The Jilted Heiress: Her Secret Billionaire Life

Dylan planted her feet. She didn't move an inch, her weight sinking into her heels in a practiced fighter's stance, absorbing the momentum. Glyn, expecting her to stumble, found himself pushing against something as unyielding as a steel post and lost his own balance, stumbling back a step.

"Dad, stop," Dylan said calmly, though her pulse was hammering in her ears. "He's happy to see me."

Lydia sneered, clutching her purse. "Happy? You look like a beggar, Dylan. You're embarrassing us. Look at this place! And you show up looking like that?"

Belle pulled out her phone, recording. "Did you sleep in a dumpster? Seriously."

Manager Franks stood by, watching with a look of polite disdain. He didn't intervene. He knew who the VIPs were.

Firman looked confused, his head swiveling between his son and his granddaughter. "Glyn? Let her come in the car."

Glyn leaned down to Firman, his voice dripping with fake concern. "She's sick, Dad. Look at her. She's filthy. She might be contagious. We can't risk your health."

Dylan clenched her fists at her sides. Her nails dug into her palms. "I'm not sick. I'm wet because you made me wait outside in the rain for an hour."

"Liar," Austin, her cousin, spat from behind Belle. "Concierge said you were late."

Dylan looked at Franks. Her eyes were hard, flinty. "Ask your staff why I was barred."

Franks stepped up, adjusting his tie. "She violated the dress code, sir. We have standards at The Sanctuary."

Glyn nodded, vindicated. "See? Standards. Something you lack."

Lydia stepped closer, lowering her voice so Firman couldn't hear over the rain. "You're white trash, Dylan. Always were. We took you out of that foster home, gave you a name, and this is how you repay us? By looking like this?"

The words were old weapons. They had used them for years. Foster home. Trash. Parasite.

Dylan stared at Lydia. "I repaid you by staying away."

"You should have stayed away forever," Belle whispered, ending her recording.

Dylan laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that cut through the humidity. "Trust me, I wanted to."

She looked at Firman. "I'll visit you at the hospital, Grandpa. When they aren't there."

Firman looked distressed, reaching for her. "Dylan, no, come in the car."

Glyn signaled the valet. "Car's full, Dad. No room for her luggage. Or her smell."

The Bentley pulled up. They loaded Firman in, blocking Dylan's view of him with their bodies.

Glyn turned to Dylan one last time before getting in.

"Don't come to the house," he hissed. "You're not welcome."

The car door slammed.

The Bentley accelerated hard. The tires spun on the wet pavement, sending a spray of muddy, oily water splashing onto Dylan's legs and boots.

Manager Franks smirked. "Please leave the premises, Miss. You're loitering."

Dylan looked down at the mud on her boots. She wiped a single drop of water from her cheek.

"Gladly," she said.