Jilted Heiress: Her Reign Has Begun

My fiancé, Fremont, was caught with his pregnant mistress, but our families' decade-long alliance meant I was expected to endure the humiliation. He demanded I invite her to my parents' memorial gala. When I refused, he stabbed my hand with a knife and canceled the event entirely.

He then locked me in my parents' desecrated penthouse, announced his engagement to her, and planned to have me publicly disowned at the shareholder meeting where he would be crowned CEO.

He called my family's legacy "junk" and left me bleeding on the floor to answer his mistress's call. He thought he had broken me.

He was a fool.

At the meeting, our lawyer revealed the truth: I held the controlling 51% of the company, and the CEO had to be my husband.

Suddenly, all eyes were on me. And I was ready to make my choice.

Chapter 1

Etta Stark POV:

The scandal broke like a fever across the city, splashed across every gossip blog and whispered in every boardroom. The headline was always the same: Warren Heir, Fremont Warren, Caught in Steamy Tryst with Pregnant Mystery Woman. They used a grainy photo, taken from a distance, of my fiancé, Fremont, leading a weeping girl into his private downtown condo.

His face was turned away from the camera, but I knew the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. I had traced them with my fingers a thousand times. The girl, Corina Gonzales, was a nobody. A waitress he' d supposedly met when she spilled a tray of champagne on him at a gallery opening. A classic, pathetic sob story.

Everyone waited for the fallout. For the all-powerful Warren family to crush this insignificant girl, to erase her from existence and restore the sanctity of my engagement to Fremont. The union that had been the bedrock of our two families for a decade.

But that' s not what happened.

I was in my studio, finalizing the floral arrangements for the annual Stark Foundation Gala, when Fremont sauntered in. He tossed his phone onto my worktable, the screen still lit up with the offending article.

"Can you believe this?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. He wasn't worried. He was amused.

My hands stilled over a bloom of white roses. "What is there to believe, Fremont? The pictures seem quite clear."

"Oh, Etta, don' t be like that," he sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair. He picked up the phone. "She was crying. Distraught. What was I supposed to do? Leave her on the street?"

The lie was so effortless it felt like breathing for him. He and Corina had been sleeping together for six months. Her pregnancy was now five months along, a ticking time bomb he had somehow managed to keep hidden until now. A time bomb that was set to detonate just weeks before the shareholder meeting that would officially name him CEO of Warren Corp.

"So you took her to your private apartment?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

"She needed a place to calm down."

The next day, he took her to his private apartment again. And the day after that. The paparazzi had a field day. Fremont, the presumed heir to a corporate empire, parading his pregnant mistress for the world to see, while his fiancée, the woman whose family had saved his from ruin, was expected to sit silently in the shadows.

One week into the scandal, Corina Gonzales, emboldened by Fremont' s public display, found my private number.

She sent a photo of a positive pregnancy test.

I finally called Fremont. I didn't yell. My voice was as cold and still as a frozen lake. "You need to handle this."

"I am handling it," he said, his tone impatient, as if I were a bothersome fly. "Corina is just a girl. She' s emotional. She doesn' t mean any harm."

He tried to soothe me with the same empty words he always used. "You' re Etta Stark. You will be my wife. You will be the lady of the Warren family. A little fling means nothing. Don' t be so insecure."

I almost laughed. Insecurity had nothing to do with it. My power, the real power, wasn' t derived from being his wife. It was mine by birthright, sealed in blood and sacrifice. He just didn' t know it yet. He saw my tolerance as weakness, my loyalty as a given.

He was a fool.

But I didn't have time to deal with his foolishness right then. I had a more pressing duty.

The Stark Foundation Gala was not just a party. It was a memorial. An annual tribute to my parents, held on the anniversary of the day their company, their legacy, was sacrificed to save the Warrens. It was the one night a year dedicated solely to their memory.

I was meticulously reviewing the seating chart, the names of donors and old family friends blurring before my eyes. Each placement was a delicate calculation of politics and respect.

My focus was absolute, a shield against the storm raging outside the walls of my family home.

