Discarded Fiancée: The Ruthless Billionaire's Obsession

"Look at it."

Jeannette shoves her phone screen directly into Eleanor's face the second the heavy door of the black Range Rover slams shut. She ignores the biting autumn wind of Boston that just whipped through her thin coat at Logan International Airport. She ignores the exhaustion burning behind her eyes from the transatlantic flight.

Eleanor, who just jumped the curb and ignored three security guards to park here, freezes. Her hands grip the leather steering wheel. She looks at the glowing screen.

Jeannette watches her best friend's chest stop moving. The photo is high-definition. No blur. No room for misunderstanding. It's Devyn, Jeannette's fiancé, tangled in white sheets with Zara.

Eleanor gasps, a sharp, ugly sound. Her foot slips off the brake, and the heavy SUV lurches forward, tires screeching against the asphalt before she slams the brake down again, barely missing a concrete barrier.

"Drive," Jeannette says. Her voice is completely flat. It doesn't sound like her own. It sounds like a stranger's.

Eleanor curses. She throws the car into drive and floors the gas pedal. The Range Rover merges onto the highway with violent speed. "That hypocritical, lying piece of trash! The Langley family parades him around like he's a saint. I'm going to kill him, Jeannette. I'm going to physically destroy him."

Jeannette reaches out and turns the car's heater down. The hot air blowing against her face makes her nauseous. Her stomach twists into a tight, painful knot, but she refuses to let her hands shake. She presses her thumbnail hard into the side of her index finger, grounding herself with the sharp sting of pain.

"My tears dried up somewhere over the Atlantic," Jeannette says, staring blindly at the blurred taillights of the cars ahead. "Crying is useless. I need a knife. The sharpest one I can find."

Eleanor glances at her, a shiver running down her spine at the absolute deadness in Jeannette's eyes.

The SUV plunges into the dark, underground parking garage of Eleanor's Back Bay penthouse. The sudden absence of light feels heavy. Jeannette unbuckles her seatbelt with a sharp click. Her movements are mechanical, precise. Like a soldier loading a weapon.

Minutes later, the private elevator opens directly into Eleanor's apartment. Jeannette kicks off her heels. She steps barefoot onto the plush Persian rug, completely ignoring the breathtaking night view of the Charles River through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Eleanor walks straight to the liquor cabinet. She pulls out a bottle of vintage Macallan and pours two fingers of neat whiskey into heavy crystal glasses. She shoves one into Jeannette's hand, desperate to break the suffocating tension in the room.

Jeannette tips her head back and swallows the amber liquid in one gulp. The alcohol burns a fiery path down her throat, settling like hot coals in her stomach. It fuels the quiet rage pulsing in her veins.

"We send the photo to the press right now," Eleanor says, pacing the floor.

"No." Jeannette shakes her head. She sets the empty