Neglected Wife: Hidden Heiress's Cold Revenge

The rain at the cemetery was not a drizzle. It was a deluge, a vertical sheet of gray water that turned the manicured grass of the private burial ground into a slick, treacherous mud pit. Eliana Heath stood at the very edge of the gathering. The heels of her black pumps sank into the softened earth, anchoring her in place like a statue forgotten by its sculptor.

She held her black umbrella with both hands. Her knuckles were white, the skin stretched tight over the bone. The wind tugged at the canopy, threatening to invert it, but she did not adjust her grip. She did not move. She watched the mahogany casket of Harrison Vargas being lowered into the ground.

Around her, the whispers of New York's elite were louder than the rain.

She heard them. She always heard them.

Poor thing.

Just a trophy.

Look at her, standing there like a mannequin while her husband holds another woman.

Eliana's eyes shifted. Ten feet away, under the shelter of a massive tent reserved for the immediate family, stood Hayes Vargas. He was not looking at the grave of his father. He was looking down at the woman weeping against his chest.

Felicity Branch.

Felicity looked fragile. She wore a black dress that was tastefully modest yet perfectly tailored to suggest vulnerability. Her blonde hair was damp, plastered to her cheeks in artful disarray. She sobbed into the lapel of Hayes's expensive suit, her small hands clutching the fabric as if he were the only solid thing left in the world.

Hayes's arm was wrapped securely around her waist. His hand rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles. He whispered something into her hair, his expression etched with a pain and tenderness that Eliana had not seen directed at herself in three years of marriage.

Eliana felt a physical coldness that had nothing to do with the weather. It started in her stomach, a heavy, leaden weight that pulled her internal organs downward. It spread to her fingertips, making them numb.

She was the wife. She was Mrs. Vargas. Yet she stood in the rain, unshielded, while her husband comforted his childhood sweetheart, a woman who was not just a friend, but family. Felicity was the widow of Hayes's older brother, William, who had died in a boating accident only months prior. No one talked about that today, though. Today was about Felicity's grief for her "second father," Harrison. The tragic widow, losing both husband and father-in-law in one year. It was a narrative the tabloids loved, and Hayes was playing his part as the protective surviving brother a little too well.

The service ended. The priest closed his bible. The crowd began to disperse, a sea of black umbrellas moving toward the line of waiting limousines.

Hayes guided Felicity toward the lead car, the extended Lincoln with the Vargas family crest on the door. He shielded her head with his hand, ignoring the rain soaking his own shoulders.

The driver,