It was a storm I knew I would have to face. But first, I had to honor my parents. Fremont and his cheap affair could wait.

The quiet of the room was a fragile thing, and I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that he was about to shatter it.

---

Etta Stark POV:

The door to my studio creaked open, and the scent of Fremont' s expensive cologne filled the air, a cloying, unwelcome intrusion. I didn' t look up from the seating chart.

"You' ve been in here for hours," he said, his voice laced with that false, patronizing warmth he used when he wanted something. He placed a steaming mug of coffee beside my hand. I didn't touch it.

"I' m busy, Fremont."

He leaned over my shoulder, his chin almost resting on my hair. I flinched. "I need a small favor."

I waited.

"Corina is feeling a bit left out," he began, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "I was thinking... we should add her to the guest list for the gala."

My pen stopped moving. A single, perfect drop of black ink bled into the pristine white cardstock, marring the name of a respected judge. The sound of my own breathing was suddenly loud in the silent room.

He wanted to bring his pregnant mistress to a gala honoring the memory of the parents whose sacrifice had given him everything. He wanted her to sit among our friends, our family, on the most sacred night of my year.

"Are you insane?" The words were a ghost of a whisper, but they carried the weight of a scream.

"Etta, don't be dramatic."

"You want to bring that... woman... to my parents' memorial?" I finally looked up at him, my eyes burning. "Do you have any idea what you' re asking?"

"I know it' s important to you," he said, his expression a mask of sincerity that made my stomach turn. He had the audacity to look hurt. "But Corina is pregnant with my child. She' s going to be part of the family. It' s better if everyone gets used to the idea sooner rather than later."

He looked at me then, his gaze deep and manipulative, the way a snake might watch a mouse. "Besides, you' re always so understanding. You' re Etta Stark. You know how to handle these things with grace."

Understanding. The word was a slap in the face. He wasn' t asking for my understanding. He was demanding my surrender.

My hand trembled. The coffee mug he' d brought was still steaming. Without a second thought, I picked it up and deliberately poured the hot liquid onto the floor, a few feet from his polished leather shoes. It splashed, a dark, ugly stain on the antique rug.

"Was that understanding enough for you?" I asked, my voice dripping with ice.

Fremont didn't even flinch. His calm was more infuriating than any outburst would have been. "Etta, that was childish." He took a step toward me, his hand outstretched as if to check if I' d burned myself.

I recoiled as if his touch were acid. "Don' t you dare touch me."

"Stop this act," he sighed, his patience finally fraying. The charming mask slipped, revealing the cold arrogance beneath. "I don' t have time for your tantrums."

"Get out," I said, my voice shaking with a rage that felt seismic.

"We' re not done here."

"I said, get out!" I grabbed the nearest object on my desk-a heavy, pointed silver letter opener, a gift from my father. I held it up, not as a weapon, but as a final, desperate barrier. "Don' t push me, Fremont."

For the first time, his expression changed. Not to fear, but to annoyance. "Put that down. You' ll hurt yourself."

He lunged for it. I held on tight, a guttural 'no' tearing from my throat. His fingers wrapped around mine, trying to pry the letter opener from my grasp. The struggle was brief, pathetic. He was so much stronger.

There was a sharp, searing pain.

I gasped, my grip slackening. He pulled the letter opener free. Blood, dark and shockingly red, welled up from a deep gash in the palm of my hand. It dripped onto the seating chart, landing squarely between my name and his, a crimson stain that obliterated the ampersand connecting us.

We both froze, staring at the blood.

Then, his phone rang. The tinny, cheerful ringtone belonged to Corina. I knew it because he' d let it play in front of me a dozen times.

He looked at my bleeding hand. He looked at the ringing phone.

And he answered it.

"Hey, baby," he murmured, his voice instantly softening, dripping with a tenderness he hadn' t shown me in years. "What' s wrong? Are you okay?"

The world went silent. The physical pain in my hand was a distant echo compared to the chasm that ripped open in my chest. It felt like my heart was being torn in two, slowly, meticulously, by a pair of invisible, brutal hands.

He turned his back to me, whispering reassurances to her, while my blood continued to drip, drip, drip onto the floor.

