The Heiress Return: A deal with the Billionaire Devil.

IVY’S POV

The chandeliers glittered above the elite guests, their soft light casting golden hues across the marble floors like heaven had RSVP’d and decided to dazzle.

Tonight was no ordinary gala; the world’s most powerful women were being honored, and somehow, I had made the list.

“Tonight, we honor excellence, vision, and resilience,” the host’s voice echoed across the ballroom, smooth as velvet.

“This year’s Woman of the Year needs no introduction. Please join me in celebrating Ivy Valemont Smith. CEO of House of Valemont.”

Applause thunders, cameras flash, and people stand as I take a slow breath, plastering on my best yes-I-totally-feel-worthy-of-this-moment smile, and rise to my feet.

I am draped in a black velvet gown, hugging my curves like it was stitched onto my skin, the off-shoulder neckline skimming just below my collarbones. It’s a Valemont original, fresh off the winter collection—one of our most coveted designs—and tonight, I’m its unwilling mannequin.

But this isn’t me. Not really.

I live in mom jeans, vintage blazers, and loafers that don’t pinch. My hair is always twisted into a bun with a pencil sticking out the back, and only God knows the last time my face was touched by makeup. That’s my natural habitat—not this glammed-up, breathless version of myself who has to remember to smile every time a photographer calls out my name.

But tonight, I had to make an effort. I’m being honored for the work I’ve done at House of Valemont. The least I could do was not show up looking like I rolled out of a boardroom or a bookstore, so I let the stylists do their thing. Pick the dress, do the makeup, even curl my hair, and shave my legs.

And these heels? They’re not just high—they’re cruel. I haven’t worn a pair since my college graduation, and even then, I could only walk in a kitten heel. Now, here I am, teetering in stilettos that cost more than my first apartment, trying to pretend I don’t feel my feet slowly turning to ash with every step.

I shift my weight, careful not to grimace. My toes are already screaming. My lower back is joining the protest. But I smile through it. I have to. The cameras are watching, the guests are watching—and most importantly, Harry might be watching back at home.

They hand me a glass award shaped like a star, and it is heavier than it looks

“Thank you all,” I begin with a breath and a gracious smile. “Wow…” I give a dramatic pause. “Who knew this day would come?”

The room chuckles politely.

“When I took over House of Valemont after my parents died in a plane crash, I was twenty-two. Heartbroken. Terrified. And completely unqualified, if you asked most people.”

I let that hang for a beat.

“But I knew I had two choices: fall apart… or continue their legacy. So I chose to work. I failed a lot. I cried a lot—sometimes into my accounting spreadsheets. But ten years later… here we are. Number one fashion house globally.”

Applause breaks again, and I place a hand over my chest, trying to keep the emotion from leaking into my eyeliner.

“Oh, and in case you're wondering—yes, I do still cry into spreadsheets. Just fancier ones now.”

The crowd laughs. Nailed it.

“With that, I would like to thank my husband, Harry, who couldn’t be here tonight. Without him, this wouldn’t have been possible.

More cheers erupt as I step away from the podium and someone helps me down the stairs—bless them—because grace only goes so far in six-inch heels.

I make my way to my table, showered in congratulations, smiles, air kisses, and praises from people who’d once politely told me to stay in my lane.

And then…ugh..

Now sitting at my table like he owns it, it’s none other than Chase Sterling. CEO, founder of Sterlux global, a powerhouse multinational conglomerate with a luxury-first philosophy and a grip on nearly every major industry—fashion, fragrances, cutting-edge tech, and prime real estate.

“Congratulations on your little award, Ivy. I can see you made an effort in your appearance today,” he sneers, standing and pulling out my chair like a smug, evil gentleman in a Bond movie.

“Jealous?” I shoot back as I sit, reaching for a bottle of water.

“Please. I received my business global award at 25, and every year after that. Find me when you receive your tenth one.”

“Congratulations then,” I take a long sip and narrow my eyes towards him. “Why are you sitting at my table, Chase. Isn’t there a tech cult or gold-plated yacht launch you should be at?”

He leans back in his chair, annoyingly relaxed. “If you must know, I had some business in DC, plus I sponsored this entire event. Dropped a casual fifty mill on it. I came to see what they did with my money. And you know… witness greatness.” He responds sarcastically.

I blink. “Wow. That’s adorable. If I’d known that, I’d have stayed home instead.”

“Come on, Ivy,” he grins. “And where else would you have gotten your ego stroked like this? Oh, right—your husband.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Here we go.”

“I mean, seriously… how is Harry these days?” he continues, feigning interest. “Threatened by his wife’s success, he couldn’t come to show you support?”

I put my glass down slowly and tilt my head, annoyed. “You do know he's the CFO of House of Valemont, right? That, without him, this whole empire would have crashed and burned before my third runway show?”

“Oh, forgive me,” Chase mocks with a gasp. “I didn’t realize you upgraded him.”

“That rebuilt our finance department from scratch, helped raise capital when we were almost going under, and kept our company debt-free during a global recession. Put some respect on his name, weirdo.”

“Damn. I’ve touched a nerve.” He whistles under his breath.

