The Ruined Heiress's Vengeful Comeback

The crystal stem of the champagne flute dug so hard into Collette's palm that her knuckles turned stark white.

She stood beneath the blinding glare of the Waldorf Astoria's chandelier, forcing her facial muscles to hold a bright, empty smile.

The heavy stench of alcohol and cheap cigars rolled off the Wall Street investor standing in front of her.

His thick, sweaty hand slid unapologetically onto the bare skin of her lower back.

Collette's stomach violently rolled. Bile burned the back of her throat.

She needed the entry ticket to the CFDA design competition. She needed it to survive.

Swallowing the sour taste in her mouth, she let out a soft, practiced laugh.

She smoothly twisted her body, stepping just an inch away from his wet palm under the guise of raising her glass.

She tipped her head back and swallowed the harsh, burning champagne in one long gulp.

The investor let out a loud, booming laugh, clearly pleased by her obedience. He slapped his chest, loudly promising that her competition spot was guaranteed.

"Excuse me for a moment," Collette murmured, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

The second she turned her back to him, the smile dropped from her face like dead weight.

Her eyes turned flat and cold.

The alcohol hit her empty stomach fast. A heavy wave of dizziness crashed over her brain.

The heel of her stiletto caught on the thick carpet, making her stumble slightly.

She sucked in a sharp breath and pushed open the heavy mahogany door leading to the restrooms, cutting off the loud jazz music of the ballroom.

The AC in the hallway was freezing.

Collette slumped against the cold marble wall, her chest heaving as she dragged air into her lungs.

A sharp, nervous cramp twisted her stomach. She bent forward, her hands instinctively pressing hard against her abdomen to stop the pain.

Fighting the nausea, she stumbled toward the sink and twisted the brass faucet.

Ice-cold water splashed over her fingers. She splashed it onto her face and looked up.

The woman in the mirror had heavy makeup and eyes full of naked, desperate ambition.

Collette let out a dry, mocking sound.

She unclasped her clutch and pulled out a tube of Tom Ford lipstick. The color was blood red.

She carefully traced her lips, rebuilding the armor of the cheap, money-hungry woman she needed to be tonight.

She snapped the lipstick shut. Perfect. Untouchable.

She turned around and pushed the restroom door open, ready to step back into the warzone.

She took half a step forward and slammed face-first into a solid wall of muscle.

The impact sent a jolt of pain through her forehead. White spots danced in her vision.

The sharp, dominant scent of cedarwood mixed with premium tobacco instantly invaded her lungs.

Collette's heart skipped a violent beat. She snapped her head up.

Hartwell Lara stood there.

He wore a custom-tailored black suit. He stared down at her, his face an unreadable mask of cold stone.

But his dark eyes were a storm of suppressed rage and heavy mockery, slowly dragging down her messy curls and the deep V-neck of her dress.

A low, freezing scoff vibrated in his chest.

"You really have no standards," Hartwell said, his voice a low growl. "Eating out of the hands of greasy old men just to climb a little higher."

The words felt like a physical slap.

Collette's chest tightened, but she instantly stretched her lips into that careless, seductive smile.

She reached out. Her slender fingers boldly hooked the knot of his silk tie.

She stepped up on her toes, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

"Are you jealous, Mr. Lara?" she whispered, her breath brushing his jaw.

The air around them instantly dropped to freezing.

Hartwell's eyes went pitch black. The muscle in his jaw ticked violently.

His large hand shot out, clamping around her narrow waist like a steel vice.

He shoved her backward.

Collette's spine hit the marble wall hard. A sharp gasp of pain left her lips.

Panic flared in her eyes for a split second.

Before she could make a sound, Hartwell crushed his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a brutal punishment.

His teeth scraped against her bottom lip, tasting the red lipstick, demanding total submission.

Collette pushed against his chest for exactly two seconds before her hands curled into his shirt, her body going soft against the cold wall.

When he finally pulled back, Collette was gasping for air. Her lips were swollen, the corners of her eyes flushed a physiological red.

Hartwell didn't say a single word.

