The Jilted Heiress In Blood Red

Harlene stood in the doorway. She didn't move. She let them look, let their eyes scrape over her like sandpaper. The silence stretched until it became unbearable, and then the whispers began.

They hissed like snakes. "What is she wearing?" "She looks insane." "Someone should call a doctor."

Near the stage, Genevieve's face was a mask of fury. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around her champagne flute that it was a miracle the glass didn't shatter.

Estella stood beside her, the picture of perfect concern. But her eyes were mocking, enjoying the spectacle of her sister's humiliation.

Harlene ignored them all. She walked toward the bar, her heels striking the marble floor with a sharp, rhythmic click. She picked up a flute of champagne and downed it in one gulp. The alcohol burned a trail of fire down her throat, igniting the rage in her stomach.

A rough hand clamped down on her wrist. The grip was bruising, crushing the delicate bones together.

The smell hit her next. Tobacco and expensive cologne. The scent of power and cruelty. Dennis.

Harlene didn't turn around. She just looked at his white-knuckled grip on her wrist, a cold smile playing on her lips.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Dennis hissed, his jaw clenched tight. "Are you trying to embarrass me?"

Harlene turned slowly. She took the hand that was bruising her wrist and dragged her fingernails lightly down the front of his tailored suit. She looked up at him through her dark, smudged makeup, her gaze a mix of seduction and utter contempt.

"Don't you like it?" she purred. "Isn't this what you wanted? A crazy woman?"

Disgust flashed in Dennis's eyes. He dropped her hand like it was diseased, wiping his palm on his pants. He glanced around the room, making sure no important donors were watching, before leaning in close.

"Keep your voice down," he snarled. "Stop acting like a child."

Harlene rubbed her wrist, the skin already turning purple. Looking at his perfectly composed, hypocritical face made her stomach churn. "You're worried about the cameras, Dennis. Not me."

Dennis tried a different tactic. His voice softened, his eyes feigning warmth. "Harlene, please. Remember when we got engaged? We were happy then."

"Don't," Harlene cut him off, her voice sharp as glass. "You were happy because my father was paying your campaign bills."

Dennis's face went red. The blow to his ego shattered his facade of control. He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her collarbones. "You don't get to be self-righteous. You're nothing without this family."

Harlene leaned in until her lips were almost touching his ear. "You look just like all the other pathetic men I've played with," she whispered.

Dennis shoved her hard. Harlene stumbled backward, her heel catching on the edge of the carpet. She crashed into a waiter, sending a tray of glasses crashing to the floor.

The shattering glass silenced the room once again. Every head turned, every camera flashed.

Dennis's expression flipped like a switch. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched, his face the picture of a concerned fiancé. "Harlene, are you okay?"

Harlene batted his hand away. She steadied herself, brushing a shard of glass off her shoulder. She looked at him with eyes that were dead and cold.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice ringing clearly across the ballroom.

Dennis froze. The concern melted off his face, leaving only panic. He realized she wasn't playing by his rules anymore.

He shot her a venomous glare before turning and melting into the crowd, desperate to escape the blast zone.

Harlene didn't chase him. She simply picked up another glass of wine from the bar. She turned, her eyes scanning the sea of faces until they landed on a woman in a pale blue dress, laughing with a group of senators.

Jailyn Richard.

Harlene raised her glass toward the woman, a mocking salute. The hunt was on.