The Ruined Heiress Plans Her Vicious Revenge

Farah rolled over on the massive California King mattress. The back of her hand brushed against the cold, empty cotton sheets beside her.

She opened her eyes. The harsh, bright morning sunlight of Manhattan poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing her to squint against the glare.

A faint, rhythmic buzzing sound vibrated through the silent bedroom. It was coming from the narrow gap in the mahogany nightstand drawer on Brook's side of the bed.

Farah pushed herself up on one elbow. She reached across the mattress and pulled the heavy wooden drawer open. Sitting on top of a stack of notepads was a sleek black smartphone. It was Brook's secondary business phone, a device he kept for his most private dealings. He must have been working late in bed last night.

The screen was lit up. The caller ID flashed two simple initials: CP. The vibration pattern stuttered, signaling the call was about to go to voicemail.

Farah reached out. She just wanted to press the volume button to mute the buzzing. Brook was likely in the adjacent study, and he hated being disturbed before his morning coffee.

Her fingers were stiff from sleep. As she gripped the edge of the device, her thumb dragged clumsily across the smooth glass, swiping the green accept icon. In her fumbling attempt to silence it, her palm pressed against the speakerphone icon on the screen just as the call connected.

"Brook, where the hell were you?" Chelsey's voice blasted from the small speaker. Her tone was sharp, impatient, and entirely devoid of her usual sweet pitch. "You promised you'd come to my Upper East Side place last night."

Farah's brain flatlined. Her lungs simply stopped pulling in oxygen.

"Relax." Brook's deep, soothing voice echoed through the phone. Behind his words, Farah could hear the distinct whistling of the wind hitting the glass panels of their penthouse terrace. "I had to stay here. The bankruptcy liquidation files for the Sterling Group need my eyes on every single page."

"Whatever," Chelsey scoffed. The sound of a lighter flicking echoed through the speaker. "I'm just annoyed. Cannon getting eight years in federal prison is a joke. It's too good for him."

"It was the best my lawyers could do without making it look obvious," Brook laughed softly. It was a cold, satisfied sound. "Buying off Clarence's doctors to fake that sterility report cost me a fortune. But getting the Sterling heir out of the way? Worth every penny."

Farah's pupils dilated so fast the bright room seemed to plunge into darkness. Her fingers curled inward, her nails digging so hard into the mattress that the fabric threatened to tear.

"And the old man?" Chelsey asked. "How is Farah's father doing?"

"He won't last the winter," Brook said. His voice was completely flat, devoid of any human empathy. "I paid the head nurse at the facility to swap out his experimental heart medication with standard placebos. Nature will take its course."

A violent spasm ripped through Farah's stomach. Acid rushed up her throat. Cold sweat erupted across her skin, instantly soaking the thin silk of her nightgown.

"Good," Chelsey giggled. "So when are you going to dump the bankrupt princess? I'm tired of playing the supportive best friend."

"Soon," Brook replied. "Once I drain the last of her architectural design patents and transfer them to Tyler Enterprise, I'll kick her to the curb. She's useless to me otherwise."

The heavy glass door of the terrace slid open with a loud scrape.

Farah's heart slammed against her ribs like a hammer. She slammed the phone face-down onto the mahogany wood, cutting off the speakerphone.

She threw herself back onto the mattress and yanked the heavy duvet up to her chin. She squeezed her eyes shut. She forced her chest to rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm, though her blood was roaring in her ears.

The bedroom door pushed open. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of Brook's footsteps as he walked into the room.

He stopped right next to the bed. He stood there, looking down at her.

Farah felt the temperature drop as his tall frame cast a shadow over her face. Her eyelids twitched with the biological urge to snap open, but she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper to keep them shut.

Brook reached out. His large hand brushed against her cheek, his fingers pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. His touch was incredibly light.

"Good morning, my sleeping beauty," he whispered. His voice dripped with a thick, sugary devotion.

Farah inhaled. The scent of his expensive cedarwood cologne filled her nose. Her stomach he heave, a wave of pure, physical nausea crashing over her.

Brook pulled his hand back. He turned around and walked toward the massive walk-in closet, his footsteps fading away.

