The Billionaires Missing Heir

The heavy door of the stretched Lincoln limousine felt like the lid of a coffin.

Charlize Chen stood on the asphalt of the Los Angeles International Airport VIP drop-off zone. The California sun beat down on her shoulders, but her blood ran ice-cold.

The bodyguard on her left, a massive man in a cheap black suit, reached out. His thick fingers clamped down on her shoulder, trying to shove her into the dark interior of the car.

Charlize's eyes narrowed. The muscles in her thighs coiled tight. She dropped her shoulder, letting his hand slide off the silk fabric of her blouse. Using his own forward momentum against him, she pivoted on her left foot.

She swung her right leg. Her pointed steel heel drove directly into the center of his shinbone. Even over the deafening roar of the jet engines, the sickening crunch of bone and the bodyguard's twisted scream were unmistakably clear.

He collapsed to his knees right by the open car door, his massive frame blocking the exit.

The bodyguard on the right went pale. His hand scrambled toward his belt, ripping his walkie-talkie from its holster to call for backup.

Charlize didn't give him the time. She reached into the open bar of the limousine, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal rim of a silver ice bucket. She ripped it from its holder and swung it with all her strength.

The heavy bucket smashed directly into the bridge of the second bodyguard's nose.

Ice cubes exploded across the asphalt like shattered glass. Blood sprayed from his nostrils, painting his white shirt crimson. The walkie-talkie slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground and shattering into pieces.

Charlize didn't wait for them to recover. She stepped over the groaning man on the ground, her stilettos clicking sharply against the pavement.

A group of airport security guards in neon vests noticed the commotion. They started sprinting toward her, shouting orders.

Charlize broke into a run. She didn't look back. She spotted her target: a cherry-red Ferrari parked illegally at the edge of the curb. It was her designated backup vehicle, prepared in advance by her assistant, Kaylynn. The key fob was already hidden securely behind the sun visor.

A security guard lunged for her arm. Charlize dropped her weight, executing a flawless, sliding dodge that sent the guard tumbling over his own feet. She vaulted over the low door of the convertible Ferrari, landing perfectly in the driver's seat.

Her finger slammed the ignition button.

The V8 engine roared to life, a mechanical beast waking up. The sound alone made the approaching security guards freeze in their tracks.

Charlize gripped the leather steering wheel. She cranked it hard to the left and stomped on the gas pedal.

The rear tires spun, screaming against the asphalt. A thick cloud of white smoke billowed from the exhaust as the back end of the car kicked out in a violent drift.

She straightened the wheel and the Ferrari shot forward like a bullet, leaving the chaos of the airport far behind.

The wind whipped through her long, dark hair as she merged onto the highway. The speedometer needle climbed past ninety. Her knuckles were stark white against the steering wheel.

With her right hand, she tapped the dashboard screen, dialing a number.

"Speak," she commanded into the car's microphone, her voice devoid of any warmth.

"Miss Chen," the florist's voice trembled through the speakers. "The order is ready."

"Deliver the giant funeral wreath to the address I gave you. Now," Charlize ordered. She ended the call before the man could reply.

Thirty minutes later, the Ferrari's brakes squealed as it skidded to a halt outside the wrought-iron gates of the most exclusive wedding estate in Beverly Hills. The sheer aggression of her arrival made the valet step back, his hands raised in surrender.

Charlize pushed the car door open. She stepped out, her ten-centimeter heels sinking slightly into the manicured grass. Her face was a mask of cold marble.

A white delivery truck pulled up right behind her. Four men in overalls jumped out, struggling to carry a massive, ten-foot-tall wreath made entirely of white chrysanthemums-the flower of death.