Aria Vs. An Ambitious Gold Digger

Apparently, the slap wasn't satisfying enough for her, because she tried to kick my luggage out of the house as well.

I caught her wrist before her foot connected and demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

She struggled to break free, but after two failed attempts, she gave up with an irritated huff. "Ugh! My name's Heather DeVry, okay? Mr. Windsor saved me and let me live here. He just can't get enough of my looks, okay?"

My gaze fell on the nightgown she was wearing. It had been one of my late mother's favorites. My father had kept it hanging in their shared closet for years and had never allowed anyone to touch it. Yet here it was, draped over another woman, its fabric even stained with foundation.

Heather mistook my silence for intimidation and smiled smugly, lifting her chin. "I've met plenty of girls like you. You really thought you could win older men's hearts just because you're young and pretty, didn't you?

"I'll admit, you look a little like his late wife, but sorry, darling. Life isn't fair, and not everyone's destined to be part of the elite."

"Oh, so you know who you're supposed to resemble, don't you?"

Heather brushed her fingers across her cheek with a self-satisfied smile.

"Of course I do! But between a dead woman and a living one, who do you think a man is gonna choose?" she sang. "So run along now. There's only one mistress in this house, and that's me."

My heart sank. Three years had passed since my mother's death, and no one, not a single member of the household staff or the family, had ever dared make light of her memory. Yet this outsider had strolled into our home, wrapped herself in my mother's favorite nightgown, and mocked her without the slightest shame.

I slapped Heather across the face.

She shrieked in shock and fury before lunging at me.

I raised my arm to protect myself, but the bitch clawed at me like a woman possessed. Her nails raked across my skin, leaving bright red scratches behind.

The sound of dishes clinking came from the kitchen.

A moment later, a middle-aged woman in an apron emerged carrying a bowl of soup.

She glanced at me and my luggage for only a second before immediately taking Heather's side. "Miss DeVry, are you okay?"

Heather covered her face as tears streamed down her cheeks. "She slapped me the moment she walked in, Sarah! She even tried to throw me out, saying Mr. Windsor belongs to her and I could never compete with her youth!"

Sarah tipped the bowl, splashing some of the scalding soup near my feet. Hot broth soaked the cuffs of my pants.

"Words can't describe how disgusted I am by the shamelessness of young women these days. Can't you see Mr. Windsor is already taken?"

I looked at her coldly. "Let me guess. You're a new hire?"

Sarah froze.

Heather answered for her. "Mr. Windsor hired her to take care of me and only me!"

Sarah straightened proudly.

"I've only been working here for a few days, but Miss DeVry already carries herself with the grace and presence of the lady of the house," she declared. "I can't say the same about you. Instead of using your youth to become a respectable young woman, you'd rather be a sugar baby chasing a man far richer than you."

I let out a scornful laugh. "She has the grace and presence of the lady of the house?"

Sarah slammed the bowl onto the table and reached for my luggage. "I've had enough of you! We don't want anything belonging to manipulative, worthless women like you in this house. It's an eyesore!"

I tightened my grip on the trolley handle. When she couldn't yank it away, she started shoving me in the shoulders. "Get out! Get out before I throw all this junk into the street!"

"No, no. Be careful, Sarah. Some of her things can still be sold. That suitcase looks expensive," Heather said casually.

I pulled out my phone, pointed the camera at them, and started recording. "Go on."

Heather looked startled for a split second, but her confidence quickly returned. "Oh, you really think he'll believe you just because you recorded a video?"

She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "I'm his favorite now. You don't understand. You could be crying on your knees at the front door, and he still wouldn't let you stay here."

Just then, the deafening roar of a heavy-duty motorcycle ripped through the air outside.

A second later, someone kicked the gate open, sending it swinging inward with a loud creak. A man with piss-yellow hair barged into the house.

"Heather! Where's the money? I lost! I need 30 grand, now!"