He ripped off his suit jacket and roughly threw it over her bare shoulders, hiding her skin from the world.

His arm locked around her waist, half-carrying, half-dragging her down the hallway toward the VIP elevator.

The VIP elevator dropped smoothly.

The metal box was dead silent. The only sound was the heavy, uneven breathing bouncing off the steel walls.

Collette clutched the lapels of Hartwell's suit jacket.

The aftershock of the cheap champagne hit her stomach like a fist. A violent cramp tore through her abdomen.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her eyebrows pulling together in raw pain.

Her legs gave out.

She slid down the freezing metal wall of the elevator, her knees hitting the floor. She pressed both hands hard against her stomach, trying to breathe through the sharp spasms.

Hartwell stood over her.

He stared down at her curled-up body. His jaw tightened so hard it looked like the bone might snap.

A brief, uncontrollable flash of panic cut through the cold anger in his eyes.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to the underground garage.

Hartwell didn't hesitate. He bent down and scooped her off the floor.

Collette let out a startled gasp. Her arms instinctively flew up, wrapping tightly around his broad shoulders.

She buried her face in his neck, breathing in the cedarwood scent that made her racing heart slow down.

A black Maybach sat idling steps away.

The driver, K. M. Sterling, pulled the rear door open, his eyes locked strictly on the concrete pillar ahead.

Hartwell placed her onto the leather seat with surprising care.

He slid in beside her and slammed the door.

"The penthouse. Fast," Hartwell ordered. His voice left no room for argument.

The interior of the car was dark.

Collette let her head fall against the cool glass of the window. She closed her eyes, pretending to pass out to hide the chaotic pounding in her chest.

A large, warm hand reached across the seat.

Hartwell gripped the side of her head. He pulled her away from the window and pressed her face firmly into the crook of his shoulder.

The Maybach sped into Tribeca, pulling into the private garage of a towering skyscraper.

Hartwell carried her out of the car and walked straight into the private elevator that opened directly into the penthouse.

The doors parted, revealing eight thousand square feet of cold, modern luxury overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

He walked into the massive living room and dropped her onto the soft velvet sofa.

He reached up and ripped the silk tie from his neck, tossing it onto a glass table.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Chloe Fletcher's number.

Collette kept her eyes half-closed, listening. Chloe was her only reliable connection to the elite circle, the sole gatekeeper who could sneak her into these exclusive, high-stakes events.

"Keep her out of those trashy banquets," Hartwell's voice was pure ice, cutting through the quiet room. "If I see her with those people again, your magazine loses its funding. Understood?"

He hung up before Chloe could answer.

Collette's heart did a strange, painful flip against her ribs.

Marta Kowalski, the Polish housekeeper, hurried out of the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Mr. Lara," Marta said, her thick accent filling the room.

Hartwell shrugged off his vest. "Make the stomach soup. Now."

Marta nodded quickly and disappeared into the kitchen.

Hartwell walked over to the marble island. He poured a glass of warm water and walked back to the sofa.

He dropped to one knee on the expensive Persian rug.

His fingers pinched Collette's chin, forcing her to open her eyes.

He pressed the rim of the glass to her lips.

Collette took two small sips. The warm water soothed her burning throat.

She pulled back slightly and deliberately darted her tongue out, licking the drops of water off her bottom lip.

Hartwell's eyes darkened instantly. The pupil swallowed the iris. His Adam's apple bobbed hard.

He slammed the glass onto the coffee table. The loud thud made Collette jump.

His large hand slid under the suit jacket, his rough palm gliding over the freezing skin of her waist.

A violent shiver ripped through Collette's body.

"Does your stomach still hurt?" Hartwell asked. His voice was completely wrecked, hoarse and low.

Collette slid her arms around his neck.

"It stops hurting when you're here," she whispered directly into his ear.

The last string of Hartwell's control snapped.

He stood up, pulling her entirely off the sofa, and carried her down the hall.

He kicked the heavy double doors of the master bedroom open.

He threw her onto the center of the massive king bed, the temperature in the room skyrocketing as he followed her down.

The bedroom was dimly lit by a single wall sconce.

