The Jilted Heiress's Ruthless Billionaire Revenge

Harlow collapsed into the leather chair behind Barrett's desk.

Her chest rose and fell in slow, measured rhythms. There were no tears. Crying was a biological response to pain, and right now, she didn't feel pain. She felt a cold, terrifying clarity.

She pulled out her phone and connected it to the laptop.

She dragged the entire C & A folder, the bank transfer receipts, and the DNA report into her heavily encrypted cloud drive.

Once the progress bar hit one hundred percent, she unplugged the USB, wiped the system's access logs, and shut the laptop down.

She stood up. Her legs felt completely steady.

She walked over to the massive bookshelf lining the wall. She dropped to her knees and reached under the bottom shelf, pressing a hidden latch. A small, secret compartment popped open.

Inside sat a dusty metal tin.

She pulled it out and opened the lid. Resting on a bed of faded velvet was an old, chunky BlackBerry.

It was the only piece of her past she had kept when she walked away from the Montgomery family five years ago to play house with Barrett Marks.

She plugged the dead phone into a wall charger.

She sat on the floor, watching the battery icon slowly fill with juice. Memories of her grandfather's furious face flashed behind her eyes. He had warned her. He told her Barrett was a parasite. She hadn't listened.

The screen flickered to life. Full signal.

She typed in a twelve-digit internal secure line. A number burned into her brain.

It rang half a time before a voice answered.

"Montgomery Trust, William speaking." The elderly lawyer's voice was sharp, professional.

"William," she said.

A sharp intake of breath hissed through the speaker. "Miss Harlow? Good God. Is it really you?"

"It's me," she said. She looked out the window at the darkening sky. "I'm done playing the peasant."

"Thank the heavens," William breathed, his voice trembling with suppressed excitement. "Are you ready to return to the estate?"

"Yes," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "But if I come back, the board will demand I fulfill the strategic marriage contract from five years ago."

"They will," William confirmed. "The family needs stability."

"Who is the current candidate?" she asked.

"Commodore Clayton IV," William said. "The conservative shareholders in the Clayton empire are highly skeptical of his aggressive overseas expansion plans. They are demanding a strategic marriage with the historically grounded Montgomery family to prove he respects tradition and seeks stability before they confirm his Chairman seat next month."

Commodore Clayton IV.

The name sent a phantom shiver down her spine. The man was a ghost, a ruthless predator in the financial world. And he was exactly the weapon she needed to gut Barrett Marks.

"Draft the prenup," she ordered. "I want an informal meeting with him. Tonight."

"Miss Harlow, Mr. Clayton's schedule is locked down months in advance. He is highly private-"

"I don't care, William. Use the family's leverage. Get me an invitation to wherever he is having dinner tonight."

"Understood," William said, his tone shifting back to the ruthless efficiency of a Montgomery employee. "I will make it happen."

She hung up.

She put the BlackBerry back in the tin and shoved it into the hidden compartment.

She walked out of the office and straight into the master bedroom's walk-in closet.

She stared at the racks of clothes. Beige cardigans. Plain pencil skirts. Cheap, unassuming dresses she had bought to make Barrett feel like he was the provider. Like he was the king of their little castle.

A wave of intense disgust washed over her.

She grabbed the beige cardigans and ripped them off their hangers. The plastic snapped. She threw them onto the floor. She tore down the skirts, the blouses, the cheap denim. She piled it all into a massive trash bag in the corner.

Then, she walked to the very back of the closet.

She unzipped a thick, black garment bag.

Inside hung a vintage, black velvet haute couture gown. It was a piece from her past life. A piece of armor.

The front door of the penthouse chimed. The electronic lock clicked open.

"Harlow?" Barrett's voice echoed through the hallway. "I brought Le Coucou."

She stripped off her plain clothes and stepped into the black velvet. The fabric clung to her skin, heavy and expensive.

Barrett appeared in the doorway of the closet, holding a brown paper bag smelling of duck confit.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked at the trash bag full of clothes. Then, his eyes dragged up her body, taking in the black velvet gown. His brow furrowed in deep confusion.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

She turned to face him. She didn't smile. She didn't yell. She just looked at him like he was a piece of trash stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Barrett swallowed hard. The absolute zero temperature in her eyes made him take a step back.

"Look, about the call today," he started, his voice losing its boardroom arrogance. He set the food down and took a step toward her, reaching out to touch her arm. "I was stressed. The merger-"

She sidestepped him. His fingers brushed the air.

She reached up and brushed her shoulder, right where he had almost touched her, as if flicking away a dead bug.

"You smell like Tom Ford," she said softly.

Barrett's face drained of color. His hand dropped to his side. "It's... someone in the elevator was wearing it. It rubbed off."

She didn't even blink at the pathetic lie.

She picked up a black clutch from the vanity and walked past him, heading for the front door.

"Where are you going?" Barrett snapped, his panic turning into anger. He grabbed her elbow. "It's nine o'clock at night. Dressed like that?"

She looked down at his hand gripping her arm.

"Let go," she whispered.

He released her as if her skin burned him.

"No comment," she said, repeating his favorite PR phrase.

She walked out the front door and let it slam shut behind her.