Reborn Heiress: The Wall Street Titan's Bride

A few days later, the Dudley estate was buzzing with chaotic energy. Maids rushed through the halls carrying massive floral arrangements. Darrius had announced he was throwing a grand "welcome home" banquet for Alaia.

Alaia stood on the second-floor landing, looking down at the preparations with dead eyes. She knew exactly what this was. It wasn't a welcome party. It was an auction. Darrius had invited the wealthiest, most repulsive old men in Los Angeles to sell her off for business connections.

That afternoon, Devona knocked and pushed her way into Alaia's room, followed by two maids carrying a garment bag.

Devona smiled, her eyes gleaming with fake affection. "Alaia, darling. I had this flown in from Milan just for you. I want you to be the most beautiful girl in the room tonight."

The maids unzipped the bag, revealing a breathtaking, silver sequined haute couture gown.

Alaia gasped, playing the grateful daughter. "Oh, Aunt Devona, it's beautiful. Thank you."

She reached out to touch the fabric. As her fingers brushed the side zipper, she felt a strange, thick bump in the seam. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

Devona left the room, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

The second the door locked, Alaia threw the dress onto the bed and flipped it inside out.

She inspected the zipper. The heavy-duty nylon thread had been meticulously unpicked and replaced with cheap, fragile cotton thread. The moment she took a deep breath or twisted her waist, the entire side of the dress would rip open, exposing her to a room full of billionaires.

It was Asia's work. A pathetic, vicious attempt to humiliate her.

In her past life, the dress had ripped. The paparazzi outside had taken photos through the windows, and she had become a laughingstock.

Alaia let out a cold, sharp laugh. She walked over to her suitcase and pulled out a small sewing kit.

She didn't try to fix the zipper. She grabbed a pair of sharp fabric scissors. Without a second of hesitation, she jammed the blades into the seam and violently cut the entire side and back of the dress wide open.

The sound of tearing silk filled the room. The conservative, elegant gown was now in pieces.

She didn't possess the skills of a master tailor, nor did she have a sewing machine to reconstruct the garment. But she had an impeccable eye for fashion and a ruthless sense of survival. Alaia went to work with what she had. She used the fabric scissors to deliberately distress the torn edges, making the jagged cuts look like an intentional, avant-garde design choice. She grabbed a handful of ornate silver safety pins and diamond-encrusted brooches from her jewelry box. Instead of hiding the tear, she used the pins to violently bridge the gap across her exposed skin, transforming the ruined zipper into a plunging, dangerous backless design held together by gleaming metal. It wasn't a professional repair, but a brilliant, punk-couture statement.

Two hours later, the sabotage was gone. The dress was now a lethal, skin-tight weapon of war.

At 8:00 PM, the banquet was in full swing. The grand hall was packed with men in tuxedos, their greedy eyes scanning the room.

Asia stood near the bar in a puffy pink princess dress, constantly glancing up at the stairs, vibrating with excitement to see Alaia's downfall.

Darrius stood in the center of the room, checking his watch, his face turning red with impatience.

Suddenly, the motion-sensor lights on the grand staircase clicked on. The sharp clack of a stiletto hitting the hardwood echoed through the hall.

The loud chatter instantly died. Every head turned.

Alaia stepped onto the landing. The silver sequins caught the chandelier light, making her look like she was dripping in liquid diamonds. The massive, plunging back exposed her flawless, pale skin all the way down to her lower waist.

She didn't look scared. She kept her chin high, her eyes cold and commanding. She walked down the stairs with the slow, hypnotic sway of a predator entering a cage of prey.

Asia's smug smile shattered. Her jaw dropped open, her eyes bulging as she stared at the dress that was supposed to fall apart.

Devona gripped her champagne flute so hard the crystal nearly cracked. She muttered a vicious curse under her breath.

The old men in the crowd were completely paralyzed. Their eyes were filled with raw lust, but Alaia's overwhelming, icy aura kept them frozen in place. No one dared to approach her.

Darrius's eyes lit up with extreme greed. He realized his daughter wasn't just a pretty face; she was a masterpiece. Her value had just skyrocketed.

Alaia reached the bottom of the stairs. She glided past a stunned waiter, plucking a glass of red wine from his tray. She locked eyes with Asia, her lips curving into a mocking sneer.

A balding real estate tycoon, sweating through his suit, finally broke the trance. He waddled toward Alaia, a sleazy, confident grin plastered on his face.

Alaia didn't step back. She simply smiled, raising her left hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As she did, she slowly twisted the heavy, black obsidian ring on her index finger.