Deceived, Disowned, And Suddenly Filthy Rich

The night was mesmerizing, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight that streamed through the expansive windows, casting an ethereal light on the two figures entwined on the bed. Their kisses were heated and desperate, charged with a deep, palpable longing that seemed to fill the room, weaving an air of raw desire around them.

For a fleeting moment, the man's movements faltered. He pulled back slightly, his eyes widening in surprise as he realized the woman beneath him was still a virgin.

Yet before he could process this revelation, slender arms encircled his neck, pulling him closer as her hazy gaze ensnared him-a siren's call woven through the fog of intoxication and primal need. Resistance became impossible under the effect of aphrodisiac and raw desire; with a guttural groan, he surrendered to the night's intoxicating spell.

Morning light crept across the rumpled sheets, coaxing Eleanor Marsh into consciousness. She turned toward the sleeping figure beside her, watching sunlight gild his sculpted features into something almost otherworldly in its perfection.

Memories of their reckless passion flooded back with jarring clarity. She had spent years protecting her virginity, only to give it up so recklessly-and to an escort, no less.

Her lips twisted in bitter amusement. When her bestie mentioned arranging an escort, Eleanor had assumed it was a joke-she never imagined it would come to fruition.

Yet, in the haze of alcohol and the pain of being cast out of her home, she had acted impulsively, surrendering without question.

"Given your extraordinary looks, I suppose I did have my share of fun," Eleanor whispered, her fingertips tracing the man's chiseled jawline with lingering appreciation.

After staring at him for a moment, she withdrew her touch and rose from the bed, her gaze falling upon the crimson trails marking both their skin, silent testaments to their feverish passion.

Without disturbing his slumber, Eleanor dressed with quiet efficiency before placing a sleek black credit card on the nightstand. The door clicked shut with finality behind her.

Only then did the man stir, his eyes snapping open, a sharp glint flashing in them. Slowly, he propped himself up, the sunlight gliding over his sculpted chest and abs.

"Leaving without a word? Quite the player," he mused with a smirk, his gaze landing on the bank card left behind. "So, she thought I was with her for money. That's interesting."

The man reached for his phone, rising with panther-like grace as morning light gilded his sculpted form-a living testament to perfection as if carved by divine hands.

Leaning against the window frame, he dialed with purposeful fingers. "It's me," he said once the call connected, his voice steady and commanding. "I need information on a woman."

Meanwhile, Eleanor had already got into her sleek convertible. With sunglasses perched elegantly on her face, her long hair flowing freely in the breeze, she exuded a calm, carefree aura. It was as though the recklessness of the previous night had released her from some unseen burden, granting her a rare sense of freedom.

As Eleanor drove, a question lingered in her mind. Did she regret her actions? The answer was clear-no. She had never regretted a single choice she made, though the weight of her past lingered.

Her only regret was the years she spent trying to fulfill her parents' expectations, enduring their strict demands without question.

They had demanded nothing less than perfection, and she had delivered. Her academic achievements were flawless, and she topped every exam. When they didn't want romance to distract her, she complied, turning away suitors and never once experiencing intimacy until the previous night.

She worked tirelessly to gain their approval, waiting for even the smallest hint of praise, yet all she received in return was cold indifference and harsher treatment.

For years, she had clung to the belief that their severity stemmed from care. That fragile illusion shattered days ago when their long-lost biological daughter had been found.

The affection she had starved for was lavished freely on their biological daughter, who needed only to bat her lashes to earn what years of perfection couldn't.

The most infuriating part, however, was the night before. Their biological daughter had shifted the blame for breaking a vase to her, which resulted in her being unceremoniously cast out of the house.

Lost in bitter thoughts, Eleanor hadn't realized her hands had instinctively driven her back to the Marsh estate until the tires shrieked against the cobblestones.

Stepping out, her eyes immediately landed on her luggage, carelessly tossed aside on the doorstep.

Standing there, arms crossed, and chin lifted in arrogant defiance, Camila Marsh, the true heiress to the family, looked down at Eleanor with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction. "You've been kicked out of the Marsh family, Eleanor Harris," she said, her voice dripping with superiority as if savoring every moment of Eleanor's discomfort.

Eleanor's expression remained cold and unmoved as she pointed at the pile of her belongings. "Are you really that eager to see me gone from this house?"

"Of course," Camila spat, her voice seething with contempt. "Just the sight of you makes me sick. The thought of you, a pretender, living the life of a wealthy heiress in my place-it disgusts me. What right do you have to anything this family has?" Camila's face twisted in fury, her words laced with venom. "Now that I've returned, you should leave. The impostor has no place here."