Jilted Heiress: Her Reign Has Begun

Etta Stark POV:

The door to my studio creaked open, and the scent of Fremont' s expensive cologne filled the air, a cloying, unwelcome intrusion. I didn' t look up from the seating chart.

"You' ve been in here for hours," he said, his voice laced with that false, patronizing warmth he used when he wanted something. He placed a steaming mug of coffee beside my hand. I didn't touch it.

"I' m busy, Fremont."

He leaned over my shoulder, his chin almost resting on my hair. I flinched. "I need a small favor."

I waited.

"Corina is feeling a bit left out," he began, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "I was thinking… we should add her to the guest list for the gala."

My pen stopped moving. A single, perfect drop of black ink bled into the pristine white cardstock, marring the name of a respected judge. The sound of my own breathing was suddenly loud in the silent room.

He wanted to bring his pregnant mistress to a gala honoring the memory of the parents whose sacrifice had given him everything. He wanted her to sit among our friends, our family, on the most sacred night of my year.

"Are you insane?" The words were a ghost of a whisper, but they carried the weight of a scream.

"Etta, don't be dramatic."

"You want to bring that… woman… to my parents' memorial?" I finally looked up at him, my eyes burning. "Do you have any idea what you' re asking?"

"I know it' s important to you," he said, his expression a mask of sincerity that made my stomach turn. He had the audacity to look hurt. "But Corina is pregnant with my child. She' s going to be part of the family. It' s better if everyone gets used to the idea sooner rather than later."

He looked at me then, his gaze deep and manipulative, the way a snake might watch a mouse. "Besides, you' re always so understanding. You' re Etta Stark. You know how to handle these things with grace."

Understanding. The word was a slap in the face. He wasn' t asking for my understanding. He was demanding my surrender.

My hand trembled. The coffee mug he' d brought was still steaming. Without a second thought, I picked it up and deliberately poured the hot liquid onto the floor, a few feet from his polished leather shoes. It splashed, a dark, ugly stain on the antique rug.

"Was that understanding enough for you?" I asked, my voice dripping with ice.

Fremont didn't even flinch. His calm was more infuriating than any outburst would have been. "Etta, that was childish." He took a step toward me, his hand outstretched as if to check if I' d burned myself.

I recoiled as if his touch were acid. "Don' t you dare touch me."

"Stop this act," he sighed, his patience finally fraying. The charming mask slipped, revealing the cold arrogance beneath. "I don' t have time for your tantrums."

"Get out," I said, my voice shaking with a rage that felt seismic.

"We' re not done here."

"I said, get out!" I grabbed the nearest object on my desk-a heavy, pointed silver letter opener, a gift from my father. I held it up, not as a weapon, but as a final, desperate barrier. "Don' t push me, Fremont."

For the first time, his expression changed. Not to fear, but to annoyance. "Put that down. You' ll hurt yourself."

He lunged for it. I held on tight, a guttural 'no' tearing from my throat. His fingers wrapped around mine, trying to pry the letter opener from my grasp. The struggle was brief, pathetic. He was so much stronger.

There was a sharp, searing pain.

I gasped, my grip slackening. He pulled the letter opener free. Blood, dark and shockingly red, welled up from a deep gash in the palm of my hand. It dripped onto the seating chart, landing squarely between my name and his, a crimson stain that obliterated the ampersand connecting us.

We both froze, staring at the blood.

Then, his phone rang. The tinny, cheerful ringtone belonged to Corina. I knew it because he' d let it play in front of me a dozen times.

He looked at my bleeding hand. He looked at the ringing phone.

And he answered it.

"Hey, baby," he murmured, his voice instantly softening, dripping with a tenderness he hadn' t shown me in years. "What' s wrong? Are you okay?"

The world went silent. The physical pain in my hand was a distant echo compared to the chasm that ripped open in my chest. It felt like my heart was being torn in two, slowly, meticulously, by a pair of invisible, brutal hands.

He turned his back to me, whispering reassurances to her, while my blood continued to drip, drip, drip onto the floor.

After what felt like an eternity, he ended the call and turned back to me. He let out a long, weary sigh, a sound of pure exasperation.

"Corina feels bad," he said, not even looking at my hand. "She doesn' t want to 'make things difficult' for you."

He paused, letting the manipulative words hang in the air. "She says she' d feel uncomfortable if she came, but she' d also feel uncomfortable if you went without her, knowing you were alone."

A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips. "So what' s your brilliant solution, Fremont?"

He looked me straight in the eye, his gaze cold and final. "I canceled it. The gala is off."

I stared at him, unable to process the words. Canceled. He had canceled my parents' memorial. For her. For a whim.

Ten years ago, my father, Robert Stark, had signed over his entire company, Stark Industries, to save Warren Corp from a hostile takeover. The deal had cost him everything-his fortune, his health, his life. He died of a heart attack six months later, a broken man. I was left an orphan. The Warren patriarch, Fremont' s grandfather, had sworn a sacred oath on my father' s grave to care for me, to honor the Stark legacy. This marriage, this union, was the fulfillment of that blood pact. The annual gala was the one thread connecting me to that past, to the parents I barely remembered.

And Fremont had just severed it. For a woman he' d met six months ago.

"I' ll make it up to you," he said, his voice void of any real emotion. He stepped forward and did something so monstrously cruel it took my breath away. He gently brushed a strand of hair from my face and kissed my forehead, a gesture of empty, theatrical affection.

"After I' m officially CEO, we' ll get married," he whispered, his lips cold against my skin. "Then everything will be right again. Just be a good girl until then, Etta."

He walked out, leaving me standing in a pool of my own blood, the ghost of his treacherous kiss burning on my skin.

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