The Jilted Heiress's Ruthless Billionaire Revenge

The next morning, the air in the penthouse was thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation.

I sat at the marble kitchen island, sipping a glass of sparkling water. I was already dressed in a crisp silk blouse and tailored trousers, my posture perfect.

The front door unlocked, and Barrett walked in.

He looked like a corpse. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His suit was wrinkled. He had clearly spent the entire night at the office, trying to stop the bleeding from Gus Kowalski's sudden withdrawal.

He saw me and immediately plastered on a sickeningly sweet, exhausted smile.

He walked over to the island and placed a small, velvet Tiffany-blue box right next to my water glass.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Barrett said, his voice thick with fake sincerity. "The stress of the merger... I lost my temper. I had my assistant run to Fifth Avenue this morning to get this for you."

I stared at the blue box. I didn't touch it.

I flicked the lid open with my index finger. Inside sat a silver pendant necklace.

"This is the Return to Tiffany heart tag," I said, my voice deadpan. "It was heavily discounted during last year's post-Christmas clearance. Your assistant has terrible taste."

Barrett's jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

"It's the thought that counts, Harlow," he forced out, trying to keep his temper in check.

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick legal document, sliding it across the marble.

"It's a transfer of two percent equity in Marks Capital. To you. Sign this, at least in front of the other investors, so we look like a stable entity. We just need to weather this sudden market fluctuation, present a united front to stop the bleeding, and then we'll plan the wedding."

I looked at the document. I didn't need to read the fine print to know it was laced with impossible vesting schedules and clawback clauses. He wasn't giving me equity; he was trying to chain me to a sinking ship to keep the remaining investors from panicking.

I tapped my fingernail against the marble. Click. Click. Click.

Barrett watched my finger, sweating. He thought I was considering it.

Before I could speak, the doorbell chimed.

A sharp, authoritative ring.

Barrett frowned, annoyed by the interruption. He marched over to the front door and yanked it open.

Standing in the hallway was a man in his fifties, wearing an immaculate, bespoke English suit and white cotton gloves. He stood with the rigid posture of military brass.

"Can I help you?" Barrett snapped.

The man ignored Barrett completely. His eyes bypassed him and locked onto me sitting at the island.

He stepped past Barrett, invading the penthouse with an air of absolute authority. He walked straight to the kitchen island and stopped a respectful distance away.

"Arthur Finch," the man introduced himself, his voice a low, cultured baritone.

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was sealed with a heavy dollop of crimson wax, stamped with a deeply embossed crest.

The Clayton family crest.

Arthur extended the envelope toward me with both hands.

Barrett, who had followed him into the kitchen, froze. His eyes locked onto the wax seal. As a man desperate to climb Wall Street's ladder, he knew exactly what that crest meant. It was the symbol of old money, of untouchable power.

His pupils dilated in pure shock.

I took the envelope from Arthur. I broke the wax seal-the sharp crack echoing in the quiet room-and pulled out the heavy cardstock.

Commodore Clayton IV requests your presence.

Le Bernardin. 8:00 PM.

I slipped the card back into the envelope and gave Arthur a single, brief nod.

"Thank you, Arthur," I said.

Arthur bowed slightly from the waist. He turned on his heel and walked out of the apartment, never once acknowledging Barrett's existence.

The door clicked shut.

Barrett lunged forward, his hands grasping at the air near the envelope. "What is that? How do you know someone from the Clayton family?"

I slid the envelope into my leather handbag and zipped it shut.

"It's a client appreciation dinner," I lied smoothly, my face a mask of indifference. "For a subsidiary account I manage."

"A subsidiary account?" Barrett's voice pitched up in disbelief. "They sent a butler with a wax-sealed invitation for a subsidiary account?"

His phone started vibrating violently on the counter.

The caller ID flashed: Crista.

The buzzing was loud, obnoxious, and relentless.

Barrett stared at the phone, then at me, his face flushing with embarrassment and panic. He grabbed the phone, silencing it.

"I have to get back to the office," he muttered, grabbing his briefcase. He pointed a trembling finger at the equity contract. "Sign that, Harlow. We're a team."

He practically ran out the door.

The moment the lock engaged, I picked up the Tiffany box and dropped it straight into the stainless steel trash can.

Then, I picked up the two percent equity contract.

I walked over to the heavy-duty paper shredder in the corner of the living room. I fed the document into the slot. The machine whirred, grinding his pathetic attempt at manipulation into tiny white ribbons.

I walked into the bathroom and began my prep.

At five o'clock, I slipped back into the black velvet gown. I fastened a pair of heavy, heirloom emerald earrings to my lobes-jewelry my grandfather had given me, hidden away for five years.

I applied a coat of blood-red lipstick.

I looked in the mirror. The submissive, quiet girl Barrett thought he knew was dead.

I grabbed my clutch and walked out the door, ready to meet the most dangerous man in New York.