The CEO Wants Me- Heiress Has Risen Again

(Claire Harrington's POV)

"Ms. Harrington, my deepest condolences. Your mother's legacy, complicated as it may be, will not be forgotten." A voice, low and thick with a blend of pity and professional detachment, sliced through the stillness.

Claire Harrington, dressed in mournful black, wiped away a tear she was not aware existed and gave a strained thank you. The scene was the Ashford City Cemetery, the mood thick with the subdued, almost triumphant gloom that follows in the path of a giant's demise.

It was a month now since the fall of Harrington Enterprises, the powerful media giant her mother, Eleanor Harrington, had ruled with an iron fist. The company-and Eleanor's life-had ended not in silent death but in a firestorm of public scandal, investigative lawsuits, and a fatal heart attack widely rumored to be stress-induced. The honored Harrington family name was no more, replaced by front-page tales of corruption and ruthless manipulation.

Yet despite all the downfall, the guests-a mix of media aristocracy, restless reporters, and political number crunchers-could not bring themselves to count Claire out completely. Not only was she Eleanor's fallen daughter; she was also the estranged wife of Adrian Blackwood, the cold, calculating CEO of the Blackwood Corporation, who now dominated the digital media kingdom her mother used to preside over.

The funeral was coming to an end at about noon, and everyone's eyes still darted towards the door. Adrian Blackwood was conspicuous by his absence. As final prayers were being muttered, a glossy black Bentley silently pulled up to the curb.

The back door opened, and two immaculately polished leather shoes appeared, surmounted by a flawlessly tailored suit. Adrian Blackwood emerged, his handsome, sharp-featured face utterly unwarm. Claire had not set eyes on him in the two years of their nominal marriage. The irony was a bitter pill: the reason for it was the funeral of the woman whose transgressions had bound them together.

All the visitors had come with flowers or a wreath. Adrian came empty-handed.

Adrian," a soft, syrupy voice rang out. Another car door opened, and a heart-stoppingly gorgeous woman in a bright, gaudily inappropriate red cocktail dress stepped out. Adrian's lover and reputed fiancée from Monroe Holdings, Felicity Monroe, slipped her arm easily through his. "Do I need to go in and pay my respects to. the late Mrs. Harrington?" she asked, her voice somewhat teasing.

Adrian's face eased infinitesimally as he looked down at Felicity, a fleeting warmth that was a punch in the stomach to Claire. He prudently took his arm away. "Wait here for me. It will not take long."

"Of course, darling." Felicity smiled, stood on tiptoes, and left a quick, intimate kiss on his cheek.

The silent, watching crowd was the final judge. On the morning when her mother was laid to rest, in front of a crowd of judgmental social media influencers, her husband was not only late but was also with his mistress, who had deliberately dressed in the color of scandal.

Claire dug her nails into her palm, struggling against her composure breaking. Adrian was already stepping closer to her, his presence a dark, stifling shadow.

He stopped, his height causing him to tower well above her. His cold eyes finally locked onto hers after a long, deliberate moment of tense silence. "Long time no see, Mrs. Blackwood," he sneered, his voice a low, cutting rasp. "Or has the great Harrington fire been struck dumb with shock? Where is the legendary spark?"

"What do you want, Adrian?" Claire managed, the words rough and strained. She knew very well he was not there for closure.

"What do I want?" His mouth curled into a predatory smile that failed to reach his eyes. "I just stopped by to offer my respects to my distinguished mother-in-law." His eyes were colder than a winter broadcast.

He took her in-prettier, perhaps, than the bride he'd acquired, her dark hair spilling over the black dress like a waterfall. If only she were not the daughter of my enemy, an enemy who used her media empire to ruin my family's reputation, things might be different, his mind whispered, a quickly discarded thought. No. This wedding was a revenge pact.

He looked away, his voice cracking with sudden authority. "All of you. Leave us. Now."

