Jilted Heiress: Claimed By The Ruthless Billionaire

"You will go to the salon, you will have them put you in the navy blue Chanel, and you will look grateful. Do you understand me, Liana? An orphan should not outshine the true daughter."

Margaret Pruitt's voice, sharp and laced with venom, screeched from the car's speakerphone.

Liana's thumb stabbed the "end call" button on the steering wheel.

The torrential downpour lashing against the windshield was less violent than the storm brewing inside her. Rain hammered down on the roof of her Porsche, a frantic, angry rhythm that matched the pounding in her head.

She refused to be dressed up like a drab little servant for Serena's triumphant return.

The streets of Manhattan were a blur of gray rain and flashing lights. On a massive LED screen overlooking the traffic-choked intersection, a breaking news banner from Bloomberg scrolled across the bottom.

JULIAN CARLISLE'S RETURN AS CEO SENDS CARLISLE GROUP STOCK SOARING.

His face, the same one from the magazine cover, filled the screen. Cold, powerful, inescapable. His influence was woven into the very fabric of this city, a constant, suffocating reminder of the mess she was in.

Miles ahead, sealed within the silent, opulent cabin of a black Rolls-Royce Phantom, Julian Carlisle sat with his eyes closed. The chaos of the city outside didn't penetrate the thick, armored glass.

"The security detail for tonight's dinner has been tripled," his executive assistant, Sterling, reported in a low, deferential tone. "And the board members are... anxious. Vice President Frederick has been making inquiries about the new corporate structure."

Julian didn't open his eyes.

"Frederick is trying to place his own people in the acquisitions department," Sterling added, a hint of concern in his voice.

A muscle in Julian's jaw tightened. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Fire him," he said, the two words dropping into the silence with the finality of a guillotine.

That was the end of the discussion. That was the end of Vice President Frederick.

Suddenly, the smooth glide of the Rolls-Royce was broken.

Up ahead, a traffic light flickered and died. The intersection descended into instant anarchy. Horns blared. A yellow taxi, trying to cut across three lanes, swerved violently.

The Rolls-Royce's driver slammed on the brakes.

In her Porsche, Liana was momentarily distracted. She was trying to blot a stray drop of rainwater from the makeshift ribbon on her dress with a crumpled napkin. It was a futile, nervous gesture.

One second of inattention was all it took.

She looked up just in time to see the imposing, solid black rear of the Rolls-Royce fill her entire windshield.

There was a sickening crunch of metal on metal.

The seatbelt dug sharply into her chest, knocking the wind out of her. The airbag didn't deploy, but the impact sent a jarring shock through her entire body. White smoke hissed from under the crumpled hood of her car.

"Damn it," Liana muttered, slapping the steering wheel in frustration. Not fear. Just pure, unadulterated annoyance. As if this day wasn't already a complete disaster.

Inside the Rolls-Royce, Sterling's face had gone pale. He whipped around in his seat.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Julian Carlisle merely opened his eyes. He looked as unruffled as if he'd been disturbed from a light nap. He calmly brushed an imaginary piece of dust from the sleeve of his bespoke suit.

"Handle it, Sterling," he said, his voice a low murmur of impatience.

Liana stared at the damage. The front of her Porsche was destroyed. She glanced at the car she'd hit. A custom Rolls-Royce Phantom. The emblem alone was probably worth more than her entire wardrobe.

She did a quick mental calculation of her personal trust fund. It would hurt. A lot. But she could cover it. Probably.

The world outside was a cacophony of blaring horns and sheeting rain. The wipers on her car swished frantically back and forth, smearing the water across the cracked glass. She and the black car were trapped in this bubble of chaos.

She ripped off the broken side-view mirror, which dangled by a wire, and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

"Stupid New York traffic," she grumbled to herself, a familiar complaint for any city dweller. It was easier to blame the city than her own rotten luck.

In the front car, Sterling was suggesting they call the police, their private security, the legal team.

Julian just glanced at his Patek Philippe watch.

"I don't have time for this," he said, his tone clipped. He picked up a tablet from the seat beside him and began scrolling through a merger proposal, the accident already forgotten. "Get her information. We'll send her the bill."

The difference was stark. The Pruitts would have screamed, made a public scene, worried about appearances above all else. This man, whoever he was, treated a major car accident like a minor inconvenience, an annoying fly to be swatted away.

Sterling opened his door, and a massive black umbrella unfurled, shielding him from the deluge. His polished leather shoes made a soft splash as he stepped into a puddle.

Liana forced her own damaged door open. The metal groaned in protest. She grabbed her own, much smaller umbrella and stepped out into the rain, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over her. Not about the crash, but about being even later for the inevitable confrontation at home.

She looked at the crumpled front of her beloved Porsche and grimaced. Her first thought wasn't about the cost of repairs. It was about the fact that now she'd probably have to take a cab to the Carlisle dinner, and the thought of her Manolos getting stained with street grime was genuinely distressing.

Sterling walked towards her, his expression professionally neutral. As he got closer, his eyes flickered down to her license plate. A custom plate. PRUITT1.

A flicker of understanding, and perhaps amusement, crossed his face. He glanced back at the tinted windows of the Rolls-Royce. This evening's dinner, he suspected, was about to get far more interesting.

A sudden gust of wind caught Liana's umbrella, snapping one of the metal ribs. Icy rain immediately started dripping down her neck and onto her already-ruined dress.

The wail of police sirens grew closer, forcing the issue. This needed to be resolved. Now.

As Sterling approached, Liana took a deep breath. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and let the mask of the untouchable, arrogant Pruitt heiress slide into place. It was a defense mechanism she had perfected over years of navigating New York's treacherous social circles.

She would handle this. She always did.

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