The Banished Heiress

Consciousness didn't return all at once. It dragged Maren upward through a suffocating layer of agony, the back of her skull pounding a brutal rhythm against a silk pillowcase. The sour sting of stomach acid coated her tongue.

She peeled her heavy eyelids apart. The vaulted ceiling of her own bedroom came into focus. A dull, rhythmic thumping vibrated through the floorboards—the unmistakable bass of a grand orchestral arrangement echoing from the estate's main banquet hall.

It was the bespoke symphony she had personally selected. The wedding that was currently happening without her.

Nausea rolled through her gut, but she forced herself upright. Her throat was raw, and a tender knot had formed at the base of her hairline. Someone had knocked her out cold and dumped her back in bed.

Wearing only a flimsy nightdress, she swung her bare legs over the mattress edge. The venomous conversation between Whitney and Darren screamed in her ears. She wasn't going to let them steal her life.

Maren shoved the bedroom doors open. She stumbled down the wide corridor, tracking the sounds of applause leaking from the grand hall downstairs.

She didn't even make it to the top of the staircase.

A massive hand clamped down on her bare bicep. Maren was yanked backward with terrifying velocity, her shoulder blades slamming hard into the decorative plaster of the hallway wall.

The impact punched the oxygen out of her lungs. She gasped, blinking away fresh stars, only to find Chairman Harrow looming over her. His features were twisted into a mask of absolute revulsion.

"Are you completely out of your mind?" he hissed, his grip digging violently into her bruising flesh. "Whitney already sacrificed herself to clean up your filthy mess and marry Darren today. Do you really plan to waltz down there and sabotage our reputation a second time?"

Maren stared at him, disoriented. The chill of the corridor seeped through her thin silk slip.

"Dad, no," she choked out, her fingers desperately clawing at the expensive wool of his suit sleeve. "They orchestrated this whole thing. Whitney, Darren, Margot—they set me up!"

Chairman Harrow’s expression didn't soften. He pulled his arm out of her grasp like she carried a disease.

Before she could draw another breath, his palm cracked across her cheek.

The slap was vicious. It whipped her head to the side, leaving a ringing dial tone in her left ear and a rapid heat spreading across her skin.

"You are a pathological liar," Harrow spat, his voice devoid of paternal warmth. "A cheap, deceitful whore, exactly like your mother. You should be on your knees thanking Margot for stepping up to salvage this family."

The comparison hit harder than the physical blow. Tears spilled hot and fast over Maren's lashes.

"Pack your things," he ordered coldly. "You are done here."

Maren lunged forward, catching his forearm again. "You're throwing me out? Over a lie? Call a doctor right now! Give me a medical exam—I can prove nobody touched me last night!"

The sharp click of designer heels interrupted her sobbing.

Margot drifted around the corridor corner, with Whitney trailing just half a step behind in a pristine bridal gown.

"Oh, Richard, don't upset yourself further," Margot cooed, her face fixed in a mask of rehearsed pity. "The staff already threw her belongings into trash bags. I'll make sure her transport is handled."

Maren wanted to tackle the older woman to the floor, but Harrow had already turned away.

He looked at Whitney, his hardened features melting into adoration. "I cannot thank you enough for doing this, sweetheart."

Whitney offered up a fragile, manufactured smile. "I would do absolutely anything to protect you and this family, Daddy."

Harrow turned his attention back to Maren, his gaze dropping to absolute zero.

"Save your breath with the medical exams," he sneered. "Margot already intercepted the corporate files you were funneling to our competitors. We also have the lab results confirming your chronic narcotics habit."

Maren’s jaw dropped. "What? I don't even—"

"Get off my property," Harrow barked. "And don't bother coming back while I'm alive. Since you love our rivals so much, I arranged for them to collect you tonight."

"No! You can't do this!" Maren shrieked, her knees buckling as sheer panic took over.

He didn't look back. Two towering private security contractors stepped out of the alcove, seizing her by the armpits.

They hauled her off the carpet. Maren kicked wildly as they dragged her screaming past the grand foyer and shoved her out the heavy oak front doors.

A blinding barrage of camera flashes exploded in the darkness. Paparazzi swarmed the edges of the driveway, immortalizing the disgraced Harrow heiress being thrown out.

The guards hauled her toward a waiting black SUV and violently chucked her into the leather interior.

Maren scrambled up, slamming her fists against the reinforced glass. Through the window, she watched Margot, Whitney, and Darren standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the illuminated porch, watching her ruin with triumphant smiles.

A sudden, sharp pinch bit into the side of her neck.

She flinched, but the guard in the backseat had already emptied a syringe of industrial sedative into her vein. Her limbs instantly turned to heavy lead, dragging her down into the dark.

***

The next time she opened her eyes, the headache had mutated into a blinding drill positioned behind her retinas.

Maren didn't recognize the room. The lighting was impossibly dim, shadows clinging to unfamiliar modern furniture.

She tried to shift her weight, but her muscles refused to fire.

Then, a voice cut through the heavy silence. It was smooth, deadly, and entirely devoid of human empathy.

"Toss her out. She's of no use to me."

Maren’s pulse flatlined. The narcotic fog in her brain instantly evaporated, replaced by a surge of paralyzing terror.

She knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

The magazines called him the most eligible, untouchable bachelor in North America. Wall Street called him a ruthless billionaire. But Maren knew exactly what Enrico Di Ravelli was beneath the tailored suits and the unimaginable wealth.

He was the devil himself.