No one in the room had the nerve to defy the CEO of the Blackwood Corporation. They quickly scattered, and the hall was silent but for the two of them.

Before Claire could utter another word, a burning, stabbing pain erupted on her wrist. Adrian's grip was vice-like, and he forcefully dragged her away from the crowd, through a side door, and into a small, private committal room. The heavy wood door thudded shut behind them.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

An hour later, Adrian adjusted his perfectly tailored suit jacket, his face utterly expressionless as he emerged from the room.

Felicity Monroe rushed to him immediately, her face etched with nervous curiosity, and grasped his hand. "Adrian, darling, how did it go? Has the... trouble that was required been attended to?"

"Yes," said Adrian, his voice impassive. He accepted her hand and went down the stairs, dismissing the meeting with a few final, terrifying words. "It's all over."

Felicity, sensing the anger that was hardly contained beneath his calm demeanor, did not dare press any further. She just gazed back at the silent building with a lingering, analytical terror.

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Inside the room, Claire mechanically smoothed out her dress. Her eyes were riveted on the black-and-white photo of her mother. The jeering words Adrian had hurled at her during that violent, private war echoed in her mind:

"I married you just to have my full revenge on your disgusting mother for the lies she spouted, the reputations she destroyed, and the public smear campaign that ruined my family. Now she's finally dead. You are the only one left to pay her debts, starting with your complete public ruin."

"Mother, I'm so sorry," Claire whispered, sinking to her knees, the tears finally flowing freely.

The next day, the news cycle did not slow down. The fall of the Harrington media empire was already old news. Another headline, screaming from every digital billboard and morning paper, immediately became the top trending topic:

"Blackwood CEO Adrian Blackwood to Marry Monroe Holdings Heiress Felicity Monroe-Divorce from Disgraced Harrington Daughter Finalized?"

Before Claire could awaken from the stupor of shame and grief, a band of strangers broke into the ancestral Harrington villa, systematically emptying it of all its furniture.

The uproar drew her downstairs. Lisa, the veteran housekeeper, rushed to her in distress. "Mrs. Blackwood! They just pushed in and started taking things! They won't say who sent them!"

Claire stopped one of the men struggling with an old bronze statue-a gift her mother proudly claimed to have received from a political friend. "What do you think you're doing? I'll have you called by the police and sued for trespassing."

"Trespassing?" The man scoffed, completely unimpressed. "We're working for Mr. Blackwood. He does own this estate. We were instructed to take everything. Sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Harrington."

Claire's blood went cold. She had all but forgotten. When her mother had bought this house for the wedding, a vote of confidence, Claire had made her put it in Adrian's name, a misplaced vote of trust.

What is he after?

She searched for her phone to call him, and the news alert appeared on the screen. Divorce? Why did she not know that she was divorced?

"Mrs. Blackwood, what now?" Lisa asked, terrified.

Adrian was systematically, publicly stripping her of everything.

"Call the police," Claire commanded, her voice suddenly firm after two seconds of blood-curdling silence. It was the only way to get him to face her.

A quarter of an hour later, at Ashford City Police Station.

Having given her statement, Claire waited. She waited two hours. Adrian did not show up. His lawyer, a young man with a face as impassive as stone, showed up instead.

The lawyer set his briefcase on the floor, sat down opposite Claire, and slid a stack of papers across the table. "Ms. Harrington, Mr. Blackwood has requested that I tell you that if you will sign this divorce agreement and the non-disclosure agreements regarding his family's past, he is willing to sign over the deed to the Lake Hill apartment."

The words divorce agreement were a physical blow. Claire produced a brittle, mirthless smile. Adrian was not known for his patience.

When she didn't move, the attorney retrieved a thicker file. "This also outlines your and Mr. Blackwood's individual personal properties. There is no joint marital property. The Lake Hill property is a last gesture of good faith." He slid a third document forward. "Furthermore, this makes the magnitude of the debt run up by Harrington Enterprises, and the ongoing lawsuits and criminal investigations for past media fraud, yours alone, the sole surviving family heir. The Blackwood Corporation is not liable."

