The Jilted Heiress's Spectacular Comeback

Hayden ended the call. She tossed her phone onto the velvet bench in the center of the closet. She rubbed her temples. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes, a physical manifestation of the adrenaline crashing in her system. She sat down on the bench. She picked her phone back up. She opened the Instagram app, but she didn't log into her verified account with its hundred thousand followers. Instead, she logged into a burner account she had created years ago to monitor trends anonymously. She tapped the search bar. She typed in the phone number she had just photographed from Bernhard's screen. The search icon spun for a second. A profile popped up. B.T_Secret. The account was private. The profile picture was a close-up of a woman's wrist resting on a dark leather armrest. Around the wrist was a delicate Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet. Hayden recognized the armrest. It was the custom Italian leather sofa in Bernhard's corner office. She let out a dry, humorless laugh. It scraped against her throat. She tapped the "Follow" button. A little "Requested" icon appeared. She knew Brielle would never accept a blank account. She needed a way in. She stood up, walked to the built-in vanity at the back of the closet, and opened her MacBook. Hayden had spent her entire twenties building a digital empire from the shadows. She knew how the internet worked better than anyone Bernhard employed. She went to the Instagram login page on her browser. She clicked "Forgot Password." She typed in the username B.T_Secret. The system prompted her to send a login link to an email address. The email was partially hidden: b@gmail.com. Hayden stared at the screen. Brielle wasn't a criminal mastermind. She was a twenty-two-year-old girl who thought she was starring in a romantic movie. Hayden opened a new tab. She didn't need a brute-force hacking tool; she knew how predictable Brielle was, and how massive Bernhard's ego was. It was just a matter of social engineering. She started typing in combinations. Brielle1999. Incorrect. BT_BC1024 (Brielle's initials, Bernhard's initials, and his birthday). Incorrect. Hayden's jaw tightened. Her teeth ground together so hard her jaw muscles ached. She thought about Bernhard. She thought about his ego. She typed: B&B_Forever. The loading circle spun. The screen flashed white. The page reloaded. She was in. Hayden's breath hitched. She clicked on the profile icon. The grid loaded. There were over two hundred photos. The very first picture, posted just three hours ago, was a mirror selfie. Brielle was standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. She was wearing an oversized men's dress shirt. The caption read: His shirts feel better than any couture gown. Hayden's hand began to shake. She gripped the edge of the vanity, her nails digging into the wood. She scrolled down. A picture of two champagne flutes on a private jet. A picture of tangled legs in hotel sheets. She kept scrolling. The timeline went back. One month. Three months. Six months. She stopped. The photo was taken on a beach with white sand and crystal-clear water. Brielle was wearing a bikini, smiling brightly at the camera. The date on the post was May 14th. Hayden's lungs seized. She couldn't breathe. May 14th was the day of their wedding anniversary. Bernhard had told her he was in Chicago closing a massive merger. He had sent her a bouquet of white roses and apologized for missing dinner. He had been in the Maldives. With Brielle. Hayden zoomed in on the photo. Resting against Brielle's collarbone was a custom Cartier necklace. It was a delicate diamond teardrop. Hayden's hand flew to her own neck. She owned that exact same necklace. Bernhard had given it to her for Christmas last year. She looked at the caption under Brielle's photo. The main chick is just a shield. I'm the true love. The words hit Hayden like a physical blow to the sternum. The air rushed out of her lungs in a sharp gasp. Her eyes burned with a furious, blinding heat. She didn't cry. The sadness was completely burned away by the sheer magnitude of the disrespect. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She took screenshots. Every photo. Every location tag. Every sickening caption. She packed all two hundred images into a zip file. She opened a secure, encrypted email client and attached the file. She typed in the address for Project_R, a secure server she maintained in Switzerland. She hit send. She reached under the false bottom of her jewelry box, her fingers brushing against the cold, heavy metal of a satellite phone she kept hidden there. She didn't take it out yet, but knowing it was there grounded her. Suddenly, a heavy fist pounded on the closet door. "Hayden!" Bernhard's voice was muffled but impatient. "You've been in there for an hour. What are you doing?" Hayden flinched. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She slammed the MacBook shut. She grabbed her phone and rapidly cleared the browser history and the app cache. She took a deep breath, forcing her heart rate to slow down. She smoothed her hands down her skirt, walked to the door, and unlocked it. She pulled the door open. She was holding a black velvet evening gown on a hanger. "I was looking for something to wear to the charity gala next week," she said, her voice perfectly level. "The zipper on this one is stuck." Bernhard glanced at the dress. His eyes immediately glazed over with boredom. "Just buy a new one," he said, turning away. "Hurry up. I'm starving. Let's order sushi." Hayden watched his broad back as he walked toward the living room. A wave of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over her. She dropped the dress on the floor. She turned and walked into the master bathroom. She stood in front of the massive marble vanity. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Then, she looked down at her left hand. Resting on her ring finger was a flawless, five-carat oval-cut diamond from Cartier. For the past year, she had rubbed that ring whenever she felt anxious. It was supposed to be a symbol of security. A promise. Now, it looked like a shackle. It felt like a disease clinging to her skin. Hayden grabbed the diamond with her right hand. She didn't twist it gently. She yanked it. The metal scraped violently over her knuckle, leaving a bright red, painful welt on her skin. She didn't care. She walked over to the toilet. She held the ring over the bowl. The diamond caught the harsh bathroom light, throwing fractured rainbows against the porcelain. She opened her fingers. The ring dropped. It hit the water with a hollow plop and sank to the bottom. Hayden reached out and pressed the silver flush button. The toilet roared to life. A massive vortex of water spun violently, swallowing the ring whole and dragging it down into the dark pipes. She stood there, listening to the mechanical roar of the plumbing. A sick, twisted sense of relief washed over her. She walked back to the sink. She pumped three squirts of antibacterial soap into her palm. She turned the water on as hot as it would go. She scrubbed her left ring finger. She scrubbed it until the skin was raw, red, and burning. She scrubbed until she had physically washed away seven years of lies.