Farah slowly opened her eyes. The bloodshot veins in her sclera burned. The absolute terror in her chest evaporated, leaving behind a cold, solid block of pure killing intent.

Farah threw the heavy duvet off her body. She had rolled to Brook's side of the bed during the night. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor beyond the edge of the thick carpet.

She practically ran across the room and shoved the bathroom door open. She stepped inside and slammed the heavy frosted glass door shut, twisting the metal lock until it clicked.

She lunged toward the marble vanity. She turned the chrome faucet handle as far as it would go. Ice-cold water blasted into the porcelain basin. She shoved her hands under the stream, letting the freezing temperature shock her system.

The violent churning in her stomach peaked. She leaned over the sink and dry-heaved, her throat burning as her body tried to expel the sheer disgust pooling inside her.

She gripped the edges of the marble counter and forced herself to look up. The woman staring back at her in the wide mirror had skin the color of chalk. Mascara from the night before smeared under her red, watery eyes.

She looked down at her left hand. The five-carat diamond engagement ring sat heavy on her ring finger.

She grabbed the diamond. She yanked the metal band over her knuckle, scraping her skin. She threw the ring as hard as she could at the mirror. The heavy stone hit the glass with a sharp, violent crack, leaving a tiny spiderweb fracture on the surface before dropping onto the counter.

Farah stared at the fracture. She forced air into her lungs. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. She reached down, picked up the cold metal ring, and slid it back onto her finger.

Her brain began to process the last three years. The sudden, inexplicable cash flow problems at the Sterling Group. The delayed building permits.

Brook had stepped in every single time with emergency capital. She realized now that every check he wrote was a calculated move to dilute her father's equity until Brook held the controlling vote.

She cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed the freezing water onto her face. She rubbed her skin raw, washing away the tears, the weakness, and the naive girl who went to sleep last night.

She grabbed a towel, dried her face. She gripped the edges of the marble counter, the cold stone grounding her. The shock receded, replaced by a glacial calm. Tears were a luxury she could no longer afford. Revenge was not. She walked out of the bathroom, bypassed her casual clothes and pulled a sharp, tailored black business suit from the rack.

Ten minutes later, she walked out of the penthouse. She stepped into the private elevator and pressed the button for the underground parking garage.

She unlocked her black Porsche. She got in, gripped the leather steering wheel, and drove straight toward the financial district, heading for the Tyler Enterprise headquarters.

Farah pulled the Porsche into the visitors' underground parking garage of the Tyler Enterprise building. She killed the engine, stepped out, and took the elevator up to the street level lobby. She walked out through the revolving doors, crossed the street, and positioned herself at the far corner, directly across from the massive glass skyscraper.

Through the windshield-no, through her own eyes now, standing in the cold morning air-she saw the plaza in front of the building. It was packed with news vans, camera crews, and dozens of financial reporters holding microphones.

The revolving glass doors spun. Brook walked out, flanked by a wall of men in dark suits.

A reporter from Bloomberg shoved a microphone past the security guards, shouting a question about the finalization of the Sterling Group acquisition.

Brook stopped. He looked directly into the camera lenses. He offered a tight, perfectly measured smile that conveyed deep sorrow and heavy responsibility.

"I will do everything in my power to preserve the legacy of the Sterling family," Brook said, his voice projecting clearly across the plaza. "This is a tragedy, but I will not let their life's work vanish."

He paused, lowering his eyes for a fraction of a second before looking back up. "My love for my fiancée, Farah, is the only thing keeping me going through this dark time. I am doing this for her."

A collective murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd of reporters. Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights, capturing the face of the tragic hero.

Farah stood at the street corner. A short, harsh laugh scraped its way out of her throat.

She picked up her phone from her pocket. She opened Twitter. The trending topics were already flooded. The top hashtag was praising Brook as the ultimate "Wall Street lover boy."

She tapped on Chelsey's profile. Right at the top of her feed, Chelsey had liked the Bloomberg live stream just sixty seconds ago.

Farah dropped her phone back into her pocket. She gripped the strap of her designer bag so hard her knuckles turned completely white against her pale skin.

She stepped off the curb. Her black stiletto heels hit the rough asphalt of the Manhattan street with a solid thud.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of oversized black sunglasses. She slid them over her face, hiding the absolute zero temperature of her eyes.

