My Spoiled Sister Tried To Expose My “Fraud” To A Billionaire — She Didn’t Know He Was My Business Partner
Part 2
Greg placed one hand firmly on my waist, entirely ignoring the shocked silence gripping the room.
He leaned down, his lips brushing dangerously close to my ear.
“They are definitely noticing you now, Sarah,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
He gave the conductor a single, sharp nod.
The music furiously started again, and Greg swept me into the blazing, inescapable light of the dance floor.
When the song concluded, he bowed elegantly, completely oblivious to the aristocratic outrage simmering around us.
As he securely placed my hand upon his forearm and escorted me back to the edge of the polished floor, the crowd parted violently.
Heather blocked our path, her face a mask of barely contained hysteria.
She gripped her designer skirt so tightly her knuckles were white, the heavy silk crushing beneath her desperate fingers.
“Mr. Miller,” she forced out, her voice trembling with an ugly, jagged rage.
“You are far too kind to indulge my sister’s pitiful attempts at attention.”
“She is notoriously unwell and prone to delusions.”
“Come along, Sarah, Dad is demanding we leave at once before you embarrass us further.”
Greg stepped smoothly between us, shielding me with his broad shoulders.
“Heather,” he murmured, his tone freezing the air around them.
“I find Sarah to be the most remarkably well woman in this city.”
“I will have my personal driver return her to your townhouse under heavy guard.”
“Good evening.”
Heather stood paralyzed, publicly dismissed by the highest-ranking man in the room.
The luxury car ride back to our estate an hour later was suffocating.
Dad, having lost another huge sum at the poker tables, was passed out against the leather seats.
I stared out the dark window, my heart still racing from Greg’s touch, knowing a terrible storm was about to break the moment we were behind closed doors.
It happened the second the heavy oak front door clicked shut.
“You deceitful, scheming little viper!”
Heather shrieked, abandoning all pretense of grace.
She lunged forward, grabbing the collar of my brown dress and ripping the cheap fabric near the shoulder.
“How did you do it?”
“Did you throw yourself at him in a dark corridor?”
“You humiliated me before everyone, you ruined my life!”
“I did nothing but accept a dance, Heather,” I said coldly, shoving her hands away with a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
“Perhaps if you spent less time cultivating absolute cruelty and more time cultivating a genuine personality, he might have looked at you instead.”
Heather’s hand cracked across my cheek, the violent slap ringing sharply in the empty foyer.
“You are nothing!”
Heather hissed, her pale eyes wide and wild.
“You are the bastard offspring of a nobody, and I will make certain Dad locks you in the attic before the week is out.”
I did not flinch, though my cheek burned fiercely.
I simply turned and walked up the servants’ stairs to my tiny, drafty bedroom.
I locked the door, retrieved my ledger from my pocket, and hid it securely beneath a loose floorboard under my narrow bed.
I was exhausted, but a fierce spark of hope had ignited within me.
Greg Miller had seen me.
He had recognized the genius of S.R. Jenkins.
But Heather’s rage was not a fire that burned out quickly.
It was a toxic poison that seeped under locked doors.
Late that night, while I slept the deep sleep of emotional exhaustion, the lock on my bedroom door was carefully picked.
Heather, holding her phone for light, crept into the freezing room.
She had noticed the heavy, unnatural bulge in my pocket earlier in the evening.
Like a starving hunting hound, she scoured the tiny room, pulling out meager drawers and ripping the threadbare blankets from my feet.
Finally, her eye caught the slightly raised oak plank beneath the bed.
Prying it up, Heather found the leather-bound ledger and a thick stack of heavily sealed correspondence bearing the crest of the London Stock Exchange.
Sitting on the cold floorboards, Heather read through the letters.
Her initial confusion quickly morphed into triumphant, wicked delight.
I was not just an unpaid maid, I was committing immense financial fraud.
Operating under a man’s name, engaging in illegal stock manipulation, international shipping trades, and massive investments.
If the authorities found out, it meant prison.
If the social circle found out, it meant permanent exile.
Heather smiled maliciously in the dark.
She would not just exile me, she would use this goldmine to secure Greg Miller.
If she brought this undeniable proof of criminal deceit to Greg, proving that the woman he danced with was a dangerous, deranged fraud, he would be eternally grateful for the warning.
She would be his savior, and I would be destroyed.
She thought she was handing him the weapon to destroy me, but would he pull the trigger?