“No,” I respond calmly, wiping the corner of my lip with a napkin. “You touched a woman who’s tired of arrogant billionaires like you with commitment issues, making fun of actual love.”

Chase laughs, low and sharp, then signals to a passing waiter plucking two glasses of champagne from the tray and offering me one.

“Cheers, Woman of the Year.”

I give him a once-over—from his expensive shoes to the Rolex on his smug wrist and shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not drinking tonight.”

“Why? Pregnant?”

I roll my eyes and push my seat back. “I’m done here.”

“Leaving so soon?” he mocks, rising with me. “Was it something I said?”

“Everything you say offends someone. I just happen to be the lucky one tonight.”

I make my way toward the exit, heels clicking, confidence on full display, and of course, Chase follows—like a rich, annoying shadow.

“Ivy, wait,” he calls. I turn around at the door.

“What now? I have a flight to catch and a husband to get to.”

He holds up my award and hands it to me. “You left this. Figured you’d want it. Looks good on you—matches your ego.”

“Right. Thanks. I’d hate to leave behind a reminder of how amazing I am.”

“I’ll fly you home,” he offers. “My jet’s waiting.”

I turn to him with a polite smile. “Oh, that’s sweet, Chase. But I have my own jet. And a pilot. And hangar. And wait…. dignity.”

“Oof. I forgot about your little jet.” He scoffs, clearly enjoying this little banter we are having.

“You know what, Chase? You can call it little all you want, but at least I don’t use mine to fly models to Mykonos just so they can take selfies and spell 'entrepreneur' wrong in their bios.”

“Damn. That was savage.” He bursts out laughing.

“I’m in shoes I don’t usually wear. Of course everything I do today is savage.” I spit.

Pete, my driver, opens the car door, and I slide in, smoothing my gown and giving Chase one last look.

“And you know what, Chase? You can insult my award and my ego, but don’t come for my husband.”

Pete shuts the door just in time, and he heads to the driver's seat.

“To the airport, straight,” I order, settling in.

“Yes, ma’am,” Pete replies.

As the car pulls off, I exhale and check my phone.

“Have you spoken to Harry today? I’ve tried calling him a couple of times, but it keeps going straight to voicemail.”

“No, ma’am,” Pete replies from the front.

“Okay.. let me text Viv and ask her if she saw him when she went to pick the contracts.” I text viv and call Harry again excited.

“Hey, babe… did you see?? I wooon!!!” I squeak, smiling at the glass award. “I’m heading straight to the airport. Can’t wait to celebrate with you and I have another surprise. I love you.”

I hung up and turn to the window, enjoying the city lights of Washington D.C. glittering like stars.

*********************************

The jet touches down in New York just after 2:00 AM. The city skyline shimmers in the distance, lights twinkling like they’d stayed up just to welcome me back.

I glance down at my award and smile. Sheesh. I can’t wait to put it on my office shelf, right next to the framed photo of me and Harry at our wedding, grinning like idiots.

I dial him again, still voicemail.

“Hey, babe, just landed. Heading to the office first. I know, I know—I should come home first, but I want to drop off the award. I’ll be home soon.”

I end the call and turn to Pete, who is already holding the car door open.

“Office first.”

Pete nods and starts driving.

Within a short period, we pull up to the sleek glass entrance of the Valemont building, and I open the door myself.

“Give me a few minutes,” I tell Pete.

“Take your time, ma’am.”

I step out of the car, heels clicking softly against the marble steps, and the glass doors open, the familiar face of the night security guard smiling at me.

“Welcome back, ma’am. I hope you had a wonderful time in D.C.”

“I did,” I reply warmly. “Thanks, Daniel.”

I swipe my access card and step into the elevator, the soft hum of jazz playing overhead.

My fingers clutch the award tightly, and God, I can’t wait to show Harry.

The elevator pings on the top floor, and I step out, heading straight to my corner office.

I see a light from a distance, followed by muffled whispers.

“Aww,” I blink, whispering to myself with a smile. “He couldn’t wait for me to get home? That’s sweet.”

As I step closer, the whispers start to sound like something else. Moans. Rhythmic, guttural moans.

I pause mid-step, my heels catching on the rug.

“Are people having sex in my office? Oh. My. God.” My hand flies to my mouth, ready to buff.

“It must be the new IT guy. I’ve seen how he flirts with almost everyone in the office.” I think to myself.

“He is soo fired.”

I storm forward, ready to ruin someone's night and their LinkedIn status, but as I swing the double doors open, everything stops.

On top of my very expensive custom Italian glass table is Vivienne, my in-house counsel and best friend, topless, her designer heels still on, her legs wide apart like she was auditioning for a low-budget legal-themed porno.

“Viv??!” I gasp, rage icing my voice, my jaw clenching so tight it could have cut the diamonds.

She turns toward me slowly, mascara smudged, and dares to look annoyed like I’ve just interrupted her spa treatment or something.

Then, from beneath her, a shirtless man straightens up, hair messy, trousers undone, lips… wet.

“Harry??!” My voice cracks.

I take a staggering step back, clutching my award like a weapon but it slips from my fingers and shatters across the floor with a crash that echoes through the silence.