The Jilted Heiress's Ruthless Billionaire Revenge

The heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off Barrett's sputtering protests.

Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor of the hallway, a sharp, rhythmic sound that echoed her racing heartbeat.

Before Harlow could reach the elevator, the door behind her ripped open.

"Harlow!" Barrett roared, his face flushed with a mix of panic and rage. He lunged forward, grabbing her wrist with a bruising grip. "If you walk into that elevator, don't bother coming back to the office tomorrow. You're done as CFO."

Harlow stared at his hand gripping her wrist. Her pulse pounded against his fingers.

She twisted her arm sharply, breaking his hold.

"Keep the title, Barrett," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "I'm sick of staying up all night checking for your stupid data entry errors anyway."

She turned her back on him, stepped into the elevator, and hit the button for the underground garage. The doors slid shut, severing his furious face from her view.

She walked to her Porsche Cayenne, the tires squealing slightly against the concrete as she pulled out of the parking spot.

She didn't turn on the radio. The silence in the car was absolute.

She connected her phone to the Bluetooth and dialed Gus Kowalski. Gus was a Wall Street titan, the primary venture capitalist backing Marks Capital's upcoming hundred-million-dollar merger.

He answered on the fourth ring. She could hear the thwack of a golf club and the wind in the background.

"Harlow," Gus said, his tone dismissive and slightly annoyed, clearly viewing her as nothing more than the Montgomery family's discarded shell playing dress-up at a startup. "If Barrett sent you to beg for better terms on the bridge loan, tell him my answer is still no. I'm in Boston."

"Gus," she interrupted, her voice dropping an octave. "Authorization protocol: M-G-T-Omega-Nine."

There was a loud clatter on the other end of the line. The sound of a golf club hitting the grass.

When Gus spoke again, his voice was tight, breathless, and stripped of all arrogance. "Miss Montgomery? That... that is the absolute highest family clearance. I didn't realize you still held that level of authority."

"Pull the funding," she commanded.

"Excuse me?"

"The bridge loan for Marks Capital. The hundred million. I want it pulled. Immediately. Initiate the withdrawal protocols before the market opens tomorrow."

"Miss Montgomery, that will bankrupt him," Gus stammered. "The penalty clauses alone-"

"Do it, Gus, or the Montgomery Trust will liquidate every position we hold in your firm by noon."

"Consider it done," Gus said instantly.

She ended the call. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were dark, hollow, and completely merciless.

While Barrett's world was about to catch fire, she drove to a private, members-only spa in Soho. She spent two hours getting a full-body scrub, a massage, and a blowout. She washed the stench of his apartment off her skin.

By the time she returned to the Tribeca penthouse, it was past midnight.

The elevator doors opened to her floor.

She stepped out and stopped.

Standing in front of her door was a woman. She was wearing an ill-fitting, last-season Chanel tweed suit that screamed 'new money trying too hard.'

Crista Reid.

She turned around, clutching a garish designer handbag. When she saw Harlow in her vintage velvet gown, her eyes widened in shock, followed immediately by a flash of ugly, naked jealousy.

But she quickly masked it with a sickly-sweet, triumphant smile.

She straightened her posture, thrusting her chest out. "Oh, Harlow. You're home late. I was just coming to pick up some important files Barrett left in the study for me."

Harlow didn't say a word. She walked straight toward the door, forcing her to step back or get run over.

She punched in the keypad code. The door clicked open.

As she pushed it open, Crista tried to slip in behind her.

"Excuse me," she said, her tone dripping with fake politeness.

Harlow stopped abruptly and slammed her forearm backward, catching her square in the chest.

Crista gasped, stumbling backward in her cheap heels. She lost her balance and fell hard onto the hallway carpet, her Chanel bag spilling lipsticks and receipts everywhere.

"Are you crazy?!" she shrieked, her voice echoing in the quiet hall. "You assaulted me! Barrett gave me fifty million dollars today! He's going to marry me next month! You're nothing but a placeholder!"

Harlow looked down at her sprawled on the floor.

"That Chanel suit is from the 2019 spring outlet collection," she said, her voice flat and bored. "If you're going to steal fifty million dollars, at least buy something that fits your shoulders."

Crista's face went chalk-white. Her mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

The elevator dinged again.

The doors slid open, and Barrett sprinted out. He was sweating through his custom suit, his tie undone, looking like a man who had just looked down the barrel of a loaded gun. The withdrawal of Gus's funding had hit him.

He stopped, taking in the scene: Crista on the floor, Harlow standing over her.

Crista instantly burst into tears. She scrambled up and threw herself against Barrett's chest.

"Barrett!" she sobbed, burying her face in his shirt. "She pushed me! She attacked me for no reason!"

Barrett looked overwhelmed. He awkwardly patted Crista's back, but his eyes were locked on Harlow. He was searching her face for anger, for jealousy, for a screaming match.

He found nothing.

Harlow leaned against the doorframe, watching them with the detached curiosity of someone observing animals in a zoo.

Her utter lack of reaction sent a visible shudder through Barrett. It terrified him more than if she had screamed.

"Crista, what the hell are you doing here?" Barrett hissed, trying to peel her off him. "I told you not to come here."

"But she-"

"Go home!" Barrett snapped, his voice cracking with the stress of his collapsing company. He dragged her toward the elevator and shoved her inside.

Crista looked at him in absolute betrayal as the doors closed on her tear-stained face.

Barrett turned back to Harlow, running a trembling hand through his hair.

Before he could speak, her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She pulled it out. A text from William.

Invitation secured. Le Bernardin. Private Room 4. Tomorrow at 8 PM.

Harlow smiled. A real, terrifying smile.

She stepped inside the apartment and shut the door in Barrett's face.