Sorry, Ex: I Am The Real Billionaire Heiress!

n Brid

, deep breaths, forcing my racing pulse to settle down

as the armor I would use to reclaim my dignity and c

ext move, three heavy, rhythmic kno

the rusty peephole. Two tall, broad-shouldered bodyguards in ta

immediately took a half-step back and bowed at the waist,

ed us to deliver your family emble

w, crisp, and de

ngle word or lingering to pry, both men bowed again, turn

back to the bed, and flipped open

nto the shape of a soaring eagle over dark rosewood, its eyes set

American Express Centurion Card stamped with my n

wings of the golden eagle, my phone screen

egan Hayes, the twenty-six-year-old head coach o

alian bistro downtown. You have to come. Skip your dis

ords, a genuine warmth sp

ever looked down on my worn-out clothes. She had fought the administration to get me emergency gr

d screen and replie

time, Coach Mega

g. For Megan's birthday, I was going to give her a gift tha

hion magazine. Her eyes had lit up as she stared at a full-page spread, murmuring to herself that owning

s and retailed for three hundred thousand dollars. Y

the black titanium card s

eagle emblem and slipped them both into the hi

d white T-shirt, my scuffed jeans, and my worn canvas

d out into the bright afternoon street a

Stellar Plaz

ess calmly as I

vious skepticism as he took in my cheap shirt and the destination-the most expens

turned my gaze toward the city

led up before the towering glass

pavement, and looked up at the gleaming skyscraper

g toward the glass doors in my frayed sneakers, a flash of disdain crossed his face, an

e touched my lips as I pushed the heavy

gner labels, they were about to le