His Trophy Wife Is A Predator

The elevator bell chimed with a sharp ding.

The metal doors slid open. Chelsea stepped out into the penthouse hallway, her high heels sinking into the plush carpet.

She walked straight to Caryn's door. She didn't knock. She pressed her thumb hard against the doorbell and held it there.

A few seconds later, Caryn's sweet, high-pitched voice echoed from inside. The heavy deadbolt clicked open.

Chelsea didn't wait. She shoved both hands against the wood and violently kicked the door open.

The heavy door slammed against the interior wall with a deafening crash.

Caryn, wearing a sheer silk robe and holding a crystal flute of champagne, let out a piercing scream. The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. The expensive wine splashed everywhere.

Caryn clutched her chest, her eyes wide. When she saw it was Chelsea, she immediately forced her face into a mask of tragic victimhood.

"Chelsea! Oh my god, I was so scared-" Caryn whimpered, stepping forward with her arms open for a hug.

Chelsea stepped back, her face twisted in pure disgust. She looked at Caryn like she was a piece of rotting meat.

"Save the performance, you lying bitch," Chelsea spat.

She rapidly listed the fake ultrasound clinic, the hidden PR payments, and the pathetic plan to crash the charity gala.

Caryn's face drained of all color. Her mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes.

Chelsea let out a harsh, barking laugh.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. She unlocked it and opened both Twitter and Instagram right in front of Caryn's face.

Her thumbs flew across the screen. She uploaded a photo she had secretly snapped this morning.

It was a picture of Hazel sitting at the head of the dining table. The lighting was dramatic, casting Hazel in an aura of untouchable, terrifying aristocratic authority.

Chelsea typed the caption: The real mistress of the Powers family doesn't waste time looking down at sewer rats.

She tagged Caryn's official handle and added three highly toxic trending hashtags.

She pressed post. The loading bar shot across the screen. Done.

Almost instantly, Caryn's phone, resting on the kitchen counter, began to vibrate violently. The notification chimes bled together into one continuous, panicked scream.

Caryn lunged for the counter. Her trembling hands grabbed the phone.

When she saw Chelsea's post, the room started spinning. Black spots danced in her vision.

The comment section was exploding. Within sixty seconds, the entire Manhattan elite circle was flooding the post. The public narrative flipped instantly. Everyone was praising Hazel's terrifying aura and Chelsea's brutal loyalty.

Caryn let out a hysterical sob. She dropped her phone and lunged at Chelsea, clawing wildly to grab Chelsea's device.

Chelsea shifted her weight perfectly.

She swung her right arm back and slapped Caryn across the face with every ounce of strength she had.

The sharp, explosive crack of flesh hitting flesh echoed through the massive living room.

Caryn was thrown off balance. She collapsed onto the floor, clutching her burning cheek. She stared up at Chelsea in absolute shock.

Chelsea stood over her, breathing heavily.

"If you ever try to touch the Powers family again," Chelsea whispered darkly, "I will make sure you cease to exist in this city."

On the counter, Caryn's phone pinged with three new emails. Her brand sponsors were terminating her contracts.

Caryn stared at the screen and let out a guttural, agonizing scream.

Chelsea dusted off her hands. She turned around, ready to walk out of the miserable apartment.

Suddenly, the intercom on the wall buzzed loudly.

Caryn scrambled across the floor and slammed her hand against the speaker button.

"Miss Cook," the lobby security guard's nervous voice crackled through the speaker. "A Mr. Greyson Estes is here. He is demanding to come up."

Chelsea froze in her tracks.

She slowly turned her head. Her eyes widened in absolute horror. Greyson Estes. The ruthless Wall Street titan.