The Jilted Heiress And Her Fake Marriage

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out, Destin?"

Daphne Bradford stepped into the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria, letting the heavy brass door click shut behind her.

Under the glare of a dozen crystal chandeliers, the room hummed with Manhattan's old money, diamond chokers, and the clinking of vintage flutes. She lifted her hand and adjusted the oversized marble-patterned sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. The dark lenses hid the raw fury burning in her eyes, but they did nothing to cool the fire in her chest.

A passing waiter extended a silver tray. Daphne plucked a chilled flute of Dom Pérignon without breaking stride. Her knuckles turned stark white against the thin crystal stem.

She sliced through the crowd of tailored tuxedos and silk gowns. Her gaze locked straight onto the VIP booth in the far corner.

There he was.

Destin Campos, Daphne's boyfriend, leaning on a velvet bench, wearing the custom midnight-navy suit Daphne had spent three weeks picking out for him. On his face was that exact smirk she had trusted for two years-soft, indulgent, and completely rotten.

Beside him sat Grisel Knight.

Grisel was draped in an ivory silk gown that made her look like an endangered orchid. Her head rested gently on Destin's shoulder, her manicured fingers resting casually on his thigh.

Daphne's seven-centimeter Christian Louboutin heels struck the polished marble floor. Each step rang like a hammer hitting an anvil.

Nearby, a cluster of Upper East Side socialites went dead quiet.

"Look who crawled back," a woman in a lace shawl whispered behind her gloved fingers. "Isn't that Daphne? The daughter Barack Bradford kicked out five years ago? She actually showed her face here?"

Daphne didn't even blink. Let them whisper. Her grandfather was a decorated four-star general, and her uncle cut open corpses for the state of New York. The spineless parasites of the Bradford family had discarded her when her mother died, but they had never managed to break her spine.

She stopped two feet from the velvet booth, towering over the pair like an executioner.

Destin was murmuring something into Grisel's ear, laughing softly. When Daphne's shadow fell across his lap, he frowned and looked up.

The laugh died in his throat.

His hand jerked, sloshing bourbon over his cuff. "Daphne?"

Grisel looked up next. A flicker of panic flashed across her wide, innocent eyes before she smoothed it over with a look of pure, fragile helplessness. As an illegitimate daughter of the Knight family's third branch, Grisel had spent her whole life weaponizing tears to survive high society.

"Daphne..." Grisel stammered, pulling back from Destin just an inch.

Daphne didn't speak. Her eyes drifted down to Grisel's throat.

Resting against Grisel's pale collarbone was an antique ruby pendant set in platinum. It was the only heirloom Daphne's late mother had left her, something Destin had sworn was locked in his family's safe for "appraisal."

A cold, suffocating weight settled in Daphne's stomach, followed immediately by volcanic heat.

Destin scrambled to his feet, putting his broad frame between Daphne and Grisel. "What the hell are you doing back in New York? You weren't supposed to fly in until next week."

"Evidently," Daphne said. Her voice was smooth, deadly, and entirely devoid of warmth. "I see I'm interrupting your family trust consultation."

"Daphne, please, it's not what it looks like," Grisel whimpered, peering out from behind Destin's arm. "Destin and I were just discussing the downtown redevelopment bond. We're cousins by association, you know that-"

"Shut your mouth, Grisel," Daphne said quietly. "Before I rip that necklace off your neck and feed it to you."

Destin's face darkened with humiliation. He reached out to seize Daphne's wrist. "That's enough! You're making a scene. Come outside right now before you embarrass my family."

Daphne sidestepped him with sharp, athletic precision.

Her wrist flicked.

The golden liquid splashed across Grisel's delicate nose, soaked her eyelashes, and ruined her contoured cheekbones before cascading down the front of her pristine white couture dress.

Grisel let out a bloodcurdling shriek. She slipped backward onto the velvet cushions, clawing at her stinging eyes.

The entire ballroom plunged into a suffocating, breathless silence. The jazz quartet stopped playing.

"You crazy bitch!" Destin roared, lunging forward with a raised finger. "Do you have any idea whose dress that is? You've lost your goddamn mind!"

Daphne pulled off her sunglasses with a slow, deliberate movement. Her amber-brown eyes pinned him to the floor.

"You took my mother's jewelry to buy a side piece from the Knight family," Daphne said, her voice cutting through the silent room like a razor. "And you used Bradford Capital's lines of credit to cover your family's unpaid margin calls on Wall Street. You're a bankrupt parasite, Destin. You were one when I met you, and you're one right now."

Destin choked on his words, his face shifting from purple to a sickly, pale gray. He looked around at the staring crowd, but not a single person stepped forward to back him up.

Grisel sobbed hysterically on the sofa, clutching Destin's trouser leg. "Destin... my eyes burn... do something..."

Daphne took the empty crystal flute and brought it down hard against the marble cocktail table.

Crack.

The stem shattered, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

"Keep her," Daphne said, brushing a speck of dust from her lapel. "A fraud deserves a thief. You two are a match made in hell."

She spun on her heels.

The crowd parted before her like the Red Sea. Nobody dared to meet her eyes. She walked past the stunned waiters, through the gilded archways, and out through the heavy brass doors into the cool, biting air of Fifth Avenue.

The wind off Central Park hit her face, clearing the stench of stale champagne and cheap perfume from her lungs.

Daphne pulled her iPhone from her clutch. Her fingers were trembling-not from fear, but from the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She opened the group chat with her good friends Averie Jimenez and Hazel Olson.

I just dumped the trash, she typed. Meet me in SOHO. I need three shots of tequila and an alibi.