Scars Of Betrayal: The Heiress's Revenge

She needed to get back to her room before the guests started arriving, but as she passed the heavy oak door of the smoking room, she heard a voice that stopped her in her tracks.

It was Benito.

The door was ajar, just a crack. The smell of expensive cigars and aged scotch drifted out into the hallway.

"Come on, man," another voice said. She recognized it. Preston Vance. Benito's college roommate and lifelong sycophant. "You're not actually going to marry her, are you? The ex-con?"

She pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath.

"Don't be stupid," Benito's voice was lazy, slurred slightly. "The engagement is dead. It has been for years."

"Then why the big show? Picking her up? Bringing her here?"

"Optics," Benito said. She could hear the clink of ice against glass. "The Vinson Group can't look like we kick people when they're down. We have to look benevolent. Supportive."

"Plus," Benito added, his voice dropping lower, "I need to keep an eye on her. She knows things. If I cut her loose too fast, who knows what she'll sell to the tabloids for drug money."

Her fingernails dug into the fabric of her sweater. Drug money. He thought she was an addict now, too?

"What about Estelle?" Preston asked. "She's been waiting for you."

"Estelle is an angel," Benito said, his tone shifting to reverence. "She's the future Mrs. Vinson. She's perfect."

"And Alice?"

Benito laughed. It was a cruel, dismissive sound.

"Alice is damaged goods, Preston. You don't marry damaged goods. You dispose of them quietly. Once the media loses interest, I'll cut her a check and send her somewhere far away. Maybe Europe. Maybe hell. I don't care."

Damaged goods.

The words pierced through her chest like a serrated knife. It wasn't just an insult. It was a dehumanization. To him, she wasn't a person. She was a product that had been dropped, dented, and was now fit only for the trash heap.

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. But she didn't let them fall.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the old smartphone Martha had kept for her. She had charged it earlier.

She hit the record button.

She missed the beginning, but she caught the end.

"...cut her a check... send her somewhere... damaged goods."

It wasn't much, but it was his voice. His cruelty.

She stopped the recording and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Inside the room, the conversation shifted to poker.

She pushed off the wall and walked silently toward the stairs. Her heart wasn't racing anymore. It was beating with a slow, heavy rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud.

She went into the guest room and locked the door-using a chair wedged under the handle since the lock was broken.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

"Damaged goods," she whispered to her reflection.

She bared her teeth.

She opened the closet. There were no ballgowns, just the few old dresses Martha had managed to save from the purge.

She pulled out a black dress. It was simple, severe. Long sleeves, high neck, floor-length. It looked like mourning attire.

Perfect.

She stripped off the sweater and pulled the dress on. It hung a little loose on her emaciated frame, but it made her look like a shadow. A wraith.

She wasn't going to the Gala to celebrate. She was going to haunt them.