Jilted Heiress: Marrying The Untouchable Tycoon

Allison Montgomery sat in the driver's seat of her Audi, the engine idling quietly in the JFK Airport Cell Phone Lot. Her index finger tapped against the steering wheel in a slow, impatient rhythm-the same rhythm as the ticking of the Rolex on her wrist. The watch had been a gift from Finn Kensington, her fiancé of three years. She checked the time again. The flight from London was delayed. Again. A heavy sigh fogged the cold glass of the driver's side window.

She had been waiting for forty-five minutes to pick up her oldest friend from boarding school. Forty-five minutes of her life she would never get back.

Her phone screen, resting in the cup holder, suddenly lit up.

An in-cabin audio detection alert flashed across the display. It was the synced dashcam app connected to her Range Rover-the one she had left parked in the VIP section of her favorite restaurant in Manhattan. The same restaurant where Finn had claimed he was having a "late business dinner."

Allison frowned. Her fingers hovered over the screen. A garage break-in? The VIP lot was supposed to be secure, but Manhattan was unpredictable. Her heart rate elevated slightly, a dull thud against her ribs as she tapped the notification.

The live video feed buffered for a second. Then the screen resolved into the dark, leather-lined interior of her Range Rover.

She squinted. Streetlights outside cast harsh yellow shadows across the dashboard. A familiar designer handbag sat carelessly tossed over the air vents.

She stared at the bag. Her stomach dropped.

It was a limited-edition Birkin. Emerald leather. She had bought that exact bag for her younger sister, Cheyanne, just last month.

Before her brain could process why Cheyanne's bag was in her car, the audio kicked in.

The unmistakable sound of heavy, wet breathing filled the quiet cabin of the Audi. Fabric rustled violently. Then a sharp, breathless moan.

Allison froze. The blood drained from her face so fast she felt lightheaded. Her fingers gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned bone-white.

A man's voice groaned through the phone's speaker. He moaned a name. It wasn't Allison's name.

It was Cheyanne's.

The camera angle caught the reflection in the rearview mirror. The streetlights illuminated the face of the man in the backseat.

Finn Kensington. Her fiancé. The man who had looked her in the eyes this morning and said, "I love you, Allie. See you tonight."

His face was twisted in raw, unrestrained passion-a expression she had never seen on him. His shirt was unbuttoned, his belt undone.

Then Cheyanne's face came into view. Her sister's hands tangled in Finn's perfectly styled hair. Cheyanne leaned up, her lips brushing Finn's jaw, her mouth open, breathless.

"Tell me I'm better than her," Cheyanne whispered, loud and clear in the microphone. "Tell me I'm better than Allison."

Finn gasped, his voice cracking. "You are. God, you are. She's never-she's so cold compared to you. You're everything she isn't."

Cheyanne laughed-a low, triumphant sound. "Then why are you still engaged to her?"

"Because of the families," Finn said, his hands gripping her hips. "But it's you I want. It's always been you."

A wave of intense nausea hit Allison. The acid in her stomach surged up her throat. She slammed her hand against the window controls, rolling down the Audi window to gasp for freezing, jet-fuel-scented air. Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred at the edges.

She had given this man three years. Three years of her life. She had turned down job offers in Europe for him. She had defended him to her friends, to her family, to everyone who said he was too slick, too ambitious, too good to be true.

And this was how he repaid her.

In her car. With her sister.

The initial shock lasted exactly ten seconds. Then the cold, burning rage took over. It spread through her veins like ice water, freezing her tears before they could even form.

Allison reached out with a perfectly steady hand. She hit the record button on the app. A red dot blinked on the screen, ensuring the footage was saved directly to her secure cloud storage. She would not lose this evidence.

She did not cry. She did not scream.

She pulled up her contacts list and found the number for the restaurant's head of security. She pressed call.

"This is Allison Montgomery," she said, her voice flat, metallic, unrecognizable even to herself. "My Range Rover is in your VIP lot. I need you to tow it immediately."

"Ms. Montgomery?" The security chief's voice was laced with confusion. "Is there a problem with the vehicle?"

"There is a biohazard inside," Allison instructed calmly. "Have it towed to a scrapyard. I don't want it back. I'll send you a bonus for your discretion."

