The Jilted Wife's Spectacular Comeback

Heaven hung up the phone with her lawyer, her composure a mask of ice. She turned to Paige, whose face was a canvas of worry.

"We're leaving." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for questions.

As they walked out of the VIP suite, the store manager intercepted them, her expression cautious. "Ms. Johnston, shall we have the gown packed for you?"

Heaven's eyes flickered to the dress—now lying in a heap on the floor, its sequins still catching the light. But to her, it was just fabric now. Worthless. She had thrown it there herself. "No," she said, her tone freezing the air. "Send the bill to the Finley Group. And add a million dollars in damages for my wasted time and emotion."

The manager and her staff were stunned into silence, their mouths slightly agape.

Without a backward glance, Heaven swept out of the store and into the waiting black Bentley.

The car slid smoothly into the river of New York traffic. Paige sat in the passenger seat, holding her breath.

Heaven stared out the window at the blur of the city. "Paige," she finally said, her voice dangerously quiet. "Find out where Hartwell Finley is right now."

Paige's fingers flew across her tablet. A few moments later, she had an answer. "He's at St. Luke's Hospital. In Jessi Merrill's room."

Heaven gave a single, sharp nod and said nothing more. She closed her eyes, but the slight tremor in her eyelashes betrayed the storm raging within her.

The car pulled up to her penthouse on Central Park West. She told Paige to take the rest of the day off.

The apartment was silent, but everywhere she looked, there were mocking reminders of the wedding that would never happen. Floral arrangements, gift boxes, a seating chart laid out on the dining table.

She didn't turn on the lights. She walked straight to the bar, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and drank it in one searing gulp.

The burn in her throat was a welcome fire, igniting the cold fury in her eyes.

Her gaze swept across the living room and landed on a framed photo on the mantelpiece. It was a family portrait: her father, Howard Johnston, a stern-faced businessman who had built his fortune from nothing and would later tear her family apart; her stepmother, Brenda Merrill, the woman who had been her father's secret for two decades; her stepsister, Jessi Merrill, Brenda's daughter and the bride-thief herself; and Heaven. The three of them were a tight, smiling unit. Heaven stood slightly apart, an outsider in her own family's picture.

A flood of humiliations washed over her. Jessi stealing the white roses Heaven had bought for her own mother's memorial, claiming she'd bought them herself. Her father giving Jessi the study abroad opportunity that was meant for her. Brenda making sly remarks at social events about Heaven's mother's humble origins.

And beneath that flood, a deeper undercurrent—the memory of a rainy afternoon: the day that young woman, her father's mistress, had officially moved into their home and replaced her mother's place at the family table. And the baby that woman had been holding was her father's own child—her half-sister, Jessi.

That night, her mother, Evelyn Johnston, had resolutely broken with her father and taken him to court, demanding a division of the other half of the family assets. But Howard Johnston had given nothing back. He had heartlessly swallowed up most of her grandfather's business, cut off their supply chains, and bought out their clients. A few months later, her grandfather had collapsed from rage and illness—and the textile business he had built with his own hands crumbled under financial strain. There was no money left for the surgery. Evelyn sold everything she had, but it still wasn't enough. She had seen her father off alone, holding his hand and whispering "I'm sorry" until her voice gave out.

After that, Evelyn never smiled again. Grief turned to depression, then illness—breast cancer, advanced by the time they found it. Six months later, she passed away, her hand still holding Heaven's. Her last words to Heaven were: "Don't let them take everything."

Heaven had not cried at the funeral. She had stared at the coffin and made a promise: I will take back what is mine.

The shame and anger coiled around her heart like a poisonous vine, squeezing until she could barely breathe. She realized then that her years of patience and compromise had only taught them to take more.

This time, she didn't want compensation. She wanted retribution.

She picked up her phone and dialed Hartwell's number again. This wasn't a plea. It was an ultimatum.

Her thumb hovered over his contact—The Fool—and for a moment, she thought about the first time she had seen him in that hospital bed: pale, fragile, a boy so breakable that she had felt something crack open in her chest. She had wanted to protect him. She had wanted to save him. She had needed him to open his eyes and see only her.

She had stayed. Six years. She had stayed through every surgery, every midnight fever, every time the monitor flatlined and the doctors ran in. She had brewed his herbal tonics, cooked his medicinal meals, adjusted his diet day by day, watched over his every meal and rest. She had held his hand while he screamed.

And he had repaid her with a wedding invitation to her stepsister.

He answered almost instantly, his voice laced with impatience. "What are you calling me again for? Haven't you said enough?" He paused, then added, "Heaven, have you calmed down? I'm with Jessi."

"Hartwell," Heaven's voice was like ice water. "The shares you offered wouldn't even cover the cost of my dress's lace."

A short, humorless laugh. "What do you want, then? You know Jessi's situation..."

"Shut up," Heaven cut him off. "I don't want to hear her name. You want to play the saint, to sit by her bedside and hold her hand until the end? Fine. You can buy that privilege. With fifty-one percent of the controlling shares of Finley Group."

The other end of the line went dead silent, save for the faint, rhythmic beep of a hospital monitor.

"You're insane!" he finally roared. "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

"I'm clearer than I've ever been," she sneered. "You used my wedding to please another woman and made me a laughingstock for all of New York society. Did you think I'd cry and beg you to come back? No, Hartwell. I want to make you pay."

Her voice remained steady, a surgeon's scalpel dissecting his weaknesses. "You're about to marry a dying woman. Finley Group's stock will plummet the moment the market opens. The board will question your judgment. Sign the controlling interest over to me. We'll say it was your grand gesture to appease your jilted fiancée, a move to stabilize the company. I, as your 'ex-fiancée,' will help maintain the facade. That way, you can go be your hero in peace."

Every word was calculated to strike at his two greatest loves: his money and his reputation.

His breathing grew heavy and ragged. He was weighing his options. He was calculating.

Heaven knew he was on the hook. She delivered the final blow. "My lawyer, David, has the papers ready. I expect to see your signature on my desk tomorrow at nine a.m. Otherwise, the morning papers won't be printing a story about the great love of a Finley heir. They'll be printing a scandal about how he betrayed his fiancée and drove her to a breakdown."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No," Heaven said, her voice dropping to a silken whisper. "I'm giving you a choice."

She hung up the phone again.

She tossed the phone onto the sofa and walked back to the vast window overlooking the city.

The screen lit up with a text message from Hartwell.

It contained a single word."Okay."

This meant he had agreed to hand over fifty-one percent of the family business.