The Ruined Heiress's Vengeful Comeback

The crystal stem of the champagne flute dug so hard into Collette's palm that her knuckles turned stark white.

She stood beneath the blinding glare of the Waldorf Astoria's chandelier, forcing her facial muscles to hold a bright, empty smile.

The heavy stench of alcohol and cheap cigars rolled off the Wall Street investor standing in front of her.

His thick, sweaty hand slid unapologetically onto the bare skin of her lower back.

Collette's stomach violently rolled. Bile burned the back of her throat.

She needed the entry ticket to the CFDA design competition. She needed it to survive.

Swallowing the sour taste in her mouth, she let out a soft, practiced laugh.

She smoothly twisted her body, stepping just an inch away from his wet palm under the guise of raising her glass.

She tipped her head back and swallowed the harsh, burning champagne in one long gulp.

The investor let out a loud, booming laugh, clearly pleased by her obedience. He slapped his chest, loudly promising that her competition spot was guaranteed.

"Excuse me for a moment," Collette murmured, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

The second she turned her back to him, the smile dropped from her face like dead weight.

Her eyes turned flat and cold.

The alcohol hit her empty stomach fast. A heavy wave of dizziness crashed over her brain.

The heel of her stiletto caught on the thick carpet, making her stumble slightly.

She sucked in a sharp breath and pushed open the heavy mahogany door leading to the restrooms, cutting off the loud jazz music of the ballroom.

The AC in the hallway was freezing.

Collette slumped against the cold marble wall, her chest heaving as she dragged air into her lungs.

A sharp, nervous cramp twisted her stomach. She bent forward, her hands instinctively pressing hard against her abdomen to stop the pain.

Fighting the nausea, she stumbled toward the sink and twisted the brass faucet.

Ice-cold water splashed over her fingers. She splashed it onto her face and looked up.

The woman in the mirror had heavy makeup and eyes full of naked, desperate ambition.

Collette let out a dry, mocking sound.

She unclasped her clutch and pulled out a tube of Tom Ford lipstick. The color was blood red.

She carefully traced her lips, rebuilding the armor of the cheap, money-hungry woman she needed to be tonight.

She snapped the lipstick shut. Perfect. Untouchable.

She turned around and pushed the restroom door open, ready to step back into the warzone.

She took half a step forward and slammed face-first into a solid wall of muscle.

The impact sent a jolt of pain through her forehead. White spots danced in her vision.

The sharp, dominant scent of cedarwood mixed with premium tobacco instantly invaded her lungs.

Collette's heart skipped a violent beat. She snapped her head up.

Hartwell Lara stood there.

He wore a custom-tailored black suit. He stared down at her, his face an unreadable mask of cold stone.