Spectacular Comeback Of The Neglected Heiress

Taking a breath that did little to calm her, Alya descended the sweeping staircase. Each step felt like a deliberate walk toward her own execution. The whispers started before she even reached the bottom.

Her black dress, in the sea of jewel-toned silks and designer labels, was a glaring anomaly.

"Is that the... other one?"

"Flo Brennan's girl. Looks just like her."

"God, what is she wearing?"

The words were tiny, poisoned darts. Alya kept her head down, her only goal to reach an unoccupied corner where she could melt into the wallpaper.

She never made it.

A hand clamped down on her upper arm, the grip painfully tight. It was her half-brother, Caleb.

"There you are," he hissed, his face a mask of controlled fury. "Thorne has been asking for you. Don't you dare screw this up."

"Chloe ruined the red dress," she whispered, the words barely audible.

"I don't care," he snarled, his eyes darting around the room. He saw Warren Thorne, a shark in a tuxedo, making his way toward them. Caleb's panic intensified. He tried to physically block Thorne's view of Alya, as if he could hide her.

But it was too late. Thorne's predatory gaze had already locked onto her. He smirked, a greasy, appreciative look that made Alya's skin crawl.

Caleb's internal conflict was visible on his face. He looked at Thorne, the potential business partner. He looked at Alya, his half-sister.

The choice was made in a fraction of a second. Family business trumped family.

He released her arm abruptly, shoving her slightly forward. "Mr. Thorne," Caleb said, his voice suddenly smooth. "My sister, Alya. Please, keep her company."

He turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving her to the wolf.

The sense of betrayal was a cold, sharp blade in her gut. She was utterly alone.

Warren Thorne stepped into the space Caleb had vacated. His hand, heavy and damp, landed on the bare skin of her shoulder. "Alya," he purred. "A pleasure."

A wave of revulsion washed over her. Her entire body went rigid.

He leaned in, his breath smelling of whiskey and cigars. "Don't worry about the dress, my dear. I prefer gifts with less wrapping."

She tried to step back, but his other hand snaked around her waist, holding her in place. The guests around them either didn't notice or didn't care. They were part of the scenery, their faces a blur of polite indifference.

Alya's hand slipped into the hidden pocket of her dress, her fingers closing around the worn linen of the handkerchief. She squeezed it, the small object a tiny anchor in a swirling vortex of disgust.

She had to get away.

Thorne reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. In that brief moment when his grip loosened, she saw her chance.

"Excuse me," she said, forcing a brittle smile. "I just need to... powder my nose."

Before he could react, she twisted out of his grasp and fled.

She didn't look back. She pushed through the clusters of guests, ignoring their surprised looks. She just needed to hide. She ducked down a less crowded hallway, her heart pounding in her ears.

She saw a door, slightly ajar, leading into a dimly lit room. Without thinking, she slipped inside, seeking sanctuary.

And ran straight into a wall of solid muscle.

A hard chest, covered in expensive wool.