The Heiress Who Erased Her Billionaire Ex

The rain hit the pavement like a slap. Claire stood under a flimsy black umbrella, the cheap fabric doing nothing to stop the sideways spray from soaking her canvas sneakers. She looked up at the Core Club, its golden light bleeding through the massive glass doors and spilling onto the wet pavement of the Upper East Side. It looked like a fortress. It had been her fortress for three years. Tonight, it was just a building she wasn't allowed to enter.

She stepped forward, her sneakers splashing in a puddle. The doorman, a man who'd seen her on Mr. Carroll's arm a hundred times, hesitated. His eyes scanned her soaked jacket, the worn hem of her jeans, and the canvas shoes. His professional mask slipped for a fraction of a second. He didn't see a guest. He saw a problem.

"Ms. Olsen?" he asked, glancing from the screen of her phone to her dripping hair. His voice lacked its usual smooth polish.

Claire didn't argue. She didn't blink. She simply held his gaze, her expression a blank, unreadable wall. She turned the screen of her phone toward him. It was a text from Axel Carroll. The doorman sighed, the rigid line of his shoulders dropping slightly as he realized he couldn't turn away the boss's girlfriend, no matter how she looked. He took a step back.

"Enjoy your evening, Ms. Olsen," he said, though his tone suggested he highly doubted she would.

Claire walked past him, closing her wet umbrella and leaving it in the brass stand by the door. The sudden blast of heat from the lobby hit her wet clothes, making her shiver. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished marble floor as she made her way down the long hallway. She held the garment bag tightly in her right hand. Inside was a Tom Ford suit. Axel had ruined his original shirt at the charity gala earlier and had retreated to his private after-party here, texting her to bring a replacement, like she was some sort of high-end delivery service.

She reached the end of the hall and pushed open the heavy oak door to the private suite.

The smell hit her first. A thick mixture of Cuban cigars, expensive Baccarat Rouge perfume, and old money. The room was dimly lit, the jazz music soft and low. Claire's eyes swept the room. Axel was sitting in the center of the burgundy leather sectional, his tie loosened, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. He looked relaxed. He looked like a king holding court.

And draped all over him, like a second skin, was Candida Reid.

Candida was the newly returned true heiress of the Reid family. That was her ultimate weapon in Axel's world. She had legs that went on for miles and a face that launched a thousand campaigns. Right now, her long, manicured fingers were tracing lazy circles on Axel's chest, right where his shirt fell open. She looked up as the door opened, her