His Unwanted Fiancé Is A Genius Heiress

Karmen walked out of the hotel lobby, her face set in a hard, unapproachable scowl. The heat of the Manhattan pavement radiated through the soles of her shoes. A black, armored SUV idled at the curb, its engine a low, menacing purr. The driver stepped out and opened the heavy rear door. Karmen slid into the backseat without looking at him. "Home," she ordered, her voice deepened by the modulator. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing her in a soundproof vault. The moment the SUV pulled into traffic, Karmen hit the button on the armrest. The thick privacy partition slid up, completely blocking the driver's view. She collapsed back against the leather seat. The arrogant posture drained from her bones, leaving behind a crushing, physical exhaustion. She reached up to her collar and her fingers found the silk tie that had been cinched tight around her throat since she had dressed that morning—a suffocating emblem of the role she was forced to play. She ripped the silk tie from her neck. Her fingers fumbled with the top three buttons of her dress shirt, pulling the fabric apart to let the air-conditioning hit her overheated skin. The compression binder underneath felt like a vice crushing her ribs. Karmen reached under the passenger seat and dragged out a sleek, titanium briefcase. It was heavy, anchored to a track on the floor. She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. A green light flashed. The latches popped open with a sharp hiss. Inside lay a surgical-grade makeup kit, rows of high-polymer solvents, and medical adhesives. Karmen grabbed a glass bottle of solvent and soaked a thick cotton pad. She turned her face toward the tinted window, using her faint reflection in the glass. She pressed the soaked cotton against the jagged edge of the silicone scar on her left cheek. The chemical solvent was harsh. It burned her skin, a sharp, stinging sensation that made her eyes water. She gritted her teeth, peeling the edge of the prosthetic back. The adhesive fought her, pulling at her sensitive flesh. She ripped it off in one swift, agonizing motion. Karmen tossed the grotesque piece of silicone into a biohazard incineration bag on the floor. She grabbed a wet wipe and scrubbed the remaining glue from her face. When she finally looked back at the window, the scarred, ugly playboy was gone. Staring back at her was a woman. Flawless, pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that held too much exhaustion for her age. For exactly three minutes, she was just Karmen. The silence in the car was shattered by a harsh, mechanical vibration. It wasn't her primary phone. It was coming from the inner pocket of her suit jacket. Karmen's stomach dropped. She pulled out an outdated, bulky flip phone. It had no GPS, no internet browser, and only one contact. She flipped it open. The tiny screen glowed with a heavily encrypted text message. It was from her mother, Eleanor Vance. Karmen's fingers flew across the physical keypad, punching in the 16-digit decryption key they changed every week. The garbled text dissolved into plain English. Kem's security clearance at the Swiss sanatorium has been elevated to Level 4. Guards at his door. He is in immediate danger. Stanislaw is moving the final Nexus Dynamics shares today. You must keep Earl engaged. Do whatever it takes. A red timer appeared at the bottom of the screen. 15... 14... 13... Karmen stared at the words until they burned into her retinas. Her brother was trapped in a Swiss facility, drugged and locked away by their own father. 3... 2... 1... The screen flashed white. The message deleted itself, leaving the phone an empty, useless brick. Karmen gripped the plastic phone so tightly the casing creaked. A wave of pure, violent hatred for her father washed over her, making her hands shake. Stanislaw was going to sell out Nexus Dynamics, destroy her brother, and leave them all with nothing. She didn't have time to be tired. She didn't have time to be Karmen. She opened the briefcase again and pulled out a brand-new, identical silicone scar. She reached into the kit and extracted a tube of cooling repair gel, quickly applying a thin layer over her raw skin. The icy sensation provided a temporary, numbing relief against the burning throb, prepping the damaged tissue for the next round of torture. She unscrewed a tube of medical adhesive. The smell of harsh chemicals filled the small space. She smeared the glue directly onto her cheek. It burned even through the protective gel, a hot, searing pain that made her jaw clench. She carefully aligned the prosthetic, pressing it firmly against her skin. She grabbed a sponge and rapidly blended the edges with heavy foundation until the seam disappeared. She buttoned her shirt back up to her throat. She pulled the silk tie tight, choking off her own breath. She reached up, grabbed her long, ash-blonde hair, and twisted it tightly against her scalp, shoving it under the short, styled male wig. She pressed two fingers against her throat, adjusting the modulator patch. She cleared her throat. "Check." The raspy baritone bounced off the leather seats. Karmen hit the button to lower the partition. The driver's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. He saw nothing but Kem Bartlett, staring blankly out the window. The SUV slowed to a halt in front of the ultra-luxury apartment building that housed the Bartlett family penthouse. The doorman rushed forward, pulling the heavy door open. Karmen stepped out into the blinding sunlight. She shoved her hands into her pockets, slouching her shoulders into the lazy, entitled posture of a man who had never worked a day in his life. Without breaking stride, she flicked a folded hundred-dollar bill from her pocket toward the doorman's chest—a careless, arrogant gesture befitting the man she pretended to be. The doorman caught it deftly, murmuring his thanks as she swept past him. She strode into the marble lobby. She stood in front of the private elevator, watching the brass numbers tick upward. Behind those doors was her father. And she was walking straight into a war zone.