Claire's heart congealed. It was a flawless trap. Adrian had planned every move, created every detail, with no room for a counter-attack.

He was brilliant. Eleanor herself had chosen him for his arrogance and his terrifying intelligence, the young man who revived a disgraced family name and forged it into the unstoppable Blackwood Corporation. Eleanor had thought he would be a suitable, controllable husband.

Did she ever think this would be his last move?

Adrian's icy calculating nature sent shivers down her spine. He would not even lower himself to give her the news of divorce in person, refusing her a final confrontation.

Claire clenched her fists, forcing calm into her voice. She shoved the papers back. "Where is Adrian?"

"Mr. Blackwood is occupied in selecting a wedding gown for his fiancée, Miss Monroe. I am authorized to act in his stead in all divorce matters. You may address all concerns to me."

I only want to see Adrian. I am not interested in the apartment, the money, or his charity. I just want to see him," Claire reciprocated, meeting the lawyer's cold glare with impassioned insistence.

"I am sorry, Ms. Harrington. He won't see you," the lawyer reiterated, each word stained with finality.

"I see." Claire's contempt was blended with desperation and resolve. She snatched up the documents and bunched her fist. "Then I will never sign this agreement. If he proceeds and marries Felicity, I will sue him for bigamy. I will make his ideal wedding the media event of the decade."

"Ms. Harrington!" The attorney was shocked, his equanimity briefly lost.

"Doesn't Adrian desire a legal, squeaky-clean marriage for his fiancée? A PR perfection for the Blackwood Corporation? So, where is he now?" Claire's voice was menacing and low.

The lawyer hesitated, then gave in. "Mr. Blackwood has a dinner meeting with Harold Sutton, CEO of Redwood Properties-they're sealing a major media deal-at the Sterling Club tonight at 7. Ms. Harrington, I can arrange to see you after his business is finished-"

"No need." Claire cut in. "Some things-some scores-have to be between Adrian and me."

The Sterling Club, located on the north edge of Ashford City, was the city's invincible fortress of media and political luxury, where reputations were lost and fortunes made over a glass of fine old scotch.

Claire stepped out of the taxi. The gold lettering of the club's sign seemed to mock her disheveled state.

She'd only made a few feet when she was stopped by a security guard. "Hello, Miss. Do you have an appointment?" He looked her up and down at her expensive, but clearly worn, clothing. Her face was familiar from a thousand gossip pages, but her current demeanor was too dark, too falling-apart for a typical high-society guest.

Claire clutched her small evening bag-a present from her late mother, probably her last treasured possession. "I am supposed to meet Blackwood Corporation's CEO, Adrian Blackwood." She took a deep, calming breath.

The name, the most powerful in the digital media sector, instantly commanded respect. The guard did not risk being brusque. "One moment, Miss."

The guard returned in ten minutes, his face a mask of well-practiced sympathy. "I am sorry, Miss. Mr. Blackwood instructed that he would see no one this evening. His meeting is quite private."

Claire trembled in the cold wind, her collarbones protruding thinly, her legs trembling slightly. She'd expected this. Adrian was trying to make her crawl, accept his terms without a murmur. But she was Claire Harrington, daughter of the woman who had once held the city's truth in her hand. She would not be broken by PR strong-arm tactics.

"Excuse me," she said quickly, succeeding in placing a tearful, watery look on her face. "Could I use your employees' restroom? I'm feeling... just ill."

"There is an employee restroom small near the back service door," answered the security guard, sympathy overcoming his suspiciousness. "Go in and right back out again!"

"Thanks," Claire grumbled, heading down an empty service hall. She slipped in the back door and into the small, antiseptic employee bathroom. As she was washing her face, two women employees were applying makeup at the mirror, talking loudly.

