No Heir For The Cheating Billionaire

The envelope hit Arron's chest and fell to the stone floor, a few of the photos scattering at his feet.

Just then, the glass door to the conservatory was pushed open. Cleveland stood there, his face dark with suspicion. His eyes immediately locked on the incriminating images on the ground.

Arron just shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. He bent down, collected the envelope and the photos, gave Cleveland a mock salute, and sauntered out into the garden, whistling softly.

The silence he left behind was heavy and suffocating, broken only by the low hum of the ventilation system.

Cleveland bent down and picked up one photo Arron had missed. It was of him and Seraphina, laughing, on the balcony of the Tribeca apartment. He crumpled it in his fist.

"Are you conspiring with him now?" he demanded, his voice a low growl. "Is this your new strategy?"

Hadley laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. "Forget him. Why don't you explain where the ten million dollars for Seraphina's new home came from? Because it looks an awful lot like marital property to me. That's a financial breach, Cleveland. A big one."

He took a step toward her, reaching for her, but she sidestepped him.

"It was a PR expense," he said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "She knows things about a deal I made. It was hush money. It had nothing to do with us."

The lie was so blatant, so insulting, that all the fight went out of her. It was replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. She was so tired of this.

"I want a divorce, Cleveland," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "A real one. Sign the papers, or I'll submit this evidence of financial misconduct to the court. And to the press."

His face contorted with rage. He was losing control, and he knew it. "The Jacobson family does not do scandalous divorces! You will not drag our name through the mud!"

He fell back on his favorite weapon. "You think you can survive out there without me? Without my name? You won't last one social season in this city. You'll be nothing."

As he spoke, a shrill, custom ringtone cut through the air. It came from the private phone in his jacket pocket. Seraphina's ringtone. Hadley had heard it countless times in the dead of night.

He glanced at the screen. His expression shifted. He answered it immediately.

"What is it?" His voice was sharp, but softened instantly. "Okay, okay, calm down... Where are you?... I'm on my way. Don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up. He didn't even look at Hadley. He just turned and walked toward the door.

He paused at the threshold, his back still to her. "Make an excuse for my grandfather," he said, his voice cold and distant. "And don't cause any more trouble tonight."

The glass door slammed shut, and his figure disappeared into the darkness.

Hadley stood alone in the cold greenhouse, the moonlight pooling on the floor around her. A self-mocking smile twisted her lips.

She pulled out her phone and sent a text to Julian.

Prepare to file. I want him ruined.

A week had passed. A week of silence. Cleveland hadn't come home. He hadn't called. He had simply vanished, presumably into Seraphina's ten-million-dollar penthouse.

Hadley stepped out of a black car and into the pulsing heart of SoHo. She wore a deep red trench coat, belted tight, her heels clicking with purpose on the wet pavement. She walked up to the velvet rope of SoHo House, the city's most exclusive members-only club.

The bouncer moved to block her. "Members only tonight, ma'am."

Hadley didn't say a word. She just opened her clutch and pulled out a sleek, black, featureless card. The Jacobson family Centurion. The bouncer's eyes widened. He unclipped the rope immediately.

She swept through the crowded main floor, her eyes scanning the VIP booths. There. In the largest, most prominent booth, Seraphina was holding court, surrounded by a gaggle of aspiring socialites and C-list actresses. A massive, glittering diamond necklace was draped around her neck, a trophy of Cleveland's affection.

Hadley's arrival was a silent bomb. The music seemed to dip, and conversations faltered. The crowd parted for her as she walked toward the booth.

Seraphina saw her. A flicker of panic crossed her face, quickly replaced by a defiant sneer. She stood up, deliberately puffing out her chest to better display the necklace.

"Mrs. Jacobson," Seraphina said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Are you lost?"

Hadley ignored her. She reached across the table and picked up a martini. She swirled the clear liquid, her eyes cold. "That necklace," she said, her voice carrying easily in the sudden lull. "The cut is flawed. It's from his secondary collection. The pieces he gives to his... business associates."

A collective gasp went through the women at the table. Seraphina's face flushed a deep, ugly red.

"At least he's sleeping with me every night," Seraphina hissed, her voice low and vicious. "While you're alone in that big, empty apartment. A useless wife who can't even give him a child."

The words hit their mark. A sharp, familiar pain lanced through Hadley's chest. Her fingers tightened on the stem of the martini glass, her knuckles turning white. But she didn't let it show on her face.

She let her gaze sweep over the other women at the table, her expression a mask of aristocratic disdain. "Before you choose a side," she advised, her tone conversational but laced with venom, "I'd recommend looking into the rumors about his latest acquisition falling through. You might want to make sure his cash flow is as stable as you think it is before you bet your social standing on a temporary distraction."

Rage contorted Seraphina's features. She grabbed a glass of red wine, her arm moving to throw it.

Hadley was faster. She caught Seraphina's wrist, her grip like iron. With her other hand, she calmly upended the martini, drenching Seraphina's face and designer dress in cold gin and vermouth.

Seraphina shrieked, a high, piercing sound.

The club manager rushed over, his face pale with panic.

Hadley released Seraphina's wrist. She reached into her clutch, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and tossed it onto the table. "For the dry cleaning," she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

Then she turned and walked out, her back straight, leaving chaos in her wake.

Outside, the cold night air hit her, and she realized she was shaking. Her entire body was trembling with adrenaline. She was done with these petty games. Tomorrow night was the annual Wall Street Charity Gala. A much bigger stage. And she was ready to burn it all down.