The Ruined Heiress Plans Her Vicious Revenge

Farah rolled over on the massive California King mattress. The back of her hand brushed against the cold, empty cotton sheets beside her. She opened her eyes. The harsh, bright morning sunlight of Manhattan poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing her to squint against the glare. A faint, rhythmic buzzing sound vibrated through the silent bedroom. It was coming from the narrow gap in the mahogany nightstand drawer on Brook's side of the bed. Farah pushed herself up on one elbow. She reached across the mattress and pulled the heavy wooden drawer open. Sitting on top of a stack of notepads was a sleek black smartphone. It was Brook's secondary business phone, a device he kept for his most private dealings. He must have been working late in bed last night. The screen was lit up. The caller ID flashed two simple initials: CP. The vibration pattern stuttered, signaling the call was about to go to voicemail. Farah reached out. She just wanted to press the volume button to mute the buzzing. Brook was likely in the adjacent study, and he hated being disturbed before his morning coffee. Her fingers were stiff from sleep. As she gripped the edge of the device, her thumb dragged clumsily across the smooth glass, swiping the green accept icon. In her fumbling attempt to silence it, her palm pressed against the speakerphone icon on the screen just as the call connected. "Brook, where the hell were you?" Chelsey's voice blasted from the small speaker. Her tone was sharp, impatient, and entirely devoid of her usual sweet pitch. "You promised you'd come to my Upper East Side place last night." Farah's brain flatlined. Her lungs simply stopped pulling in oxygen. "Relax." Brook's deep, soothing voice echoed through the phone. Behind his words, Farah could hear the distinct whistling of the wind hitting the glass panels of their penthouse terrace. "I had to stay here. The bankruptcy liquidation files for the Sterling Group need my eyes on every single page." "Whatever," Chelsey scoffed. The sound of a lighter flicking echoed through the speaker. "I'm just annoyed. Cannon getting eight years in federal prison is a joke. It's too good for him." "It was the best my lawyers could do without making it look obvious," Brook laughed softly. It was a cold, satisfied sound. "Buying off Clarence's doctors to fake that sterility report cost me a fortune. But getting the Sterling heir out of the way? Worth every penny." Farah's pupils dilated so fast the bright room seemed to plunge into darkness. Her fingers curled inward, her nails digging so hard into the mattress that the fabric threatened to tear. "And the old man?" Chelsey asked. "How is Farah's father doing?" "He won't last the winter," Brook said. His voice was completely flat, devoid of any human empathy. "I paid the head nurse at the facility to swap out his experimental heart medication with standard placebos. Nature will take its course." A violent spasm ripped through Farah's stomach. Acid rushed up her throat. Cold sweat erupted across her skin, instantly soaking the thin silk of her nightgown. "Good," Chelsey giggled. "So when are you going to dump the bankrupt princess? I'm tired of playing the supportive best friend." "Soon," Brook replied. "Once I drain the last of her architectural design patents and transfer them to Tyler Enterprise, I'll kick her to the curb. She's useless to me otherwise." The heavy glass door of the terrace slid open with a loud scrape. Farah's heart slammed against her ribs like a hammer. She slammed the phone face-down onto the mahogany wood, cutting off the speakerphone. She threw herself back onto the mattress and yanked the heavy duvet up to her chin. She squeezed her eyes shut. She forced her chest to rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm, though her blood was roaring in her ears. The bedroom door pushed open. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of Brook's footsteps as he walked into the room. He stopped right next to the bed. He stood there, looking down at her. Farah felt the temperature drop as his tall frame cast a shadow over her face. Her eyelids twitched with the biological urge to snap open, but she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper to keep them shut. Brook reached out. His large hand brushed against her cheek, his fingers pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. His touch was incredibly light. "Good morning, my sleeping beauty," he whispered. His voice dripped with a thick, sugary devotion. Farah inhaled. The scent of his expensive cedarwood cologne filled her nose. Her stomach he heave, a wave of pure, physical nausea crashing over her. Brook pulled his hand back. He turned around and walked toward the massive walk-in closet, his footsteps fading away. Farah slowly opened her eyes. The bloodshot veins in her sclera burned. The absolute terror in her chest evaporated, leaving behind a cold, solid block of pure killing intent.