Collette's ruined dress lay discarded on the thick rug. Her skin burned wherever Hartwell touched her.

His thick arms bracketed her sides, holding his weight over her.

A drop of sweat rolled down his sharp jawline and landed right on her collarbone.

Collette arched her back, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Right as the air grew too thin to breathe, a sharp, piercing ringtone shattered the silence.

It came from Hartwell's private phone on the nightstand.

Hartwell froze. His muscles locked up instantly.

A heavy frown pulled at his eyebrows. He looked deeply annoyed by the intrusion.

Collette thought he would ignore it. She slid her arm down, wrapping it around his waist to pull him back down.

But Hartwell turned his head. His eyes caught the name flashing on the screen.

His entire body went rigid.

He pulled away from her so fast the cold air hit Collette's bare skin like a physical blow.

He snatched the phone off the nightstand and pressed it to his ear.

"Hartwell..." Isabell Nielsen's voice leaked through the speaker. It was weak, trembling, and full of tears. "I'm so scared."

The change in Hartwell was instantaneous.

The dark, consuming lust vanished from his eyes. His voice, usually so cold and commanding, dropped into a tone Collette had never heard before.

"I'm coming. Right now," Hartwell said softly.

He stood up from the bed. He grabbed his dress shirt from the floor and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

Collette yanked the heavy duvet up to her chest.

She sat there, completely frozen, watching his hands move efficiently over the buttons. Her chest felt like it was caving in.

He didn't even look at her.

"I have an emergency. Go to sleep," Hartwell ordered, his voice back to its usual icy detachment.

Collette's fingers dug into the fabric of the blanket. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.

"What emergency is more important than me?" she asked. Her voice shook, no matter how hard she tried to keep it steady.

Hartwell paused. His hands stopped on his cuffs.

He slowly turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were dead.

"Remember your place, Collette," he snapped. "Don't ask questions you shouldn't ask."

He turned on his heel and walked out.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him. The sound echoed in the massive, empty room.

Collette sat alone in the center of the bed. The sheets next to her still held his body heat.

It felt like a sick joke.

She took a sharp breath. Her throat burned, and her eyes stung, but she refused to let the tears fall.

She threw the covers off. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor.

She grabbed one of Hartwell's discarded button-down shirts and pulled it over her shoulders.

She walked out of the bedroom. The penthouse was dead silent. Marta was already asleep in the staff quarters.

The silence was suffocating.

Collette walked to the open bar in the living room. She grabbed an unopened bottle of Macallan single malt whiskey.

She didn't bother with a glass.

She twisted the cap off, tilted her head back, and let the burning liquid pour down her throat.

It felt like swallowing fire.

She carried the heavy bottle toward the glass doors and pushed them open.

She stepped out onto the open-air balcony.

The brutal Manhattan autumn wind slammed into her. She needed this. She needed the biting cold and the burning alcohol to scorch away the pathetic, soft emotions that were threatening to take root in her chest. Hartwell Lara was a weapon for her revenge, nothing more. Any warmth she felt for him was a dangerous distraction, a poison that would ruin her carefully laid plans. She drank to punish herself, to freeze her heart back into a solid block of ice so she could stay focused on destroying the Norris family.

The neon lights of the city blurred below her. She leaned her forearms against the freezing glass railing, her body violently shivering.

Her stomach cramped again, mixing with the alcohol.

Hartwell's gentle voice on the phone played on a loop in her brain.

Jealousy and raw humiliation chewed at her insides like acid.

She lifted the bottle and drank again. And again.

Her vision started to spin. Her legs lost their strength.

She stumbled toward the woven lounge chair in the corner of the balcony and collapsed onto it.

She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs in a desperate attempt to keep warm.

The whiskey bottle slipped from her numb fingers. It hit the wooden deck with a dull thud, the amber liquid spilling out into a puddle.

The wind howled, cutting right through the thin cotton shirt.

Collette's consciousness faded into black. Her body temperature began to spike dangerously high.

As the sky slowly turned gray with dawn, she lay completely motionless on the freezing balcony.