His Lethal Wife: The Heiress's Vicious Comeback

The heavy scent of floral perfume and sweat hung in the air of the St. Jude's senior girls' locker room.

Vivian dropped her bag onto the bench. She unbuttoned her blouse.

In the reflection of the narrow mirror inside her locker door, she saw movement.

Tammy-Lynn was creeping down the aisle. Her nose was swollen and bruised purple from the morning. Three muscular cheerleaders flanked her.

Tammy-Lynn held a pair of heavy steel fabric scissors. Her eyes were fixed on the expensive silk sports bra resting on Vivian's bag.

Vivian kept her breathing steady. She pretended to adjust her skirt.

Tammy-Lynn stepped within striking distance. She raised the scissors.

Vivian spun on her heel. She grabbed the edge of the heavy metal locker door and slammed it shut with brutal force.

The steel caught Tammy-Lynn squarely in the face.

A loud, hollow thud echoed through the room. Tammy-Lynn screamed. She dropped the scissors and clutched her bleeding nose, stumbling backward.

The three cheerleaders froze. Their eyes went wide with panic.

Vivian kicked the wooden bench. It screeched across the tiles, blocking the narrow aisle. She trapped them.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a heavy, leather jump rope. She wrapped the ends around her knuckles. She pulled her hands apart. The leather snapped taut with a sharp, threatening crack.

Vivian took a slow step forward. Her eyes were empty of any human empathy.

The cheerleaders' nerves shattered. They shoved each other out of the way, scrambling over the benches to flee the locker room. They left Tammy-Lynn bleeding on the floor.

Vivian looked down at her. She didn't say a word. She stepped over Tammy-Lynn's legs, changed into her athletic gear, and walked out.

The indoor gymnasium was deafening. The bleachers were packed with students from Manhattan's elite families. The Ivy League prep basketball game was in full swing.

Julian Hayes was on the court. The billionaire heir wore a custom jersey. Sweat glistened on his arms as he soaked up the cheers of the crowd.

Vivian walked down the bleacher steps. She sat in the front row.

She stared at Julian. This was the boy who had orchestrated the systematic social isolation that drove Eleanor to despair. Her fingers twitched with the urge to break his neck.

Julian scored a layup. He turned to the crowd, grinning.

His eyes locked onto Vivian. His smile vanished. He saw the pure, unadulterated mockery in her gaze. His ego flared.

A teammate passed the ball to Julian.

Julian caught it. He turned his body. Instead of passing it back, he deliberately bounced the ball hard and low, aiming it to ricochet off the floor and hit her in the shins-a classic, vicious move of playground humiliation.

Girls in the stands screamed. Several covered their faces, bracing for the sickening sound of bone cracking under the heavy leather.

Vivian didn't blink.

Her right hand shot down. Her fingers spread wide.

She caught the spinning ball inches from her knees. The impact was massive. The friction burned the skin of her palm.

She didn't let her arm buckle. She absorbed the kinetic energy, her wrist dipping slightly before locking into place like iron, stopping the projectile dead.

The gym went completely silent. The referee dropped his whistle. It clattered against the hardwood.

Julian stood frozen at the three-point line. His mouth hung open.

Vivian stood up. She gripped the ball with one hand. She stepped off the bleachers and onto the polished wood of the court.

She walked slowly toward Julian.

Two of Julian's massive teammates stepped forward to block her path.

Vivian shifted her gaze to them. It was a look that promised immediate, violent hospitalization. The two boys swallowed hard and backed away.

Vivian stopped two feet from Julian. He was taller, but her presence suffocated him.

"Did the brain damage make you suicidal, Eleanor?" Julian stammered. His voice cracked. He tried to puff out his chest.

Vivian didn't answer.

She dropped the ball. It bounced once.

She exploded into motion.

Her crossover was a blur. Her sneakers squeaked violently against the floor. She dropped her shoulder, feinted left, and cut right with military precision.

Julian's brain couldn't process the speed. He tangled his own feet trying to follow her.

He lost his balance. He crashed hard onto the floor, his tailbone smacking the wood.

Vivian stepped back to the three-point line. She squared her shoulders. She jumped. Her form was flawless, her release smooth.

The ball arced high through the silent gym.

Swish.

It ripped through the net without touching the rim. The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the quarter.

Vivian walked back to where Julian was still sitting on the floor. The basketball rolled to a stop near his leg.

She placed her Prada boot on top of the ball. She looked down at him.

"Your footwork is garbage," Vivian said. Her voice carried across the dead-silent gym. "Just like your breeding."

Julian's face turned a violent shade of purple. The veins in his neck bulged. He opened his mouth, but the sheer, crushing humiliation paralyzed his vocal cords.

Vivian turned her back on him. She walked out of the gym, leaving the king of St. Jude's broken on his own court.