After what felt like an eternity, he ended the call and turned back to me. He let out a long, weary sigh, a sound of pure exasperation.

"Corina feels bad," he said, not even looking at my hand. "She doesn' t want to 'make things difficult' for you."

He paused, letting the manipulative words hang in the air. "She says she' d feel uncomfortable if she came, but she' d also feel uncomfortable if you went without her, knowing you were alone."

A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips. "So what' s your brilliant solution, Fremont?"

He looked me straight in the eye, his gaze cold and final. "I canceled it. The gala is off."

I stared at him, unable to process the words. Canceled. He had canceled my parents' memorial. For her. For a whim.

Ten years ago, my father, Robert Stark, had signed over his entire company, Stark Industries, to save Warren Corp from a hostile takeover. The deal had cost him everything-his fortune, his health, his life. He died of a heart attack six months later, a broken man. I was left an orphan. The Warren patriarch, Fremont' s grandfather, had sworn a sacred oath on my father' s grave to care for me, to honor the Stark legacy. This marriage, this union, was the fulfillment of that blood pact. The annual gala was the one thread connecting me to that past, to the parents I barely remembered.

And Fremont had just severed it. For a woman he' d met six months ago.

"I' ll make it up to you," he said, his voice void of any real emotion. He stepped forward and did something so monstrously cruel it took my breath away. He gently brushed a strand of hair from my face and kissed my forehead, a gesture of empty, theatrical affection.

"After I' m officially CEO, we' ll get married," he whispered, his lips cold against my skin. "Then everything will be right again. Just be a good girl until then, Etta."

He walked out, leaving me standing in a pool of my own blood, the ghost of his treacherous kiss burning on my skin.

---

Etta Stark POV:

The shareholder' s meeting was in three weeks. Three weeks until Fremont Warren would officially be handed the scepter of power-the CEO title of the Warren-Stark empire. It was a mere formality, a coronation he had been preparing for his entire life. In his mind, he was already king.

I retreated. The world outside my rooms ceased to exist. I didn' t eat. I didn' t sleep. The house staff would leave trays of food outside my door, and they would be taken away hours later, untouched. The only thing I consumed was the silence, and it was a bitter meal.

The wound on my hand scabbed over, a jagged, ugly line that served as a constant reminder. It throbbed with a dull ache, a physical manifestation of the rot that had set into my life.

Then the messages from Corina started again. A relentless barrage of poison delivered directly to my phone.

Are you two even really engaged? Fremont says it' s just a business arrangement. He says he' s never even slept with you.

You' re just a relic from the past, Etta. An obligation. He told me he can' t wait to be free of you.

Why don' t you just disappear? It would make things so much easier for everyone.

Let him go. He loves me. He wants to be with me and our baby.

Then came the picture. A selfie. Corina, wrapped in Fremont' s bedsheets, her pregnant belly proudly on display. Fremont was asleep beside her, his arm thrown protectively over her. She was smiling, a triumphant, vicious little smirk.

The caption beneath it read: He still makes love to me every night, even with the baby. When was the last time he touched you like this, Etta? Or has he ever?

My thumb hovered over the screen. I felt nothing. No rage, no tears. Just a vast, cold emptiness. I calmly blocked her number and deleted the entire message thread.

A week later, a formal family dinner was arranged. An attempt by the Warren elders to project an image of stability in the face of the swirling scandal. My attendance was not optional.

I dressed in a severe black dress, the bandage on my hand a stark white contrast. I walked into the grand dining room, my head held high. The long, polished mahogany table was filled with the faces of the Warren clan-uncles, aunts, cousins. Their gazes were a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. I could feel their unspoken apologies hanging in the air like a bad smell.

My designated seat, the one to the right of the head of the table where the patriarch would sit, was my birthright. It was the seat my mother had once occupied, the seat that signified my position as the future matriarch of the family.

I walked toward it, each step a deliberate act of reclaiming what was mine.

And then I stopped.

My breath caught in my throat. The world tilted on its axis.

Sitting in my chair, nestled beside Fremont, was Corina Gonzales.

---