No More Submission: The Heiress Strikes Back

Harmony's eyes snapped open. Her vision blurred with cold sweat. Her lungs violently expanded, pulling in the conditioned air of her Upper East Side bedroom, but all she could taste was the sterile, chemical tang of a hospital ward from her nightmare. A phantom sense of restraint and helplessness still clung to her limbs. She dug her fingernails into the mattress. She gripped the Egyptian cotton sheets so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. The smooth, expensive fabric grounded her. It was real. She was here. A violent pounding rattled the solid oak door of her bedroom. The vibration sent a physical shockwave through her chest, interrupting her desperate attempt to slow her hammering pulse. "Harmony! Open this door right now!" It was Alon. Her eldest brother's voice bled through the heavy wood, thick with irritation. He accused her of giving Fallon the cold shoulder last night, claiming her jealousy had caused their adopted sister to lose sleep. Harmony's brain misfired. The audio of Alon's angry voice in the present perfectly overlapped with the cold, dead tone he had used in her nightmare when he signed her involuntary commitment papers. Her stomach clamped down in a brutal cramp. A wave of somatic terror forced her body to scramble backward, her spine hitting the hard edge of her mahogany headboard. Alon lost his patience. The brass doorknob twisted violently. He shoved the door open, his tall, broad-shouldered frame instantly blocking the morning light spilling from the hallway. He stood over her, casting a long, suffocating shadow across her bed. There was no brotherly concern in his eyes. Only deep, unfiltered disgust. "Get out of bed," Alon ordered, his voice echoing in the large room. "You are going to apologize to Fallon. If you don't, I'm cutting off your black card today." Harmony bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. The sharp sting and the sudden, metallic taste of copper flooded her mouth. The blood grounded her, suppressing the scream that clawed at her throat. She slowly tilted her head up. The raw panic that had dilated her pupils just seconds ago began to freeze over. The warmth drained from her face, leaving behind a hollow, dead stillness that made Alon shift his weight. The unfamiliar emptiness in her stare pricked at his ego. He instinctively raised his voice, a habit he used whenever he felt a loss of control. "Did you hear me? Apologize to her. Now." Harmony didn't cry. She didn't launch into her usual frantic defense. Instead, she pushed the heavy duvet aside and stood up. Her bare feet touched the cold hardwood floor. She took two seconds to smooth out the wrinkles in her silk pajamas, her movements deliberate and slow. "You're right," Harmony said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any inflection. "I was inconsiderate last night." Alon blinked. The cruel, rehearsed lecture died in his throat. He stared at her, completely thrown off balance by her immediate submission. Before he could recover, Harmony took a step forward. "To make up for it," she continued, her tone eerily calm, "I think we should host a formal welcome dinner for Fallon next week. At the Plaza Hotel." Alon's brows pulled together in a tight, suspicious line. He searched her pale face for any sign of a prank, any hint of her usual desperate jealousy. "If Fallon is going to be accepted by New York society," Harmony added, dropping the bait with surgical precision, "she needs a high-profile endorsement. Otherwise, people will just see her as the housekeeper's charity case." The words hit their exact mark. The Roberson family's greatest weakness was their obsession with class and public image. The suspicion on Alon's face melted into arrogant satisfaction. He let out a short, dismissive scoff. "Finally," Alon said, adjusting his expensive watch. "You're actually acting like a daughter of this family. Make sure it's perfect." He turned on his heel and walked out. "And Harmony," he warned over his shoulder, not bothering to look back. "Don't try any of your stupid tricks at the dinner." The heavy oak door clicked shut, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet bedroom. The second she was alone, Harmony's knees gave out. She slumped against the solid wood of the door, her body sliding down until she hit the thick wool rug. Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone from the nightstand. She opened the calendar. The date glowing on the screen matched the beginning of her nightmare perfectly. In that other life, that other timeline, she had screamed and fought against hosting a dinner for Fallon. That refusal had branded her as a bitter, unhinged brat, giving her family the first excuse to strip away her dignity. Now, by offering the Plaza dinner, she hadn't just dodged their punishment. She had just pushed Fallon onto a massive, unforgiving stage, directly into the crosshairs of the most ruthless socialites in Manhattan. Harmony pushed herself off the floor. She walked over to her vanity mirror. The woman staring back at her looked pale, but the pathetic, desperate need for love was completely gone from her eyes. She picked up a heavy silver hairbrush. She dragged the bristles through her long hair, pulling hard. With every painful stroke, she mentally severed another tie to the people in this apartment. She walked into her massive walk-in closet. Her hands moved mechanically as she yanked dozens of pastel, floral dresses off their velvet hangers. These were the clothes her mother forced her to wear to look "sweet and manageable." She shoved them all into a black trash bag. She reached into the back of the closet and pulled out a sharply tailored, black silk shirt. Harmony unbuttoned her pajamas. She slipped the cold black silk over her shoulders, feeling the fabric armor her skin. It was time to go to work.