The Jilted Assistant Is A Zillionaire

The sound of a woman moaning leaked through the crack in the heavy electronic door. Grace stopped walking. Her flat shoes made no sound on the thick carpet of the Warner Bros. VIP corridor. The lower soundproofing panel of the door had been removed for maintenance, leaving a significant gap. Grace pressed her ear closer. The faint but unmistakable wet, rhythmic slapping noises coming from inside the dressing room made her stomach churn. Her fingers clamped down on the cardboard sleeves of the two decaf Americanos in her hands. The heat of the liquid seeped through the paper, burning her palms, but she did not let go. She pressed her back against the cold wall. She turned her head, aligning her line of sight with the narrow gap left by the malfunctioning electronic lock. The dim light from the room sliced across her face. On the expensive leather sofa, her fiance Hayden was pinning the new actress Jacey beneath him. Their bodies moved together in a frantic, messy rhythm. Grace's lungs seized. It felt as if an invisible hand had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until it stopped beating. Her breathing halted completely. Her fingers dug deeper into the paper cups, crushing the sides inward. Hot coffee sloshed against the plastic lids, threatening to spill over her knuckles. "You treat her like a queen," Jacey whined, her voice breathy and high-pitched. "She acts like a robot. She has no feelings." Hayden let out a harsh laugh. He did not stop moving. "She is a shield," Hayden scoffed, his tone dripping with disgust. "She is a boring, free assistant. That is all she is." The words poured over Grace like a bucket of ice water. The shock froze the blood in her veins. The lingering warmth in her chest vanished, replaced by a hollow, freezing numbness. "What about the engagement party next month?" Jacey asked. She traced a circle on Hayden's chest. "Are you really going to marry that piece of wood?" "It is just for the fans," Hayden said. He kissed Jacey's neck. "It builds the perfect boyfriend image. Women love that. I can cancel it whenever I want. I will just make up an excuse." Grace stared through the crack. The temperature in her eyes dropped to absolute zero. The shaking in her hands stopped. Her brain, momentarily paralyzed by the betrayal, snapped back into sharp, calculating focus. Before the shock could even fade, she had already pulled out her phone. She silently placed the crushed, leaking cups on the floor behind a decorative potted plant, freeing her hands. She opened the voice memo app, hit record, and stepped back to the door. She held the microphone inches from the crack. The recording captured Hayden laughing. It captured him mocking his female fans. It captured him openly admitting to violating the morality clause in his agency contract. Only then did she hear the faint echo of footsteps from the far end of the corridor. A production assistant was walking toward her. Grace stopped the recording. She slid the phone back into her pocket. She picked up the ruined coffee cups from behind the plant, walked to the nearest recycling bin, and dropped them inside. They hit the bottom with a dull, heavy thud. She raised her hands and adjusted the collar of her coat, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle. Her posture straightened. The high-level executive assistant persona locked firmly into place. She walked toward the production assistant. Her face was a blank, professional mask. "Hayden is meditating," Grace said. Her voice was flat and steady. "He needs ten minutes before he comes out." The assistant nodded quickly, intimidated by the cold authority radiating from her. He turned around and walked away, completely unaware of the mess happening behind the door. Grace turned and walked to the VIP elevator. She reached into her bag and pulled out a second phone. It was a heavy, encrypted device. She dialed a hidden New York number. The call connected immediately. Grace spoke in fluent French. She ordered her private financial advisor across the ocean to immediately audit every hidden account under Hayden's name. The elevator doors slid open. The mirrored walls reflected her face. The girl who believed in a simple, ordinary love was dead. She stepped out of the studio building. The harsh California sun hit her face. She pulled a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses from her bag and slid them on, hiding the absolute murder in her eyes. Hayden's private driver rushed over. He asked if she needed a ride back to the apartment. Grace ignored him. She walked straight to her own SUV. She climbed into the driver's seat and hit the ignition. The Bluetooth connected instantly. The dashboard screen lit up with a text message from Hayden, sent ten minutes ago. It read: Thinking of you, baby. Grace slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The heavy SUV shot forward, tearing out of the studio lot. Her encrypted phone vibrated in the cup holder. An email notification flashed on the screen. It was from the Sykes Family Trust. A multi-billion dollar capital pool was ready. It only needed her signature to activate.