Reborn Heiress: The Wall Street Titan's Bride

The heavy oak door swung open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

Austen pushed Evelyn inside, his hands already roaming all over her. He pinned her against the doorframe, his mouth crashing down on hers. The sound of their wet kisses and heavy, ragged breathing sliced through the wooden slats of the closet door, hitting Alaia's ears.

Alaia stood in the dark, her face entirely devoid of emotion. There was no jealousy. No heartbreak. Watching them felt like watching two pigs rolling in filth. It just made her stomach churn with disgust.

Evelyn let out a breathy moan and placed her hands on Austen's chest, gently pushing him back.

"Wait," Evelyn whispered, her voice dripping with fake concern. "What about Alaia? Won't she be looking for you?"

She was testing him. Playing the innocent victim.

Austen scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Forget about that boring piece of wood. She's clueless. I'm dumping her the second this press tour is over."

The words echoed in the quiet room, feeding directly into the hidden microphone.

Austen grabbed Evelyn's waist and pulled her toward the center of the room. They collapsed onto the leather sofa, directly in the camera's line of sight. The sound of fabric tearing and zippers unzipping filled the air.

Alaia looked down at her phone screen. The live feed showed their faces in high definition, completely exposed under the dim lights.

She watched for another ten seconds, ensuring there was no mistaking their identities. Then, she hit the stop button. She swiftly severed the connection to the hidden camera, closing the application entirely, and immediately disabled her phone's Bluetooth and Wi-Fi to prevent any stray signal detection in the quiet room.

Outside, the two of them were completely consumed by their lust, making enough noise to cover any sound she made. Alaia reached for the back handle of the closet door.

The back door opened into an abandoned maintenance shaft. She squeezed her body through the narrow opening. A cloud of thick dust hit her face. Her throat tickled, threatening a cough. She clamped both hands over her mouth and nose, her eyes watering as she forced the urge down.

She moved quickly down the concrete stairs of the shaft. Her heels clicked faintly against the stone, the sound echoing upward, pushing her to move faster.

She pushed open the fire exit door on the fifth floor and slipped back into the brightly lit, carpeted hallway of the guest wing.

She power-walked back to her suite, swiped her card, and threw the door shut. She locked the deadbolt and leaned her back against the solid wood, exhaling a long, shaky breath.

She walked over to the desk and flipped open her laptop. She plugged her phone in and transferred the video file. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, expertly adjusting the exposure and highlights to make their faces impossible to deny.

She isolated the audio track where Austen called her a "boring piece of wood" and amplified the volume. Every single word was crystal clear.

She opened a newly registered, untraceable encrypted email account she had set up on a secure server just minutes before.

She attached the video file. In the recipient line, she typed the public tip-line email for Vinnie Kowalski, the most notorious paparazzi in Hollywood.

To guarantee maximum destruction, she added a second recipient: Alex Stone, a top-tier private investigator. She typed a single sentence in the body: Consider this half the down payment.

Alaia stared at the screen. She clicked send.

The progress bar shot across the screen. A cruel, bloodthirsty smile stretched across Alaia's face. Austen, you think cheating is your biggest sin? Wait until Alex Stone digs up the rest of your filthy, buried secrets. The video was just the appetizer; the private investigator would serve the main course.

She wiped the laptop clean, stood up, and walked over to the minibar. She poured two fingers of straight whiskey into a glass and downed it in one gulp.

The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat, sharpening her senses. She grabbed her lipstick, touched up the red on her mouth, and turned toward the door. It was time to go back to the battlefield.

Across Los Angeles, in a cramped basement office, Vinnie Kowalski was mindlessly refreshing his inbox. A zip file titled Hollywood's Golden Boy Exposed popped up.

Vinnie clicked the video. As Austen and Evelyn's faces filled his monitor, he jumped so hard his knee slammed into his desk, knocking his coffee cup onto the floor.

Less than five minutes later, TMZ's homepage flashed a massive, red breaking news banner. The video was pushed to millions of phones simultaneously.

Alaia had just stepped out of the elevator and approached the grand double doors of the banquet hall when her phone began to vibrate violently against her palm. Twitter notifications flooded her lock screen like a waterfall.

She glanced down. The number one trending topic was already Austen Cheats on Alaia. A little explosion emoji sat next to the hashtag.

Inside the banquet hall, the elegant string quartet was drowned out by a sudden, chaotic wave of whispers. People were gasping. Heads were turning. The atmosphere shifted from celebratory to toxic in seconds.

Alaia pushed the heavy doors open. The bright chandeliers illuminated her red dress. She looked like a walking flame.

Every single pair of eyes in the room snapped toward her. The gazes were heavy with pity, mockery, and morbid curiosity. The whispers swelled into a loud hum.

A rival actress, a woman who had always hated Alaia, practically sprinted over. She held her phone out, her face twisted in a mask of fake sympathy.

"Oh my god, Alaia," the actress cooed. "Have you seen what's on the internet?"

Alaia snatched the phone from the woman's hand. She stared at the screen, watching the video she had filmed herself.

She forced her breathing to hitch. Her eyes widened, and within seconds, tears pooled in her eyes, spilling over her lashes. She let her lower lip tremble, delivering the performance of a lifetime as the utterly broken, betrayed victim.