Jilted Heiress: Claimed By The Ruthless Billionaire

"Who Are You?"

Liana Pruitt's voice came out as a raw whisper, her throat scraped raw. Her eyes shot open.

The light was dim, filtering through heavy blackout curtains. Enough to see the mess. A tuxedo jacket draped over an armchair. Her silk gown crumpled on the floor beside a single stiletto.

Cold dread seized her stomach. She was in a hotel room. An expensive one. And she wasn't alone.

The scent of cigar smoke and something muskier hung in the air.

Her gaze landed on him. Sitting by the window, silhouetted against dawn breaking over Central Park. His cigar glowed red in the gloom.

"Who am I?" His voice was low, gravelly. He wasn't confused. He was testing her.

Panic clawed up her throat. This wasn't just a mistake. It was a catastrophe.

"Julian Carlisle," she breathed. Heat crept up her neck. "I know who you are. I'm not an idiot."

He took a slow drag, watching her through the smoke. His dark eyes were sharp, clear—no hangover haze whatsoever. "Then there's no misunderstanding."

Liana pulled the sheet tighter. Her head throbbed—the residue of whatever had been slipped into her champagne last night.

Recognition hit her like a physical blow. Bloomberg Businessweek. The cover. The chiseled profile. Julian Carlisle. She buried her fear beneath ice.

"You took advantage of me," she accused, her voice gaining an edge.

He stood. Tall. Casting a long shadow. He moved with a predator's grace.

"You, Miss Pruitt, wrapped yourself around my neck and wouldn't let go."

His fingers found the strap of her gown. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed it back up her shoulder. His touch seared through the fabric.

"I know it was you," he murmured. "So don't play coy."

He stepped back and poured her a glass of water."Drink it."

He handed it to her. His hands were broad, with long, steady fingers. A pair of hands accustomed to controlling power. But when she reached out to take the cup, his fingers touched hers, and in that very brief moment, his hand clenched tightly—a subtle, almost imperceptible pause, before he placed the cup into her trembling hand.

Her own fingers trembled as she took the cup, the cold surface touching her skin, sending a wave of stimulation. She drank, and the water could barely calm the burning sensation in her throat, nor the wildly beating heart beneath her ribs.

That's when she saw the nightstand. Bloomberg Businessweek. The headline: The King Returns: Julian Carlisle to Assume Control of Carlisle Group.

Her blood ran cold.

Before she could process it, her phone lit up. A gossip blog notification: Serena Pruitt, the True Heiress, Returns to New York Society.

Serena. The biological daughter the Pruitts had found after eighteen years—stolen as an infant, replaced by Liana, the adopted stand-in. And now Serena was back. Liana was disposable.

She had to get out.

She swung her legs out of bed, keeping the sheet wrapped around her. Picked up her dress. Torn at the shoulder. Zipper broken. With a frustrated sigh, she grabbed a silk ribbon from an amenities box and cinched it into a makeshift toga. Indecent, but it would hold.

Her phone buzzed again. Texts from her agent, Jenna: You're biting your cheek again, aren't you? Stop it.

Liana's jaw unclenched. She hadn't even noticed.

She felt his eyes on her as she moved. When she bit down on the inside of her cheek, she saw him notice—his gaze lingering a beat too long.

"How much?" he asked. "Name a price."

The insult burned away her fear, leaving only pure rage. She spun around.

"You couldn't afford my appearance fee," she spat.

She turned and walked toward the door, head high. Her hand closed around the doorknob.

Behind her, leather creaked as he shifted. She didn't look back. She wrenched the door open and fled.

She hobbled down the hallway—one heel on, the other clutched in her hand. From the open doorway behind her, she heard a soft scoff. Shame and anger surged through her.

In the elevator, she stared at her reflection. Wild hair. Smudged mascara. A dress held together by a prayer. All she could think about was what lie she'd tell the Pruitts.

Then she allowed herself to think it: Julian Carlisle. The notoriously ruthless titan of Wall Street. And the uncle of her fiancé, Austin Carlisle. She had spent the night with the most dangerous man in New York.

The elevator reached the garage. Rain hammered the roof. Of course.

She fumbled for her car keys. A small, crumpled piece of paper fell out—sheet music. A Chopin nocturne she'd been practicing in secret. A relic from a life that was truly hers.

Before getting into her Porsche, she ripped the diamond necklace from her throat—a gift from the Pruitts, a beautiful leash—and tossed it into a trash can.

She slammed the car door shut. Her hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white.

A final, terrifying thought surfaced as she started the engine.

He had called her Liana.

Last night, in the dark—had he whispered her name? Did he know who she was all along?