The Ruined Heiress Plans Her Vicious Revenge

Farah threw the heavy duvet off her body. She had rolled to Brook's side of the bed during the night. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor beyond the edge of the thick carpet. She practically ran across the room and shoved the bathroom door open. She stepped inside and slammed the heavy frosted glass door shut, twisting the metal lock until it clicked. She lunged toward the marble vanity. She turned the chrome faucet handle as far as it would go. Ice-cold water blasted into the porcelain basin. She shoved her hands under the stream, letting the freezing temperature shock her system. The violent churning in her stomach peaked. She leaned over the sink and dry-heaved, her throat burning as her body tried to expel the sheer disgust pooling inside her. She gripped the edges of the marble counter and forced herself to look up. The woman staring back at her in the wide mirror had skin the color of chalk. Mascara from the night before smeared under her red, watery eyes. She looked down at her left hand. The five-carat diamond engagement ring sat heavy on her ring finger. She grabbed the diamond. She yanked the metal band over her knuckle, scraping her skin. She threw the ring as hard as she could at the mirror. The heavy stone hit the glass with a sharp, violent crack, leaving a tiny spiderweb fracture on the surface before dropping onto the counter. Farah stared at the fracture. She forced air into her lungs. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. She reached down, picked up the cold metal ring, and slid it back onto her finger. Her brain began to process the last three years. The sudden, inexplicable cash flow problems at the Sterling Group. The delayed building permits. Brook had stepped in every single time with emergency capital. She realized now that every check he wrote was a calculated move to dilute her father's equity until Brook held the controlling vote. She cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed the freezing water onto her face. She rubbed her skin raw, washing away the tears, the weakness, and the naive girl who went to sleep last night. She grabbed a towel, dried her face. She gripped the edges of the marble counter, the cold stone grounding her. The shock receded, replaced by a glacial calm. Tears were a luxury she could no longer afford. Revenge was not. She walked out of the bathroom, bypassed her casual clothes and pulled a sharp, tailored black business suit from the rack. Ten minutes later, she walked out of the penthouse. She stepped into the private elevator and pressed the button for the underground parking garage. She unlocked her black Porsche. She got in, gripped the leather steering wheel, and drove straight toward the financial district, heading for the Tyler Enterprise headquarters. Farah pulled the Porsche into the visitors' underground parking garage of the Tyler Enterprise building. She killed the engine, stepped out, and took the elevator up to the street level lobby. She walked out through the revolving doors, crossed the street, and positioned herself at the far corner, directly across from the massive glass skyscraper. Through the windshield—no, through her own eyes now, standing in the cold morning air—she saw the plaza in front of the building. It was packed with news vans, camera crews, and dozens of financial reporters holding microphones. The revolving glass doors spun. Brook walked out, flanked by a wall of men in dark suits. A reporter from Bloomberg shoved a microphone past the security guards, shouting a question about the finalization of the Sterling Group acquisition. Brook stopped. He looked directly into the camera lenses. He offered a tight, perfectly measured smile that conveyed deep sorrow and heavy responsibility. "I will do everything in my power to preserve the legacy of the Sterling family," Brook said, his voice projecting clearly across the plaza. "This is a tragedy, but I will not let their life's work vanish." He paused, lowering his eyes for a fraction of a second before looking back up. "My love for my fiancée, Farah, is the only thing keeping me going through this dark time. I am doing this for her." A collective murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd of reporters. Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights, capturing the face of the tragic hero. Farah stood at the street corner. A short, harsh laugh scraped its way out of her throat. She picked up her phone from her pocket. She opened Twitter. The trending topics were already flooded. The top hashtag was praising Brook as the ultimate "Wall Street lover boy." She tapped on Chelsey's profile. Right at the top of her feed, Chelsey had liked the Bloomberg live stream just sixty seconds ago. Farah dropped her phone back into her pocket. She gripped the strap of her designer bag so hard her knuckles turned completely white against her pale skin. She stepped off the curb. Her black stiletto heels hit the rough asphalt of the Manhattan street with a solid thud. She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of oversized black sunglasses. She slid them over her face, hiding the absolute zero temperature of her eyes. She walked across the street, stepping directly into the path of oncoming traffic, forcing a yellow cab to slam on its brakes. She walked straight toward the center of the media circus. A reporter on the outer edge of the crowd turned his head to check his phone. He looked up, blinked, and recognized the woman in the black suit.