Turning the Fake Heiress' Manipulative Tricks on Her

I could practically taste how smug Ruth Stark felt as she ran her thumb over the gift box stamped with Frost Group's logo. She still put on an act, though.

"Jemima, don't take this to heart. Honestly… I've always thought this engagement should've been yours. After all, you're Mom and Dad's biological daughter. It's just that I've been in this circle for so long that Mr. Frost assumes I'm the real heiress… If you're upset, why don't I give you this gift instead?"

I almost laughed out loud at her fake concern.

Was she talking about Mason Frost, that devil of a man? Sure, he was the man people called Jarvon's prince, but everyone also knew he was obsessively perfectionistic to the point of being sick in the head. He could make someone redo a presentation three times over a single punctuation mark.

Since Ruth was so eager to walk right into a hellhole, why would I ever stop her?

I waved a hand, barely holding back my laughter. "Oh, I don't mind in the slightest. Go ahead and take it, Ruth. I wouldn't want such a 'blessing' even if you shoved it at me."

Ruth's face froze. She'd been waiting to see me lose it with jealousy. Instead, she'd gotten such a lackluster response.

"Jemima, you're so… generous," she forced through gritted teeth. Then, she turned to Mom and Dad. "Mom, Dad, it's getting late. I'll take Jemima upstairs to rest."

Mom and Dad were too busy basking in the joy of climbing up the social ladder and latching onto the Frosts to think too hard about anything. They agreed right away.

The moment we reached the second floor, the gentle, refined look on Ruth's face vanished. She stopped and looked at me contemptuously. She sneered and said, "Drop the act, Jemima. You're dying of jealousy inside, aren't you?"

Excuse me? I already said I didn't care, didn't I? Did she have short-term memory loss or something?

"Listen up—even if you're back now, this family and the engagement with the Frosts can only be mine! Trash like you from the sticks are only worthy of worshiping the ground I walk on!"

As soon as she finished, she suddenly threw herself backward with a dramatic gasp. "Ah! Jemima, why did you push me?"

The fake fall was smooth and practiced, like she'd studied thousands of trashy fake-heiress melodramas.

Too bad it was me she was trying to mess with. The instant her back hit the ground, I drew in a breath, gathered all my strength, and let out a scream ten times more tragic than hers. "Ruth! What's wrong?"

Before she could even react, I dropped down right on top of her. I swung my arms wide and started slapping, both hands going back and forth across her perfectly maintained face.

The slaps echoed down the hallway, the sounds crisp and satisfying.

As I hit her, I wailed with full-on soap-opera anguish. "Ruth, oh, Ruth! Don't scare me like this! Wake up! If anything happens to you, I'll go down with you!"

"Jemima, you bit—"

She struggled to get up while cursing me out, but I landed two more sharp slaps. The words she'd been about to spit out were instantly swallowed back down. Her face visibly started swelling.

Mom and Dad, hearing the commotion, finally came running in a panic. "What happened? What's going on?"

Ruth fought to peel her eyelids open a crack, mumbling through her swollen lips, "Mom… She hit…"