Revenge of the Billionaire Heiress

Arabella

The silence in her dressing suite was deliberate.

No stylists. No friends. Just the gentle rustle of silk and the soft click of diamond cuffs sliding into place.

Arabella stood before a towering mirror, framed in antique gold, her reflection regal and unreadable.

The Elie Saab gown fit like a secret. Ivory silk that kissed every line of her body, with a sheer spine embroidered in tiny crystals that caught light like starlight. The shoulders were sharp, architectural, giving her the posture of a queen born, not made.

Her heels were custom Louboutins—pearl-dusted and razor-sharp. Her earrings: heirloom emeralds once worn by her grandmother, reset into a modern silhouette. Her clutch: a Judith Leiber swan in champagne crystal.

She looked like old money rewritten in fire.

But under the flawless exterior, her heart beat slower. Colder. More calculating.

This wasn't a date.

It was a performance.

The Wintour Fundraiser was the city's crown jewel of philanthropy. A tradition older than Arabella herself, organized annually by Anna Wintour matriarch of one of New York's oldest families and gatekeeper of legacy and luxury.

Held atop the Metropolitan Club, the event brought together fashion royalty, old money, politicians, power brokers, and media titans. Attendance was invitation-only. Proximity to Anna Wintour herself? Practically divine.

The night's itinerary rarely changed:

A champagne reception.

Dinner under a constellation of floating candles.

A discreet bidding war over rare, one-of-a-kind items donated by the Wintour circle.

And finally, the reveal of which charity would receive the full donation announced personally by Anna, with the poise of a queen.

Anna Wintour didn't just run Fundraiser's.

She was also the most powerful silent investor in Manhattan. Real estate. Fashion. Tech. Even politics. If she whispered your name into the right ear, you rose. If she turned her gaze from you, you vanished.

And she had no direct heir.

Not since losing her only son and his wife in a tragic crash six years ago, leaving behind a single grandchild Theo, now seventeen, and largely kept away from the public eye.

Arabella had met him few times. Quiet. Introvert. The kind of boy who seemed to read rooms better than people.

She remembered her Anna had taken one look at Arabella at fifteen head held high in vintage Chanel, speaking fluent French to an ambassador's daughter and claimed her as her own.

You have the bones of someone built to rule," she'd once said. "Let me help you sharpen your crown."

Her relationship with her Godmother had helped shaped her to the woman she was today, she truly did help her sharpen her crown.

Preston arrived at exactly 9:45, looking polished in black suit and a Cartier pin he probably didn't choose himself. He had commented on her not wearing the red color he suggested, but she choose to ignore the comment on their way to the event.

He smiled like he always did for the cameras, the staff, the illusion.

Arabella matched his energy effortlessly. They looked like the picture of elegance. Two halves of a dynasty. But when he leaned in to kiss her cheek, her body didn't move.

"You look… unreal," he said softly.

"I know," she replied.

The Metropolitan Club was transformed.

Long tables draped in black silk stretched like runways under antique chandeliers. The walls were gilded, the floors a sea of lacquered marble, and the air thick with wealth and curated charm.

Arabella walked through it like it was her birthright.

Everyone turned.

Everyone watched.

But she felt like an important part was missing from it all, she felt seen but not really seen.