Abandoned Heiress: Married to My Brother-in-Law

Adela Richmond never expected that Harmon Holland, who was still her brother-in-law yesterday, would now become her husband.

A day ago.

"So, you really aren't going to dump that boring Adela Richmond?"

The door to the Peacock Room was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light and sound escaping into the corridor. The words bled through the crack.

Adela's hand froze inches from the brass handle. The velvet jewelry box in her other hand suddenly felt like a block of lead. Inside rested an obsidian necklace. She had spent three months sourcing the stone, grinding and polishing every single link by hand for their one-year anniversary.

Her heart, which had been racing with sweet anticipation just a second ago, slammed against her ribs.

A lazy, familiar laugh echoed from the unlatched gap of the private room. It was Juston.

"Dump her? Why would I dump her?" Juston's voice dripped with a casual cruelty she had never heard before. "She's a Richmond. She's the perfect, obedient little pawn for a strategic marriage. She doesn't cause trouble."

The blood drained from Adela's face. The dim light of the Elysium club's hallway seemed to flicker, the marble floor tilting beneath her designer heels.

"But I heard the Richmonds actually care about the adopted girl, Kara," Brock, Juston's friend, pressed, his tone thick with amusement. "Kara is the real socialite. Adela is just... there."

"So what?" Juston scoffed. The clinking of a whiskey glass against a table punctuated his words. "Adela is stupid enough to be loyal. She's desperate for validation. She thinks I actually give a shit about those ugly little design projects she makes. I throw that garbage out the second she leaves my apartment."

Adela's stomach violently contracted. Acid burned the back of her throat.

She pressed her spine against the cold wall of the corridor. Her fingernails dug so hard into the leather of her purse that the seams groaned. The obsidian necklace. The sketches she stayed up until 3:00 AM perfecting for him. Garbage.

"Her only real value to me," Juston continued, his voice lowering into a vicious sneer, "is that keeping her pisses off Harmon Holland. We all know Adela was supposed to be Harmon's little arranged bride. Taking her from him is just good business."

The room erupted into a chorus of mocking laughter.

"I'll kick her to the curb when I get bored," Juston added over the noise. "She's got nothing but the Richmond last name anyway."

Adela couldn't breathe. Her lungs felt like they were packed with wet sand. Her knees shook, threatening to give out right there on the expensive carpet. Every sweet text, every kiss, every promise of a future-it was all a calculated, sterile transaction.

She closed her eyes. The stinging heat of tears threatened to spill over her lashes.

She forced them back.

She dug her nails deeper into her palms until the sharp sting of pain grounded her. The violent churning in her stomach hardened into a block of solid ice. The ringing in her ears stopped.

The color was gone from her cheeks, but her jaw locked into place. She didn't turn around. She didn't run away crying like the weak, boring girl they thought she was.

She stepped away from the wall. She reached out, her hand perfectly steady now, and gripped the brass handle.

She pushed the door open.

The heavy wood swung inward with a soft click. The raucous laughter inside the Peacock Room died instantly.

Juston was leaning back on a leather sofa, a cigar between his fingers, a smug grin plastered on his handsome face. Brock was sitting across from him, mid-laugh. Five other men froze, their eyes darting to the doorway.

Adela stood there. Her face was a mask of pale, terrifying calm. She looked at Juston not with heartbreak, but like she was staring at a stranger.

At the far end of the dimly lit corridor, hidden entirely in the shadows of a private alcove, a man slowly lowered his crystal tumbler.

His sharp, blue eyes locked onto the scene unfolding at the door.

"Sir," Donovan Tate, his assistant, murmured from the darkness. "That's Miss Richmond."

Harmon Holland didn't reply. He adjusted the silver cufflink at his wrist. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Juston's cigar slipped from his fingers, dropping onto the glass table with a dull thud.

Panic flashed across his features, fast and ugly, before he scrambled to paste on his usual charming smile. He stood up, smoothing the front of his tailored suit.

"Addie, baby," Juston said, taking a step toward her. His voice was coated in fake honey. "What are you doing here? You heard all that out of context. The guys were just messing around."

Adela raised her free hand. Just an inch.

It was a small movement, but it carried enough absolute rejection to make Juston stop dead in his tracks.

She didn't look at Brock. She didn't look at the other men shifting uncomfortably in their seats. She kept her dead, flat gaze entirely on Juston.

She lifted the black velvet box into the light.

Juston's eyes flicked to the box. He swallowed hard. He knew what it was. She had talked about it for weeks, her fingers covered in tiny cuts from working the raw stone.

"Addie, come on," Juston lowered his voice, trying to sound authoritative and gentle at the same time. "Don't do this here. Let's go outside and talk."

Adela popped the lid open.

The obsidian necklace rested on the white satin. It caught the low light of the chandelier, gleaming with a dark, heavy beauty.

"I spent three months on this," Adela said. Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't shake. It cut through the silent room like a scalpel. "I sourced the rarest obsidian. I polished every single bead with my own hands."

Juston's jaw tightened. He looked around at his friends, his embarrassment quickly morphing into irritation.

Adela held his gaze. "You said it was garbage."

"Adela-"

"You said I was stupid," she continued, her voice dropping a fraction of a degree colder. "You said I was obedient."

She took a slow step into the room.

"You said I was a pawn."

Juston's face flushed a deep, angry red. The mask was slipping. His pride was bleeding out onto the floor in front of his audience.

Adela smiled. It was a terrifying, hollow thing that didn't reach her eyes.