"I heard there's a big Blackwood-Redwood media deal being signed tonight in Rosewood Hall," one whispered. "Jasmine Clarke will be furious she's sick with that seafood allergy! The headliners are here. I heard Blackwood's divorced now. So handsome! The more beautiful you are, the more power you can exert tonight."

"I know! Will (Harold Sutton) has agreed to take a photo with me for my social media. Everyone knows tonight's profit depends on that rich man!"

The women completed their task and sashayed out, their conversation giving Claire exactly what she needed. She dragged her long hair back into a tight, unforgiving knot. She turned the faucet off once more and scowled at her face in the mirror, now gaunt, dark circles beneath her eyes evidence of all she had been through. Her eyes hardened. A tactical plan began to take shape.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

Rosewood Hall was not the idle circus most would picture. Media kingmakers, computer moguls, and political operatives were reclining on comfortable couches, beautiful young women nearby, pouring them wine and cutting them fruit. Adrian was sitting at the center of a low table, idly riffle-shuffling a deck of specially printed Blackwood Corporation playing cards and accepting a slice of mango from the beautiful model who sat next to him.

Mr. Blackwood, I have a persistent rumor that a lovely lady sought you out earlier this evening," Harold Sutton (Will), CEO of Redwood Properties, asked, his face a picture of strained pleasantness. "Who would be so brazen as to interrupt a discussion with the Grand Prix Association?"

Adrian's fingers stopped on the card. He turned to the man. "Who do you suppose, Mr. Sutton?

"I'm just curious! Was it your... former wife?"

The air instantly froze. Martin (Charles Whitman) and Daniel (Victor Cross), Adrian's closest lieutenants, who were playing games nearby, instantly paled. They knew Adrian's glacial silence meant the man had struck a nerve.

Martin moved in fast, slapping a big, professional grin on his face. "Mr. Sutton, I heard you praising a lovely dancer! Why don't you let her come out and give the room a badly needed lift?

Harold Sutton, realizing his catastrophic gaffe, quickly changed the topic. "Right, right! She'll be here shortly! I'm paying a small fortune for this exclusive performance!" He dialed the in-house phone. "Where is Jasmine Clarke? Get her on stage!"

The room regained its noisy vitality. Only Adrian remained cold, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, unsettling beat on the table.

Within a few minutes, the door was flung open, and a hostess ushered in a troupe of young, beautiful women. "Gentlemen, business is crucial, but so is enjoyment," the hostess cooed. Some willing ladies immediately pounced on Adrian's couch, shoving aside his model and his bodyguards.

Adrian did not stir, the crowd and the overtures unnoticed. He lit a cigarette, the smoke veiling the coldness in his eyes.

One woman alone on a small, elevated dais-she wore a tight, suggestive costume with a low V-neck and a thin, black veil over her face. The lights dimmed, the music started with a low, throbbing beat, and she began to move.

"Mr. Blackwood, Jasmine Clarke is our lead dancer. She's absolutely first-rate," Harold Sutton said, a servile smile stretching his hard features.

The dancer was undoubtedly talented, her movements sensual and sinuous, hitting the beats with perfect precision. She dominated the small stage.

Adrian's slitted eyes, behind the smoke, fastened on the lead dancer. In spite of the makeup and the costume, a primitive, familiar sense of recognition-and then sheer anger-hit him.

It was Claire.

Years of ballet training had instilled in her a dancer's poise, and she was compelling even in this sordid exhibition. She was the center of the stage, and every man in the room was staring at her.

Adrian's outrage was instantaneous and crushing. He raised a hand and pointed a single, imperious finger at the stage. "You. Come here. The rest of you, get out.".

The hostess and other dancers paused in confusion immediately.

"No need to bother them, Adrian."

Claire ripped off the veil, tossed it to the ground, and smiled-a contemptuous, reckless, startlingly beautiful smile. She lifted her hands and slowly, deliberately, untied the thin, black straps of her tight-fitting crop top, pulling down the fabric to show a tantalizing stretch of flesh.