She walked across the street, stepping directly into the path of oncoming traffic, forcing a yellow cab to slam on its brakes. She walked straight toward the center of the media circus.

A reporter on the outer edge of the crowd turned his head to check his phone. He looked up, blinked, and recognized the woman in the black suit.

The reporter let out a loud gasp. He shoved his cameraman, pointing frantically. The heavy camera swung around, the red recording light fixing directly on Farah.

The crowd of journalists turned. Like water hitting a rock, the mass of bodies naturally parted, creating a clear, narrow path straight to the front of the building.

Brook heard the sudden shift in the crowd's noise. He turned his head. For a fraction of a second, the perfect, sorrowful mask on his face slipped, revealing a flash of genuine shock.

Farah reached up and pulled the sunglasses off her face. She let her shoulders slump slightly, allowing her pale skin and red-rimmed eyes to catch the harsh morning light.

Brook recovered instantly. He took three large strides forward, his arms opening wide to project the image of a desperate, protective shield.

"Farah, sweetheart," Brook said, his voice thick with fake worry. "What are you doing out of bed? You need to rest."

He reached out to pull her against his chest. Farah stopped exactly half a step out of his reach. She shifted her weight slightly to the right, letting his hands grasp empty air.

Brook's arms froze suspended in the space between them. The muscles in his jaw locked. A dark, vicious shadow passed through his blue eyes.

A reporter from the New York Times shoved a digital recorder forward. "Miss Sterling! Given the bankruptcy, will your wedding to Mr. Tyler be postponed?"

The entire plaza went dead silent. Every single lens, microphone, and pair of eyes locked onto the ruined heiress.

Farah lifted her chin. She looked straight into Brook's eyes, holding his gaze without blinking.

She took a deep breath, letting her chest rise visibly. She opened her mouth and spoke clearly into the wall of microphones.

"Given the absolute tragedy that has destroyed my family," Farah said, her voice shaking just enough to sound devastated, "I have absolutely no mood to plan a wedding."

A loud murmur erupted from the press pool. A woman in the front row shouted over the noise, "Does that mean the engagement is off?"

Farah let a single tear spill over her lower lash line. She kept her eyes locked on Brook. "It means I have no intention of marrying him. Ever."

The plaza exploded. The noise was deafening. Camera flashes fired in a continuous, blinding sheet of white light.

Brook's jaw tightened so hard the bone looked ready to snap through his skin. The corners of his mouth twitched as his fake smile completely disintegrated.

Evan Gaines, the head of Tyler Enterprise's public relations, sprinted out of the revolving doors. He waved his hands frantically, signaling the security team to push forward.

"Please, everyone, step back!" Evan yelled, his voice cracking with panic. "Miss Sterling is under immense psychological distress due to her father's failing health! She is not thinking clearly!"

Brook used the sudden surge of the security guards as cover. He lunged forward and clamped his hand around Farah's left wrist. His fingers dug into her flesh, pressing so hard against her bones she felt a sharp spike of pain shoot up her arm.

He yanked her forward, slamming her body against his chest. To the cameras, it looked like a desperate, passionate embrace to comfort a hysterical woman.

Brook lowered his head, pressing his mouth directly against her ear. "Stop acting like a crazy bitch," he whispered, his voice a razor-thin blade of ice.

Farah did not flinch. She tilted her head slightly, looking at the side of his face. The corner of her mouth pulled up into a microscopic, chilling smile.

The security guards formed a human wall, physically shoving the reporters backward to clear a path to the glass doors.

Brook kept his arm wrapped tightly around Farah's waist, his fingers digging into her ribs. He practically dragged her forward, forcing her to walk in step with him.

"Is this a breakup? Is the merger hostile?" the reporters screamed at their backs.

Brook stopped at the door. He turned his head and gave the cameras a tight, helpless smile, playing the role of a patient man dealing with a difficult lover.

He pushed Farah through the revolving door. The thick glass spun, cutting off the shouting and the flashing lights.

The cold air conditioning of the lobby hit them. The second they were out of sight of the cameras, Brook's smile vanished. His face turned into a mask of pure rage.

He kept his brutal grip on her arm and marched her straight toward the private executive elevator, his eyes fixed dead ahead.