Revenge of the Billionaire Heiress

That night, Arabella arrived at a tucked-away private dining suite at The Elysian. No press. No grand gestures. Just a candlelit table, soft jazz, and Preston standing in a navy button-down, looking slightly nervous.

"Hi," he said.

She raised a brow. "Hi."

"I know I screwed up," he began as he pulled out her chair. "And not just at the auction. I've been… distracted. And kind of a selfish ass."

Arabella blinked. "This feels rehearsed."

"Because it is," he admitted. "I had to practice. I wanted to say something right for once."

Her lips twitched, surprised despite herself.

"I shouldn't have bought that necklace," he continued. "You didn't need me to fix it. I just hated seeing Serena goad you, and I acted like a... possessive idiot."

Arabella didn't reply.

He shifted. "You were right, by the way. About me not knowing what you like for breakfast."

She lifted a brow.

"So, I asked your housekeeper," he said, sheepishly. "Apparently it's Pineapple juice, soft-boiled eggs, and that weird toast from Erewhon?"

"Activated charcoal sourdough," she corrected. "And you had to ask her?"

"I'm trying," he said. "Even if I'm three years late."

Arabella leaned back, silent.

The food came delicate courses, expertly paired. Preston made small talk, asking questions about her company, her current campaign, even her last trip to Copenhagen for the design summit.

It was... strange. Soft. Almost normal.

But something still didn't sit right. The performance in his voice. The flash in his smile.

She smiled through the evening, laughed once or twice. But inside, something stayed cold.

Later, in the car home, she looked at the bouquet he'd sent.

Maybe she was over thinking his actions, maybe she should actually open her heart wholeheartedly for once and break down her walls, give him a chance to actually love her. This dinner showed his sincerity of him being willing to go the extra mile to understand her feelings and thoughts.

The next morning light filtered softly through the blush silk curtains of her bedroom in the Sinclair townhouse, casting golden streaks across the ivory bedding. Arabella lay still, cocooned in the plush silence of a house that smelled faintly of fresh flowers and lemon polish.

Unlike her brothers, who had long moved into penthouses and modern glass towers, Arabella still lived at home.

It wasn't about money. She had her own penthouse in Manhattan untouched. Unlived-in. More a backup than a residence. She mostly stayed over there when she wanted her privacy.

This house was more than walls and staff. It was tradition, protection, a sanctuary where her mother still left notes on her nightstand and her father checked in after his second espresso. It was the only place in New York where Arabella Sinclair allowed herself to feel.

But this morning, she woke up tired. She stayed up last night thinking how to approach her relationship issues.

She had decided that she would go over to his house and lay all her cards on the table. They would decide what path they wanted their relationship to go together.

Come on, Bella. It's time for you to sort this shit out, no more over thinking. She said to herself

She stood up from her bed and walked to the bathroom to freshen up.

She dressed in soft beige trousers and a silk white blouse with pearl cufflinks. No makeup. No armor. Just the woman beneath it all. Sharp and certain.

The drive to Preston's penthouse was calm. She parked her car in the underground parking lot and took the elevator upstairs.

When she got to his door, she keyed in the password and entered inside.

But she wasn't prepared for the quiet music playing through the penthouse.

Or the sight that waited at the end of the hallway.

The bedroom door was half open.

She stepped closer, confusion sharpening into dread. And then—

Serena's laugh.

High. Familiar. Intimate.

Arabella's heart paused mid-beat.

Through the narrow gap, she saw it all.

Preston, shirtless and smirking in bed. Serena, draped across his chest, wearing one of his button-downs like a trophy.

Arabella didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

Just watched.

"God, you're such a bastard," Serena giggled, running her fingers over his abs. "But you're good at it."

Preston kissed her neck. "You didn't seem to mind last night."

Arabella's blood turned to ice.

When are you going to dump that pride bitch, I hate being second fiddle. Serena asked, still running her hands on his abs

But it wasn't the betrayal that hit her hardest. It was his words

You know I'm just with her for publicity, once my dad is 100% convinced of my ties with Sinclair empire and the doors it would open our company and he names me CEO over my arrogant brother. I'm going to dump her prudish ass.

It's been three years baby, I'm tired of waiting, Serena whined. It wasn't supposed to take this long. I'm so irritated by her high and mighty ass.

I'm sorry baby. You know I love you. I promise it would be soon. And I promise to dump her in such a disgraceful and embarrassing way. She would never be able to show her face in front of you. Preston coaxed Serena.

Arabella stepped back silently, the image and words burned into her memory.

She didn't make a sound. Didn't call out. Didn't storm in.

Because queens didn't throw tantrums.

They made exits.

Back in the elevator, Arabella leaned against the mirrored wall, her face expressionless. The doors closed on the image of Tribeca glittering outside.

No tears fell.

No hands shook.

Inside, though, something cracked open.

Not her heart.

Her patience.

She opened her phone and tapped a message into her phone

💬 Girls we are having an emergency sleepover tonight. At my penthouse

Come with lots of alcohol.