The Jilted Heiress: Her Secret Billionaire Life

"You're bleeding on my upholstery," she said, her voice flat.

Rain streaked against the window of the Acela Express, distorting the passing blur of the Northeast corridor into gray, weeping lines. Inside the solitary single cabin of the first-class car, the air was still, recycled, and smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and stale coffee. The man opposite her-the bleeding stranger-was staring at her. The haze in his eyes had cleared, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. His facade of weakness had slipped.

Dylan Clemons sat with her back rigid against the plush seat. She wasn't looking at him. Her attention was locked on the tablet resting on her knees, the cold aluminum case seeping a chill through her thin, oversized denim jeans. She picked it up, the cold metal grounding her adrenaline.

Her finger hovered over the screen. The dossier was titled: Clemons Family - Net Worth Analysis.

She swiped. A photo of Firman Clemons appeared. His smile was tired in the picture, the lines around his eyes deep valleys of exhaustion. Dylan's chest tightened, a physical squeeze around her heart that made her breath hitch. He was the only reason she was going back. The only reason she was subjecting herself to this.

She swiped again. Glyn Clemons. Her father. Or rather, the man whose DNA she unfortunately shared. His face was flushed, arrogant, eyes too close together.

A wave of nausea rolled in her stomach. Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. She looked at the numbers below his face. Liabilities exceeding assets. Liquidity crisis imminent.

"Parasite," she whispered. The word felt like gravel in her throat.

The train announcer's voice crackled overhead, static breaking the silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching a security checkpoint. Please have your identification ready."

Dylan tapped the power button. The screen went black, leaving only her reflection. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a messy, friction-heavy bun. No makeup. Just a plain, exhausted face that everyone in that family liked to call "forgettable."

She reached into the battered duffel bag at her feet. Her hand brushed past a change of clothes and wrapped around the familiar, cold steel of a compact SIG Sauer P320. The stippled grip felt like an extension of her own hand.

Suddenly, the cabin door slid open.

It wasn't a gentle slide. It was a desperate, forceful shove.

Dylan didn't scream. Her heart didn't even skip a beat. Her body went into a state of hyper-focus, her pulse dropping as her pupils dilated to take in the threat.

A man stumbled in. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and smelled of iron and expensive sandalwood cologne. He clutched his side, his fingers stained crimson. Blood. Fresh and flowing.

He looked up. His eyes were a hazy, stormy gray, clouding over with pain, but the sharpness behind them was undeniable. He raised a blood-smeared finger to his lips.

Shhh.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the corridor outside. Fast. Aggressive.

The man tried to