needed to scream at him. The phone rang exactly once. Then, a harsh click. The line went dead. He hung up on her. The screen lit up with a third message. Tomorrow. 12:00 PM. Le Bernardin. Do not be late. Ina gripped the phone so hard her knuckles ached. A wave of intense, burning humiliation washed over her. She looked up. At the end of the corridor hung a large, ornate mirror. She stared at her reflection. Her skin was ghastly pale, but her eyes were burning with a fierce, desperate fire. She could not let this man destroy her. She could not let Faron deceive her. She was surrounded by predators. If she stayed weak, they would eat her alive. Ina took a deep breath. She shoved the phone back into her clutch. She opened her makeup bag. She pulled out a tube of vivid, blood-red lipstick. She applied it with precise, aggressive strokes. The color instantly transformed her pale face into a weapon. She smoothed the invisible wrinkles on her black dress. She straightened her spine, throwing her shoulders back. She walked out of the corridor and back into the crowded hall. She bypassed the grieving guests and walked straight toward her father, Reginald. He was standing in a circle of bankers, laughing softly at a joke. Ina stepped directly into the circle, shattering the polite atmosphere. "Father," Ina said. Her voice was loud, cold, and demanding. "I need to see the insurance claim documents for the Long Island estate. Now." The bankers fell silent. Reginald's face turned a dark, furious red. He grabbed Ina's arm and yanked her away from the group. "Are you insane?" Reginald hissed through his teeth. "Do not cause a scene here!" Ina ripped her arm out of his grip. She stared him down, her red lips curling into a cold sneer. "If you do not send those documents to my email by tonight," Ina said, her voice dripping with venom, "I will bring a team of forensic accountants to the corporate office tomorrow morning and demand a full audit." Reginald stared at her, shocked by the sudden, vicious defiance in his usually obedient daughter. Ina turned her back on him and walked away. The war had begun.