She hung up before he could respond.

Her hands shook slightly, adrenaline flooding her system, demanding physical action. She reached down and turned off the Audi's engine.

She needed to walk. If she sat in this car for one more minute, she was going to tear the steering wheel off the dashboard.

She grabbed her beige trench coat from the passenger seat, shoved her arms into the sleeves, and stepped out into the biting wind. The cold air slapped her face, grounding her.

She headed toward Terminal 4. The automatic doors slid open, hitting her with a wall of heat and noise.

The terminal was bustling with thousands of travelers. The rolling of suitcases, the overlapping announcements, the shouting families-the noise grated against her hyper-focused, fragile state of mind. Every sound felt like a physical scrape against her eardrums.

A single, rogue tear escaped her left eye.

Allison aggressively wiped it away with the back of her hand, her nails digging into her cheek. She swore to herself, feeling the sting of her own nails, that she would not break down in public. She would not give Finn or Cheyanne the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out. A fresh text from Finn.

Stuck in a boring board meeting. Miss you. Can't wait to see you tonight.

The sheer audacity of the lie blinded her. She stared at the text, her vision tunneling entirely onto the glowing screen. He was still lying to her face. Even after she had just watched him defile her car with her sister.

She kept walking, her stilettos clicking sharply against the polished marble floor, completely unaware of her surroundings. Her mind was a storm of rage, betrayal, and cold calculation.

She rounded a corner near the VIP lounge. She didn't look up.

She slammed hard into a solid, unyielding chest.

The impact felt like walking into a concrete pillar. The collision knocked the breath from her lungs and sent her phone skidding across the marble floor.

Allison stumbled backward. Her ankles wobbled on her four-inch stilettos. Gravity pulled her down. She braced her arms, expecting the painful, humiliating crash against the hard floor.

But it never came.

A large, warm hand shot out. Long fingers gripped her waist with bruising force. The hand pulled her upright in one fluid, powerful motion, stopping her fall instantly.

Allison gasped. Her hands instinctively pressed flat against a bespoke charcoal suit jacket. The fabric was incredibly soft, but the muscle beneath it was rock hard. A sharp scent enveloped her-cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and something colder, more dangerous.

She looked up, her breath catching in her throat.

She met a pair of dark, predatory eyes.

The man staring down at her was devastatingly handsome-sharp jaw, high cheekbones, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. His face was a perfect mask of wealthy indifference, but his eyes... his eyes were burning.

A few feet behind him, another man stood holding two cups of coffee. His mouth dropped open slightly.

"Adam, are you alright?" the man asked, rushing forward.

Adam. The name stuck in her mind.

The stranger-Adam-did not answer. His gaze remained locked on Allison. His thumb, resting heavily against her waist, subtly stroked the fabric of her trench coat. The heat of his touch seeped through the layers of her clothing, burning against her skin.

Allison's heart hammered. She should pull away. She should thank him and leave.

But she couldn't move.

The man behind him-Kip, she would later learn-stared at Adam's hand on Allison's waist. His eyes widened. He had never seen Adam initiate physical contact with a woman. Ever.

Allison finally found her voice. She stepped back, breaking the connection. The sudden loss of his body heat made the terminal air feel freezing.

"Excuse me," she said coldly, forcing her spine straight. "You should watch where you're standing."

She smoothed the front of her coat, refusing to acknowledge the flush creeping up her neck. She walked over, retrieved her phone from the floor, and continued down the concourse without looking back.

But she could feel his gaze on her. Heavy. Unrelenting.

The man-Adam Kensington, though she didn't know it yet-stood perfectly still. He watched her walk away, his dark eyes tracking the sway of her coat, the confident click of her heels.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Recognition flickered in their dark depths.

He had seen this woman before. In countless financial reports. In society pages. In the background of photographs of his nephew, Finn.

Allison Montgomery.

Finn's fiancée.

The woman his nephew was cheating on.

A slow, calculated smirk formed on Adam's lips.

He raised his hand, adjusting his cufflink with lethal precision, and gave a subtle, silent nod to his security detail standing in the shadows.

Follow her. I want to know everything.