REVENGE OF THE PHANTOM HEIRESS

The bathroom mirror reflected perfection—at least, that's what everyone would see. Jezza Clarksville adjusted the delicate diamond necklace at her throat, watching her own hazel eyes with their golden flecks stare back at her. 

The woman in the mirror wore a stunning ivory silk gown that cost more than most people's cars, her chestnut hair swept into an elegant chignon that took her stylist two hours to perfect. She looked like every inch the billionaire heiress celebrating her engagement to New York's most eligible bachelor.

So why did she feel like she was staring at a stranger?

"Pull yourself together," she whispered to her reflection. "It's just pre-wedding jitters."

But even as she said it, Jezza knew that wasn't true. The wrongness had been building for weeks—subtle shifts in the people around her, conversations that stopped when she entered rooms, the way her stepmother Margaret watched her with those calculating blue eyes that reminded Jezza of a predator sizing up prey.

A knock on the bathroom door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.

"Jezza, darling? Are you alright in there?" Margaret's voice carried that perfectly modulated concern that had fooled Jezza's father for over a decade.

"Just finishing up, Margaret." Jezza forced brightness into her voice as she opened the door.

Her stepmother stood in the hallway wearing a stunning navy dress that complemented her platinum blonde hair. At fifty-five, Margaret Clarksville maintained the kind of polished beauty that money could buy—personal trainers, dermatologists, the best cosmetic surgeons money could find. But tonight, something predatory lurked beneath her perfect facade.

"You look absolutely radiant," Margaret said, but her smile never reached her eyes. "Though perhaps a touch pale. Are you feeling well?"

"Just a little overwhelmed by everything," Jezza admitted. "I never imagined my engagement party would be this elaborate."

Margaret's laugh had sharp edges. "Darling, you're a Clarksville. Everything we do is elaborate. Though I suppose you wouldn't remember your mother's parties—you were so young when she passed."

The reminder hit like a slap. Jezza's mother, Elena, had died when Jezza was only eight. Elena Morales had been Harold Clarksville's maid before becoming his wife—a gentle, loving woman who'd made Harlod's lonely mansion feel like a home. Margaret never let anyone forget that Elena had been "just the help" before her fairy-tale marriage.

"Mom would have loved this," Jezza said softly.

"Would she?" Margaret tilted her head, studying Jezza with those cold eyes. "I'm not so sure. Elena was always so... practical. She might have questioned whether Alex is really the right choice for you."

The comment sent ice through Jezza's veins. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing serious, darling. Just that sometimes the people closest to us aren't quite who they seem." Margaret's smile widened. "But enough morbid talk. Your guests are waiting, and Alex is getting anxious. You know how men can be."

Jezza followed her stepmother down the marble-floored hallway, past portraits of Clarksville ancestors who'd built their fortune in steel and technology. The sounds of the party grew louder—crystal clinking, refined laughter, the string quartet playing in the corner of the ballroom.

The Clarksville estate's ballroom glittered like something from a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing light over three hundred of New York's elite, all dressed in their finest evening wear. Phantom Tech's board members mingled with old money families, tech entrepreneurs, and politicians. Everyone who mattered was here to witness Jezza Clarksville's engagement to Alex Saviour.

"There's my beautiful bride-to-be." Alex appeared at her side as if summoned, his arm sliding around her waist with practiced ease. At twenty-eight, Alex had the kind of golden-boy looks that graced magazine covers—perfectly styled blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and a smile that had charmed New York society since his college days.

But tonight, something felt different about his touch. His fingers pressed too tightly against her ribs, and when she looked up at him, his smile seemed strained.

"You look stunning," he said, his voice carrying across the immediate circle of guests who'd turned to watch them. "Like you were born for this life."

The words should have been romantic, but they made Jezza's skin crawl. She'd been born into this life—she was Harold Clarksville daughter, heir to the Phantom Tech empire. Alex spoke as if she were an outsider playing dress-up in borrowed finery.

"Alex, darling, you must tell us about the honeymoon plans," chirped Mrs. Van Der Berg, one of Margaret's closest friends and biggest gossip. "I heard rumors about a private island?"

"Nothing's been finalized yet," Alex replied, but Jezza caught the way his jaw tightened. "We're still... working out the details."

Across the room, Jezza spotted her father deep in conversation with several Phantom Tech board members. At sixty-two, Harold Clarksville still commanded attention despite his graying hair and the lines that worried him. 

He'd built Phantom Tech from nothing, turning a small security firm into a technology empire worth billions.