"You were right about one thing, Juston," she whispered.

She reached into the box and pulled the necklace out. She wrapped the heavy silver chain around her fists.

"I am done being obedient."

With a final, desperate surge of strength, she pulled her hands apart.

Snap.

A sharp snap echoed in the silent room as the delicate silver clasp gave way, the sound sharp and final.

The heavy obsidian beads exploded outward. They rained down on the floor like black hail, bouncing off the glass table, rolling across the Persian rug. One heavy bead struck Juston's expensive leather shoe and spun away into the corner.

Juston stared at the broken chain in her hands, his mouth slightly open. He had never seen her like this. He expected tears. He expected begging.

Adela tossed the broken chain and the empty velvet box directly at his feet.

"We are done," Adela said. The ice in her chest was spreading to her vocal cords. "Do not ever speak to me again."

She turned on her heel. She didn't wait for a response. She walked out the door, her spine rigid, her shoulders pulled back.

The silence in the Peacock Room shattered the second she was in the hallway.

"Adela Richmond!" Juston roared, his voice cracking with humiliated rage. He stormed toward the door. "You walk out that door, you don't come back! You are nothing without the Richmond name! Nothing!"

Adela didn't break her stride.

"Let her go," Juston spat to his friends, loud enough for her to hear. "Give it three days. The second her daddy cuts off her credit cards, she'll be crawling back on her knees."

"Yeah, man," Brock chimed in, eager to soothe Juston's bruised ego. "She wouldn't last a day in the real world."

Adela walked faster. The adrenaline that had kept her entirely numb was crashing.

Her chest burned. Her vision began to swim as the tears she had fought so hard to hold back finally flooded her eyes. The dim hallway blurred into streaks of gold and brown.

She just needed to get to the exit. She needed fresh air.

She rounded the corner toward the lobby, her vision completely obscured by hot tears.

She didn't see the long leg stretched out from the leather sofa in the shadows.

Her heel caught hard against a solid dress shoe.

Adela's ankle twisted sharply.

The floor rushed up to meet her. A short gasp tore from her throat as she lost all balance. She braced herself for the brutal impact of the marble floor, squeezing her eyes shut.

The impact never came.

Instead, a strong, unyielding arm wrapped tightly around her waist. She was yanked sideways, crashing into a solid wall of muscle and expensive fabric.

A sharp, clean scent of cedar and bergamot flooded her senses. It instantly overpowered the stale cigar smoke and cheap cologne clinging to her clothes from the hallway.

Adela gasped, her hands instinctively grabbing onto a broad shoulder to steady herself.

She opened her eyes.

She was staring directly into a pair of eyes as cold and deep as a frozen lake.

The man holding her was striking. His jawline looked like it had been cut from glass. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him with lethal precision.

He helped her stand upright, but his hand didn't leave her waist. His fingers pressed firmly against her spine, a silent, heavy weight making sure she didn't fall again.

"My apologies," his voice was a low, magnetic rumble that vibrated in his chest. "I didn't see you coming."

Adela blinked, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. She looked down. It was his leg she had tripped over.

She took a quick step back, forcing his hand to drop from her waist. The loss of his body heat made the cold hallway air bite at her skin.

"No," Adela said, her voice trembling slightly. She wiped roughly at her wet eyes, hating that he was seeing her like this. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

She needed to leave. The humiliation of Juston's words was still burning a hole in her stomach. She couldn't deal with a stranger right now.

She gave a stiff nod and turned toward the glass exit doors.

"Adela Richmond, isn't it?"

The man's voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

Adela's entire body went rigid. She spun back around, her nails digging into her palms again. How did he know her name?

The man stood up. He was incredibly tall, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the lobby lamps. He cast a long shadow that completely swallowed her.

He extended a large, steady hand toward her.

"Harmon Holland."

The name hit Adela like a physical blow to the chest.

Harmon Holland. The ruthless heir to the Holland Group. The ghost of Wall Street.

And the man her grandfather had signed a trust agreement with. The man she was legally bound to marry if the families demanded it.

Juston's mocking voice echoed in her skull. Keeping her pisses off Harmon Holland.

Adela stared at his outstretched hand. Her stomach churned violently. He was here. He had probably heard everything. He was probably laughing at her just like Juston was. He was looking at the pathetic, boring pawn who couldn't even keep a fake boyfriend.

She didn't take his hand.

She pulled her shoulders back, wrapping her arms around her own waist defensively.

Harmon didn't look offended. He slowly lowered his hand, his expression unreadable. He let his gaze drop to her red, tear-stained eyes, then back up to her face.

"You look like you're having a terrible night," Harmon stated. It wasn't a question. It was a cold, clinical observation.

Adela's jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.

"That is none of your business, Mr. Holland," she snapped, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

Harmon didn't flinch at her tone. He glanced toward the glass doors. "It's raining. Do you have somewhere to go?"

Adela finally heard the heavy drumming of rain against the glass. A storm had rolled in. Perfect. Just perfect.

She looked back at Harmon. His face was a mask of polite indifference, but she felt trapped under his gaze. She refused to be pitied by the man she was supposed to be sold to.

"I don't need anything from you," Adela said harshly.

She turned her back on him and marched toward the exit.

The doorman pulled the heavy glass door open. A blast of freezing wind and rain hit Adela in the face, soaking her hair instantly. She shivered violently but stepped out into the storm anyway.

Just as her heel hit the wet pavement, her phone vibrated in her purse.