The Secret Parrish Heiress Strikes Back

The click of the lock was loud in the silence of the penthouse. Elinor stood up from the sofa, the silk of her robe brushing against her legs. She had waited for him. She always waited. It was past midnight, and the cold leather of the couch had long since seeped through her clothes, chilling her to the bone. The front door swung open. Dempsey Everett walked in, bringing the chill of the November night with him. And something else. A cloying, sweet scent of jasmine and musk that clung to the collar of his expensive wool coat. It was not her perfume. It was never her perfume. He didn't look at her. He just walked past, tossing his keys on the console table with a sharp clatter. Elinor swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat. She pushed down the familiar ache in her chest and smoothed her expression into the mask she had worn for three years. "You're late," she said softly, moving toward the kitchen. "I'll make you some hangover soup. You must be tired." "Stop." His voice cut through the air like a blade. Dempsey stopped walking. He didn't turn around. He just raised a hand, a casual flick of the wrist that halted her in her tracks. There was no warmth in his posture. No trace of the man who had once smiled at her across a crowded room. He turned slowly. His eyes, a cold, piercing gray, swept over her. He looked at her the way he looked at a piece of furniture that had scratched the floor. Annoyed. Dismissive. He reached into his leather briefcase. With a motion so casual it was insulting, he pulled out a thick stack of paper and tossed it onto the mahogany coffee table. The impact was a dull thud in the quiet room. Elinor stared at the document. The bold black letters on the cover stared back. DIVORCE AGREEMENT. The air vanished from her lungs. Her chest tightened, a physical vise crushing her ribs. Dempsey loosened his tie with one hand, his gaze drifting to the city lights outside the window. "Darcy is back," he said. His tone was flat, businesslike, like he was discussing a merger. "Sign it." Darcy is back. Four words. Four words that erased three years of her life. Three years of waiting up. Three years of smiling through the humiliation. Three years of being the invisible wife. Elinor's fingers trembled as she reached for the document. The paper was heavy, expensive, cold against her skin. She flipped to the first page. The terms were brutal. A complete wipeout. She would leave with nothing but the clothes on her back and the meager stipend outlined in the prenup. A payoff for her time. "It's generous," Dempsey said, misinterpreting her silence. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, then seemed to think better of it and put it away. "More than enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life. Don't get greedy, Elinor." Don't get greedy. Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. She looked for a single line that acknowledged their marriage. A single clause that showed he remembered she was a person, not a liability. Her eyes caught the signature line at the bottom of the page. Her breath hitched. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through her temple. There, printed neatly in black and white, was her name. Or rather, what he thought was her name. Elinor Parish. Parish. Not Parrish. A single letter. A missing 'r'. It was a typo. A simple, stupid typo. But it was a typo that screamed the truth louder than any argument ever could. Three years. Three years of marriage. Three years of sharing a bed, a home, a last name. And he didn't even know how to spell her name. The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her stomach roiled. The blood rushed to her ears, a roaring sound that drowned out the hum of the city outside. All the patience, the quiet acceptance, the love she had poured into this man-it was a joke. A cosmic, cruel joke. A laugh bubbled up from her chest. It was a hollow, broken sound, scraping against her throat as it escaped. Dempsey turned, his brow furrowing. The irritation on his face deepened. "What are you laughing at?" he demanded. "Is it not enough? Elinor, don't push your luck." Elinor slowly rose to her feet. The paper crinkled in her grip. She walked toward him, her legs steady despite the earthquake happening inside her. She stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the foreign perfume on his collar, close enough to see the slight impatience in his eyes. She held the document up, her finger jabbing at the typo. "Dempsey," she said. Her voice was terrifyingly calm. It was the calm of a hurricane's eye. "You don't even know the last name of the woman you married." A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He glanced at the paper, then back at her. The surprise was quickly swallowed by anger. He straightened his tie, a defensive gesture. "It's a letter," he snapped. "What difference does it make?" "It makes all the difference." The words left her mouth, and with them, the last tether holding her back snapped. The years of silence, the years of being looked through instead of at, the years of being second best to a ghost-they all ignited into a white-hot fury. Her hand moved before her mind caught up. She swung her arm, putting every ounce of her three years of suppressed pain into the motion. Smack. The sound cracked through the penthouse like a gunshot. The force of the slap snapped Dempsey's head to the side. The sting shot up Elinor's arm, a sharp, grounding pain that felt incredibly satisfying. Dempsey froze. He slowly turned his head back to face her. A vivid red handprint was already blooming across his cheek. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated in shock. The mask of the untouchable billionaire had shattered. "You hit me?" he breathed, disbelief coloring his tone. Elinor lowered her hand. Her palm throbbed. She welcomed the pain. "That was for the three years I spent as 'Elinor Everett,'" she said, her voice like ice. She threw the divorce agreement at his chest. The pages scattered, fluttering to the floor around his expensive shoes like dead leaves. "I'll sign it," she said, her gaze locked onto his stunned gray eyes. "I'll divorce you. But not like this. Not while you treat me like dirt under your shoe." She turned on her heel. She didn't look back. She didn't wait for his reaction. She walked away from him, away from the cold living room, away from the shattered remnants of her marriage. She reached the bedroom, stepped inside, and shut the door with a soft, decisive click. The moment the lock engaged, her knees gave out. She slid down the solid wood of the door until she hit the floor. The tears she had held back came now, a violent, gasping flood that shook her entire body. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs, her nails digging into her cheeks. She stayed there, curled up on the cold hardwood, until the tears dried up and the sobs turned to hiccups. Then, she wiped her face with the back of her hand. She pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second before she went to her photo gallery. Photos of Dempsey. Photos of them at galas, on vacations, forced smiles and stiff poses. She hit 'Select All'. Then 'Delete'. The screen went blank. She opened her contacts and scrolled down. Past the Everetts. Past the household staff. To a number she hadn't dialed in three years. A number she had hidden away, just like herself. She pressed call. It rang once. Twice. "Hello?" A woman's voice, sharp and alert despite the late hour. "It's me," Elinor said. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "I'm done hiding." "Elinor?" The voice on the other end instantly softened, then hardened with anger. "Finally. God, I thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth. What happened? Are you okay?" "It's a long story," Elinor replied, her voice gaining strength. "I'm okay now. But I'm leaving him. I need a favor." "Anything," the voice said, the earlier question hanging in the air, unanswered but understood. "Name it." "I need you to make sure the world knows I'm not a Parish. I'm a Parrish."