Harold caught her eye and smiled—the genuine, warm smile he reserved for his daughter. 

He excused himself from his conversation and made his way across the ballroom, ignoring the people trying to intercept him for business discussions.

"My little girl," he said when he reached her, pulling her into a gentle hug that smelled of his familiar cologne and the mint he always carried. "You look so much like your mother tonight."

"Dad," Jezza whispered, feeling tears prick her eyes. Harold was the one constant in her life, the parent who'd never remarried out of convenience or made her feel like an intruder in her own home.

"Elena would be so proud," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. "Seeing you happy, about to start your own family..."

"Harold, you'll make her cry and ruin her makeup," Margaret interrupted, appearing at his elbow with two glasses of champagne. "Besides, we have a toast to make."

She pressed one glass into Jezza's hand and kept the other for herself. The champagne looked identical to what everyone else was drinking, but something about Margaret's eager expression made warning bells chime in Jezza's head.

"Actually, I think I've had enough alcohol for tonight," Jezza said, trying to hand the glass back.

"Nonsense." Margaret's fingers wrapped around Jezza's wrist with surprising strength. "It's your engagement party. You can't refuse a toast to your own happiness."

Across the room, Nessa appeared as if drawn by some invisible signal. At twenty-four, Jezza's step sister had inherited Margaret's calculating nature along with her dark hair and sharp features. Nessa had spent their childhood making it clear that she resented the "maid's daughter" who'd inherited everything that should have belonged to Margaret's biological children.

"Is everything alright over here?" Nessa asked, but her dark eyes glittered with something that looked like anticipation.

"Perfect," Margaret replied. "We were just about to toast Jezza's future."

The words sent a chill down Jezza's spine. Future—not happiness, not love, but future. As if they already knew what that future held.

Marcus, Nessa's twin brother and the only family member who'd ever shown Jezza genuine kindness, materialized beside his sister. His green eyes—so different from Margaret and Nessa's cold blue ones—held worry.

"Jezza, can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked. "Privately?"

"She's busy, Marcus," Margaret snapped. "We're in the middle of a family toast."

"It'll just take a second—"

"The toast first," Margaret insisted, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Family traditions matter."

Alex's arm tightened around Jezza's waist again, and she realized everyone in their immediate circle had gone quiet. Mrs. Van Der Berg, the board members, even the servers hovering nearby—everyone was watching, waiting.

"Here's to getting everything you deserve," Nessa called out, raising her glass with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

The words hit Jezza like ice water. Everything you deserve. Not everything you want, or everything you dream of—everything you deserve. As if she deserved something terrible.

"Jezza?" Alex's voice seemed to come from very far away. "The toast, sweetheart."

Her father stood beside her, beaming with genuine joy and pride. Harold had no idea what was happening—he saw his daughter surrounded by family and friends, celebrating love and new beginnings. He raised his own glass with tears of happiness in his eyes.

For his sake, Jezza lifted the champagne to her lips.

The liquid tasted wrong—bitter beneath the effervescence, with a metallic aftertaste that made her tongue feel thick and strange. She tried to set the glass down, but her hand was already beginning to tremble.

"Are you feeling alright?" Alex asked, and this time she heard it—the false note in his concern, like an actor reading lines he'd rehearsed.

The room began to blur at the edges. Faces became indistinct, voices muffled as if she were hearing them underwater. Jezza reached desperately for her father, but her legs wouldn't support her weight.

"I think... I need to sit down," she managed, but the words slurred together like her tongue had forgotten how to work.

Strong arms caught her as she fell—Alex's arms, she realized dimly. He was saying something about too much excitement, too much champagne, his voice carrying to the concerned guests who were beginning to cluster around them.

"Should we call a doctor?" someone asked.

"No need," Alex replied smoothly. "She just needs some air and quiet. I'll take care of her."

As consciousness slipped away like water through her fingers, Jezza caught a glimpse of Margaret's face hovering above her. For just a moment, the mask of concern slipped, revealing something cold and satisfied beneath.

"Finally," Margaret whispered, so quietly that only Jezza could hear through the growing fog. "Finally, you're getting exactly what you deserve."

The last thing Jezza saw before darkness claimed her completely was Nessa's smile—bright and terrible and victorious. Then Alex was lifting her, carrying her away from the light and music and her father's devastated confusion.

Her engagement ring—her grandmother's ring, the one thing of her mother's family that she'd been allowed to keep—slipped from her numb finger and hit the marble floor with a sound like breaking crystal.

But by then, Jezza was already gone.