There was a general gasp around the room. The businessmen all knew at once who she was-the infamous, disgraced Mrs. Blackwood.

Martin and Daniel watched in dismay. Not only was she dancing, but openly stripping before a room full of Adrian's most important contacts, dragging the Blackwood name through the dirtiest, most public scandal imaginable. She was fighting him with the one thing she had left: her ruined reputation.

She did. Claire swayed gently to the music, her hands moving with tantalizing slowness to the hem of the top.

Adrian pounced like a panther. He launched himself off the sofa, traversed the distance in two steps, and yanked her unceremoniously down from the stage.

"ARE YOU FINISHED HERE, CLAIRE?" he snarled, his voice a low, angry thunder, his face a mask of cold, vengeful anger.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

Claire, what is this show?" Adrian's grip on her wrist was strangling, his face unyielding with fury. "Harrington Enterprises might be a sham, but are you so hungry for fame you'd sell your mother's final shred of dignity for a front-page headline? Do you even have any idea who you're stripping in front of? These men are journalists and politicians-they feed on scandal!

Claire flinched but didn't struggle, her eyes burning with defiance. "Isn't this just what you wanted, Adrian? A public spectacle? A final, total humiliation? I'm just giving the media exactly what the CEO of Blackwood Corporation lives on!"

She tried to turn away and continue onto the stage.

"Don't you dare dance another step." Adrian's voice was frigid, his hard gaze sweeping over her exposed skin.

The music had stopped. The sudden silence hung, thick with the shock of two dozen-plus media crème de la crème.

"She... she isn't Jasmine Clarke!" a frightened young hostess cried out.

Before anyone could move, Jasmine Clarke herself-her face spotty and speckled with a rash-broke in, followed by the club manager and security. "That is the woman who stuck me in the locker room!"

The manager, realizing the PR disaster in the making, frantically motioned for the bodyguards to grab Claire.

Claire threw up her chin, her noble presence-a remnant of the powerful Eleanor Harrington-jerkily surging to the forefront.

"Right. I am not Jasmine Clarke," she said, her voice ringing out above the stillness. "I am Adrian Blackwood's wife. But today, I am no longer. Because today I am divorcing you, Adrian. I am the one who walked out."

She would not be a victim discarded like rubbish. She would repay him the public shame he had inflicted on her with a public scandal of her own.

Victor Cross (Daniel) stared. "She just. divorced the CEO of the Blackwood Corporation in front of a room full of reporters?"

"Shut up," Charles Whitman (Martin) growled, throwing him a warning look.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you just caused? You're fiddling with all the fabrications your mother ever wrote!" Adrian curled his hand into a tighter fist, his eyes flashing with the threat of naked power.

Claire was not afraid. She rooted in the small pouch and drew out the divorce papers his lawyer had delivered to her, waving them in a defiant smile. "Adrian, do you think I have anything more to fear? You stole my home and my mother's name. This was the only way I could get your attention."

With glacial, half-mad pleasure, Claire laughed.

This is the last piece of performance I owe you. Adrian, I want a divorce. Effective immediately, I am free. I can write scandal, I can be the scandal, I can be an editor at Whitestone Media or a stripper-and it is absolutely, wonderfully none of your business."

The papers drifted to the expensive carpet, with her final, heartless vow.

From now on, your marriage, your reputation, your happiness, and your power struggles are no longer my problem. I hope you have a long, solitary life under the spotlight of the media you own."

The entire room gasped. No one had imagined that this beautiful, devastated woman would have such raw, devastating obstinacy.

"Claire, words don't mean anything." Adrian's voice was cold. He leaned in, his eyes menacing. "Do you think I can make you disappear from Ashford City's headlines tomorrow?"

