The Scarred Heiress's Spectacular Comeback

"Roll down the window."

Jerri McMahon's voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the dead silence of the Maybach's cabin.

She pressed the silver button on the door panel. The thick, soundproof glass slid down, and the crisp, biting wind of an early Manhattan autumn instantly flooded the climate-controlled space. It whipped across her face, but she didn't blink.

Her eyes looked past the chaotic gridlock of yellow cabs and black SUVs. Her gaze was nailed to the building on the opposite side of the street.

The Scarlet Lounge.

The massive neon sign flashed a violent, pulsing red against the night sky. The moment the color hit her retinas, Jerri's lungs forgot how to process oxygen. The red light refracted off the edge of the car window, looking exactly like fresh blood running down the glass.

A violent cramp seized her stomach. Acid burned the back of her throat.

She reached down and grabbed the edge of the leather seat. She squeezed it with everything she had, trying to use the physical strain in her hands to override the sudden, terrifying freefall in her chest. Her perfectly manicured nails dug so deep into the premium leather that her knuckles turned a sickly, dead gray.

In the driver's seat, Josiah Short's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. He saw the complete loss of color in his boss's face.

Without a word, Josiah reached for the center console and cranked up the heat, trying to chase the sudden freezing temperature out of the car.

"Ms. McMahon," Josiah said, his voice dropping into a low, strictly professional tone. "Do you need me to reroute? We can be back at the Upper East Side apartment in ten minutes."

Jerri didn't turn her head. She just raised her right hand and gave a stiff, jerky wave. No.

She forced herself to keep staring at the heavy, black carved doors of the club. Cold sweat broke out across her forehead, sticking her hair to her skin.

The memories hit her like a physical blow to the head. Seven years ago. The deafening laughter. The public humiliation that tore her dignity to shreds in front of the entire city.

Her left hand moved on its own. It slipped behind her back, pressing hard against the expensive silk of her trench coat. She traced the outline of the massive, ugly scar hidden beneath the fabric. The rough, raised texture of the damaged skin sent a violent tremor through her entire body. She was shaking so hard her teeth rattled.

Suddenly, a drunk man in a bright red jacket stumbled off the curb. He slammed heavily into the side of the Maybach. The flash of bright red so close to her window made Jerri flinch violently, her breath catching in her throat again.

Josiah's hand slammed down on the central locking system.

Click.

The sharp, mechanical sound of the heavy doors locking echoed in the cabin. The noise snapped Jerri out of the nightmare. She sucked in a massive breath of air, her chest heaving.

She yanked her hand away from her back. She quickly folded both hands in her lap, pressing them together to stop the visible shaking.

Josiah turned his head completely around. The look in his eyes crossed the line from a hired driver to deep, genuine concern.

Jerri took one more deep breath. She forced the corners of her mouth up, stretching her lips into a flawless, ice-cold corporate smile.

"Drive, Josiah," she said. Her voice was raspy, but completely steady.

The powerful engine let out a low growl. The Maybach pulled smoothly away from the curb, merging back into the endless stream of traffic.

Jerri looked in the side mirror one last time. She watched the bloody red glow of the club fade into the distance. She closed her eyes. A single, hot tear escaped the corner of her eye and vanished instantly into her hairline.

A harsh vibration buzzed against her thigh.

The silence in the car shattered. Jerri reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up with an emergency call from the Vice President of the Anh Group.

She swiped the screen and brought the phone to her ear. In a fraction of a second, the terrified girl vanished. The ruthless Wall Street executive took her place.

"Speak," she commanded.

"Ms. McMahon," the VP's voice was panicked. "The Oneal Group is sweeping the secondary market. They are buying up our debt at a massive premium. It's a hostile takeover."

Jerri's eyes snapped open. The vulnerability in her gaze was gone, replaced by a layer of absolute, freezing ice.