The Secret Parrish Heiress Strikes Back

The bass thumped through the floor of The Crimson Quill, vibrating up through the soles of Dempsey's shoes. It did nothing to soothe the pounding in his head. He sat in the VIP booth, the leather seat cool against his back. He lifted his glass and drained the last of the amber liquid, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the stinging on his cheek. Brody Vance let out a low whistle, his eyes fixed on Dempsey's face. "She actually hit you?" Brody leaned in, a smirk playing on his lips. "Little Elinor? The one who jumps when you snap your fingers?" Dempsey slammed the glass down on the table. "It was an act," he said, his voice cold. "A performance to squeeze more money out of the settlement. That's all she cares about." Cole Richter, sitting across from them, swirled the ice in his drink. He was the quiet one, the observer. "Maybe you pushed too hard, Dempsey. She's been your wife for three years. Show some respect." Dempsey scoffed. "Respect? I gave her the Everett name. I gave her a lifestyle she could only dream of. She should be thanking me." He adjusted his cufflinks, a nervous habit he couldn't shake. "She dropped out of Yale to trap me. Everyone knows it. She saw a meal ticket and she took it." Brody nodded, eager to agree. "Classic gold digger. You cut her off, she panics. It's textbook. Without you, she's nothing. She'll be back begging to sign that agreement on your terms." Dempsey stared at the empty glass. He wanted to believe Brody. He wanted to believe that Elinor's outburst was a calculated move, that the slap was a desperate bid for attention. But the look in her eyes-that icy, dead calm-haunted him. It didn't look like an act. It looked like a door slamming shut. He signaled the waitress for another round. As he waited, his gaze drifted across the club. The Crimson Quill was the kind of place where deals were made in whispers and secrets were traded like currency. The lighting was dim, the shadows deep. It was a place to hide. His eyes swept over the crowded bar, over the clusters of beautiful people, and stopped. His breath caught. There, in a quiet corner booth near the back, sat Elinor. She wasn't hiding. She wasn't crying into a pillow in the penthouse. She was sitting upright, her posture perfect, a glass of something clear in her hand. She wore a silk slip dress the color of midnight. Her hair was down, framing her face in soft waves. Her makeup was subtle but striking, highlighting the cheekbones he had always found too sharp and the lips he had always found too thin. She looked stunning. She looked like a woman who had just shed a hundred pounds of dead weight. And she wasn't alone. Sitting across from her was Jaylynn Livingston. Jaylynn, with her platinum blonde hair and her sharp, knowing eyes. Jaylynn, whose family owned half of the Upper East Side and who never spoke to anyone who wasn't on their social register. Dempsey's jaw clenched. What was Elinor doing with Jaylynn Livingston? In his mind, Elinor's social circle consisted of charity committees and the household staff. She didn't run in these circles. She didn't belong here. She belonged to him. Or she had, until a few hours ago. Brody followed his line of sight and choked on his drink. "Is that your girl?" he asked, surprise evident in his voice. "She bounces back fast. Looks like she's already celebrating the payout." Dempsey didn't answer. He watched as Jaylynn leaned forward, saying something that made Elinor smile. A real smile. It reached her eyes. It lit up her face in a way Dempsey hadn't seen in years, maybe ever. It was a smile of genuine connection, of shared amusement. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And it made him sick with rage. He pulled out his phone. He opened a new text message, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He wanted to demand she come home. He wanted to remind her of the prenup, of the decency clause, of every legal chain that still bound her to him. But he stopped. If he texted her, he would look desperate. He would look like a man who couldn't let go. He was Dempsey Everett. He didn't chase. He was chased. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He looked back at her table. Elinor was laughing now, a soft, musical sound that was lost in the thump of the music. She looked relaxed. She looked free. She looked like a stranger. Cole took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowed. "She doesn't look like a woman who just lost everything," he observed quietly. "She looks like she just won the lottery." Dempsey's grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles turned white. "She's putting on a show," he spat. "She found a new audience. That's all this is. Livingston is just a stepping stone." But even as he said the words, doubt gnawed at him. The Elinor he knew-the one he thought he knew-was meek. She was invisible. She didn't command the attention of someone like Jaylynn Livingston. She didn't wear silk dresses that shimmered under the lights. She didn't smile like she owned the world. This Elinor was a threat. He stared at her, willing her to look his way. He wanted her to see him. He wanted her to flinch, to look away, to show some sign that his presence still affected her. As if sensing the weight of his stare, Elinor turned her head. Her eyes found his across the crowded room. The smile on her lips faded, but it wasn't replaced by fear or regret. It was replaced by nothing. Her eyes swept over him-a slow, deliberate assessment-and then she looked away. She turned back to Jaylynn, dismissing him as easily as one would dismiss a piece of lint on a jacket. The rejection was a physical blow, harder than the slap. It was a complete erasure. He was nothing to her. Less than nothing. Dempsey's blood boiled. The audacity. The sheer, ungrateful audacity. He had made her. He had given her everything. And she sat there, looking through him like he was a ghost in his own club. He reached for his fresh drink and downed it in one swallow. The alcohol burned, but it didn't dull the edge of his fury. He watched as Jaylynn said something else, her expression turning serious. Elinor nodded, her gaze shifting toward the entrance of the club. Jaylynn reached out and linked her arm through Elinor's. They stood up together, a united front. They began to walk toward the back of the club, toward the private rooms. Dempsey stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. "Where is she going?" he muttered under his breath. Brody grabbed his arm. "Whoa, man. Sit down. You can't go over there." Dempsey shook him off, his eyes tracking Elinor's retreating figure. "She's meeting someone," he said, his voice tight. "She came here to meet someone." He had to know. He had to see who was waiting for her in the shadows.