"I do, Adrian. How could I not trust the man who makes a living with the press as his weapon?" Claire taunted, twisting her red lips. "But so what? Do you think I care anymore about disappearing?

She yanked her wrist free in a wild, desperate spurt of power, took two staggering steps backward. Her arm was almost out of joint, but she didn't feel it. Claire ignored Adrian's enraged, frozen form and looked around at the aghast faces of the assembled power brokers.

She smiled-a final, defiant smile. "Sorry to be a disruption, gentlemen. Enjoy your privileged tale."

She spun about, adjusted her crumpled costume, and ran out of the door.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

The room was stuck in place.

"Mr... Mr. Blackwood." Harold Sutton stammered, not sure what to do.

Adrian was stuck in place, eyes staring at the slammed door, his face horrendously black. The great slamming of the door had been like a gunshot.

She lived up to the name Harrington after all, he considered, as Eleanor had. She enjoyed chaos.

It took a long, excruciating silence before he finally moved. "Please continue with your meeting."

He returned to his seat, piling up the cards on the table, but the incomprehensible shadow in his eyes did not lift.

Victor Cross coughed nervously, darting in to save the situation. "What are you all loitering here for? You're not getting paid to stand watch! Get back to the bargaining. Get the dancers out on stage again!" but even while he spoke, the incomprehensible shadow persisted.

The manager of the club ushered the girls away hastily, and the room attempted to return to normal. Charles and Victor exchanged nervous glances, afraid of provoking Adrian's temper yet again. He remained aloof, unapproachable, and bitterly cold.

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Claire stumbled out of The Sterling Club, the biting air a harsh reminder to wake up.

How could she dare?

The adrenaline rush faded, and she trembled. She had publicly humiliated the most powerful man in new media, essentially writing her own professional obituary. But beneath the fear, was a deep relief. She had stood up, on her own terms.

He was too proud, too dignified to simply seek business contacts. It all-the wedding, the early public acceptance-had been a cynical, revenge-oriented campaign founded on her mother's previous media indiscretions.

She was at last free. But she was homeless, penniless, and her name was media poison. This giant, cynical Ashford City had no use for the scandalised daughter of a mogul.

She was walking lost when the phone rang loudly.

"Claire, where the blazes are you? Your home is abandoned! Did that bloody Adrian do this? I bloody well will reveal him to the press myself!" Ryan Gallagher (Terry), an old racing foe and her sole true friend, bellowed with typical rage.

"Ryan..." Claire's hardened mask disintegrated. She collapsed onto a nearby bench. "It's all over. I'm divorced..."

"Don't shed tears, don't cry, bloody hell! Where are you?"

Ryan hung up and thundered away from the empty villa in his red Iron Cup sports car. "Stay right there! Don't budge!"

Claire waited for one hour. Finally, she spotted Ryan's shiny car. Under the hostile glances of strangers, she crawled into the sports car's cold interior. He drove her straight to his spacious Ashford City city center apartment.

"I warned you about Adrian being a snake with his family's Blackwood Corporation revenge fantasy. Now you've lost everything but your spine!"

Ryan led her into the 400-square-meter flat, which had an incredible 360-degree view of the city. Claire was momentarily dazzled and moved to the French window. The lovely view of the river seemed to soothe her frazzled nerves.

"This penthouse... this has gotta be a major Redwood Properties building, right? At least $8 million?"

"A ball park figure. Listen, I compete for my dream now, but you know my family's money is old. Claire, I'm serious. Marry me. I don't care that you're divorced and smashed. I'll make sure the press never gets near you."

He didn't explain that the apartment belonged to his mother's Grand Prix Association trust and a very generous act of sacrifice.

"Cut the nonsense, Ryan." Claire spun around, pulling out two tissues from her pocket. "I'm crashed here for a couple of days. When I find a job, I'll pay rent."

Ryan was smart enough not to let her fake toughness get the upper hand. "Stay as long as you like, Claire. It's my Iron Cup sponsorship and all included."