Heidi's body went rigid at the name. Chace Henderson.
She walked to the window, looking down at the reporters' vans still lingering outside the gates of the Bolton estate, vultures waiting for a fresh kill.
"Mr. Henderson," she said, her voice cool and measured. "I don't think we have anything to talk about."
"Oh, I think we do." Chace's voice held a hint of amusement. "We have a perfect escape plan to discuss. And a much more interesting proposal for an alliance."
Heidi was silent. He had seen her. In the ballroom. He knew. This man was far more than the "disabled heir" persona he projected.
"Tomorrow. Ten a. m. Union Square underground garage, Section G," Chace said, giving her no room to refuse. He hung up.
The next morning, the Bolton living room was a tomb. On the television, a haggard-looking Zane Sterling was giving a press conference, claiming the night's events were a "terrible misunderstanding." He insisted he'd been drugged and had mistaken Carra for Heidi.
Heidi descended the stairs, a coffee mug in her hand. She watched Zane's pathetic performance with a smirk. Jimmie was watching her, her eyes narrowed.
"Well, if it was a misunderstanding, I suppose that's that," Heidi said with a flippant shrug.
Her father, Arthur Bolton, slammed his newspaper down on the coffee table. "That's that?" he roared, his face flushed with fury. "The whole world is laughing at the Bolton name!"
"The person they're laughing at isn't me," Heidi replied, her voice like ice. "It's the man who can't control his zipper, and your 'well-behaved' daughter."
Arthur was speechless. Just then, the phone rang. It was the Sterling family, formally breaking the engagement. Arthur, defeated, announced into the receiver that for Heidi's "protection," the engagement was off. He hung up and turned to Heidi, snarling, "Do you know what an excellent match you've just lost!" Heidi gave a cold laugh. If he were truly that excellent, they would have shoved him onto Carra instead. She couldn't be bothered to argue. She simply raised her coffee mug to him in a mock toast. He trembled with rage.
She drove away from the house, but not toward Union Square. She took a detour to an old warehouse district in Brooklyn. From a nondescript storage locker, she retrieved a laptop and a binder of documents—the true core files of Bolton Holdings, left to her by her mother. Her real ammunition.
She changed out of her designer clothes into a simple t-shirt and jeans, removing every piece of expensive jewelry. She got behind the wheel of a beat-up, anonymous Ford and drove to the meeting.
She arrived at the underground garage fifteen minutes late.
In the far, dim corner of Section G, Chace Henderson sat alone in his wheelchair, his back to her. He was staring at the damp, stained concrete wall. He wore a simple white linen shirt, the poor lighting making his sharp, handsome features seem almost ethereal.
"You're late," he said, without turning.
"Traffic," Heidi lied, walking to stand in front of him. "What's this alliance plan?"
Chace finally looked up, his deep blue eyes appraising her. "It's simple. Your family is forcing you into a marriage. My family is doing the same to me. I propose we form an alliance. Help each other."
A sudden, violent engine roar interrupted him. A rusty pickup truck screeched to a halt nearby. Three greasy-looking men got out. The leader was a mountain of a man with a brutal face.
"Mr. Henderson," the man, Rick Tucker, said with a nasty grin, cracking his knuckles. "The boss lady sent us to 'escort' you home."
Chace's expression hardened. His bodyguard, Sean, was on another assignment. This was a classic move by his stepmother, Carleigh—a petty, humiliating show of force.
Just as Rick's meaty hand reached for Chace's wheelchair, Heidi moved.
She stepped between them.
"Get out of the way, little girl, this ain't your business," Rick snarled, reaching to shove her aside.
Heidi didn't move back. As his hand came toward her, she pivoted, her body a blur of motion. Her elbow struck Rick under the ribs at a sharp, precise angle.
A choked grunt escaped him. Pain contorted his face as he stumbled back. His two cronies stared, dumbfounded. They hadn't expected this slender woman to pack such a punch.
Heidi didn't press the attack. Instead, she pulled out her phone, snapped a quick photo of Rick's face, and her fingers flew across the screen. A pre-installed facial recognition app linked to a private database returned a result in seconds.
She looked up, her voice devoid of heat. "Rick Tucker. Two priors for assault and tax evasion. Currently on parole. Do you want me to let your parole officer know you're here harassing a disabled man?"
Chace's eyes widened. His file on her said she was a Yale art history major who partied too much. It said nothing about Krav Maga or private intelligence networks.
Rick's face went pale. He didn't know who this woman was, but she knew his name and his record. That made him feel a real threat.
"Get your men and disappear," Heidi said, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Or this photo and a 911 call go out in the next five seconds."
Rick Tucker weighed his options. He shot her a hateful glare, then scrambled back into his truck with his men. The truck sped off, its tires squealing in retreat.
The garage was silent again.
Heidi put her phone away and turned to the man in the wheelchair. Chace was watching her, his usual composure completely gone, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock.
She leaned down, her face inches from his. Looking at his stunning blue eyes and the pulse hammering in his throat, she gave him a radiant smile.
