Too Late To Beg The Heiress

The highway had no streetlights. The only illumination came from the occasional flash of lightning tearing across the Pennsylvania sky. Arielle walked on the narrow shoulder, her boots squelching with every step. A high-pitched, aggressive engine roar cut through the sound of the rain. Headlights blinded her from behind. A hot pink Porsche 911 swerved violently across the wet asphalt, its tires shrieking as they lost traction. The car fishtailed and slammed to a halt horizontally across the shoulder, completely blocking her path. The passenger window hummed down. A blast of heavy, sickeningly sweet floral perfume hit Arielle's face, fighting against the smell of wet earth and exhaust. Kimora leaned across the leather console, her face plastered with a flawless, waterproof makeup look. "Oh, Arielle," Kimora sighed, her voice dripping with fake pity. "Look at you. You look absolutely pathetic." Arielle didn't stop. She didn't even turn her head. She adjusted the strap of her heavy bag on her shoulder and stepped off the asphalt into the wet grass, intending to walk right around the rear bumper. Kimora's jaw tightened. The dismissal burned her. She shoved the driver's side door open and stepped out into the storm, her seven-inch Louboutins sinking into the soft dirt. "Hey!" Kimora yelled, jogging around the hood to cut Arielle off. Kimora unclasped her limited-edition clutch. She dug her manicured fingers inside, pulled out a crumpled one-dollar bill, and shoved it aggressively toward the pocket of Arielle's ruined jacket. Arielle shifted her weight to her back foot, turning her torso just an inch. The dollar bill hit her wet sleeve and fluttered to the ground, landing in a puddle swirling with motor oil. The mask of the sweet, concerned sister shattered. Kimora's upper lip curled, exposing her teeth. "You ungrateful, arrogant bitch." Arielle finally stopped. She let her eyes slowly travel up Kimora's body. She bypassed the designer dress and locked her gaze on Kimora's left bicep. Right there, barely visible under the strap of her dress, was a heavy patch of pink concealer. "You missed a spot," Arielle said, her voice dropping to a dead, hollow octave. "The needle mark from last week's transfusion is showing." Kimora gasped. Her right hand flew up, slapping over her left arm as if she had been burned. She stumbled back, her stiletto heel catching on a rock, nearly snapping her ankle. Her chest heaved. Panic made her eyes wide and feral. She needed to regain control. She needed to crush the girl standing in front of her. "You think you're so smart?" Kimora spat, her voice trembling. "I'm playing my first solo violin concert at Lincoln Center next week. Preston bought out the first three rows of VIP seats for me. He's mine now. You're nothing but a failed, dumped loser." Arielle stared at her. The corners of her mouth twitched, slowly pulling up into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was a smile that promised absolute destruction. She took a slow step forward. Kimora froze, pinned in place by the sheer weight of Arielle's gaze. Arielle leaned in until her lips were an inch from Kimora's ear. "G, B-flat, D, F-sharp, A," Arielle whispered, the notes rolling off her tongue with terrifying precision. "Followed by a staccato run in D minor." All the blood drained from Kimora's face. Her skin turned the color of ash. That was the climax of her 'original' debut piece. "And Kimora?" Arielle whispered, her breath ghosting over the other girl's ear. "Check the back of the original manuscript. You'll find a sketch of a butterfly with a torn wing in the bottom right corner." Kimora snapped. A raw, hysterical scream tore from her throat. "I wrote that! It's mine!" She lunged forward, her acrylic nails aiming straight for Arielle's eyes. Arielle didn't even brace herself. She brought her forearm up, deflecting Kimora's wrist with a sharp, calculated strike. Using Kimora's own momentum, Arielle shoved her backward. Kimora spun out of control. Her hip slammed hard into the side mirror of the Porsche. The mirror folded inward with a loud crack. Kimora slid down the side of the door, her expensive dress smearing against the wet, muddy metal. "If you steal something," Arielle said, looking down at her, "make sure you know how to hold it. Otherwise, you're going to break your neck when you fall off that stage." The glow of headlights cut through the rain. A beat-up yellow taxi cab rattled down the highway, its 'Available' light glowing weakly. Arielle turned her back on Kimora and raised her hand. The cab screeched to a halt. The driver peered through the rain-streaked window, his eyes darting between the girl in the mud and the girl standing on the road. Arielle pulled open the heavy rear door and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat. Kimora scrambled up from the mud. She threw herself at the cab, slamming her palms against the glass. "If you tell anyone!" she shrieked, her face distorted with terror. "I'll kill you! I'll ruin you!" Arielle rolled the window down exactly two inches. "Good luck," she said softly. She tapped the plexiglass divider. "Drive." The driver slammed his foot on the gas. The cab's rear tires spun, kicking up a massive spray of dirty water that hit Kimora square in the chest, soaking her from the neck down. Inside the cab, the heater blasted dry, stale air. The driver kept glancing at Arielle in the rearview mirror. "I was trying to get home before they shut everything down, but the state police blocked the main interstate. Now I'm stuck out here. Might as well make a fare," he grumbled, wiping condensation from the glass. "Look, lady, I ain't a charity. You got money for this ride?" Arielle unzipped the hidden compartment of her bag. She pulled out a crisp, dry hundred-dollar bill and passed it through the slot in the divider. The driver snatched it, his mouth snapping shut. Arielle leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. The smell of the vinyl faded, replaced by the phantom scent of damp concrete and mold. She remembered the basement. She remembered the lock clicking shut, the agonizing hours forced to write sheet music until her fingers bled, all so Kimora could play the prodigy upstairs. When Arielle opened her eyes again, the vulnerability was gone. Her pupils were pitch black, reflecting the passing highway lights. Manhattan was waiting. And she was going to burn it to the ground.