The Billionaire's Undercover Heiress

Chapter 9: The Mask Slips

The name hung in the air between us, an indictment in black marker. Edward Davenport. My father. My entire reason for being here.

My mind went blank. Every contingency plan, every clever lie, evaporated. All that remained was a white-hot, blinding rage of the man who had bled my father’s life’s work dry. My carefully practiced persona vanished. When I spoke, my voice was low, cold, and dripping with a venom I didn't try to hide.

"He was my father."

The admission was a gunshot in the silent office.

Sterling’s expression didn't change, but a new light flared in his eyes. The "aha" moment. The final clue clicked into place. The unicorn mug, the report, the obsession, the woman in the red dress. It all made sense to him now.

"I see," he said, his voice dangerously soft. The Trojan Horse has a name. Blair Davenport."

He said my real name. Hearing it from his lips felt like a violation.

"You destroyed him," I whispered, the words raw with a pain I could no longer conceal. You destroyed everything he built. For what? A line item on a balance sheet?"

"It was business," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of remorse. Your father's company was overleveraged and poorly managed. A liability. I did what was necessary."

"Weak?" I spat the word, taking a step forward, all pretense gone. I was Blair Davenport now, and she was done hiding. "My father was a visionary. "You are a vulture. "You don't build; you just pick at the corpses of those who do."

A flicker of genuine anger finally broke his icy composure. "Be careful."

"I'm done being careful!" I shot back, my voice rising. "You want to know my 'experiment', Sterling? I wanted to see if there was a human being inside the machine. If there was anything in there besides ambition. Now I have my answer. There isn't."

I was spiraling, revealing my entire hand. The cold, calculating part of my brain screamed at me to regain control, but the grief-stricken daughter wouldn't listen.

"And now what?" he challenged, stepping toward me, closing the distance. The air was electric with years of my simmering hatred and his newfound understanding. "What's your next move, Blair? Leak corporate secrets? Sabotage the Schmitt merger? "What's the grand finale of this little revenge fantasy?"

He was goading me. And then I saw it. Behind the anger, behind the cold curiosity, was a flicker of… disappointment. He had solved the puzzle, and now the game was almost over. He didn't want it to be.

That realization was a splash of ice water, cutting through my rage. He didn’t want the game to end. That was my new weapon.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the rage down. When I looked up, the raw emotion was gone, replaced by a cool, challenging calm. "You're right," I said, my voice even. "You know. So the question is, what are you going to do about it?"

He blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. "What am I going to do?" he repeated. "I'm going to fire you." And then I'm going to have my legal team draft an injunction so airtight you won't be able to come within five hundred feet of this building."

"You could do that," I agreed, tilting my head. And that would be the smart, sensible, boring thing to do. The game would be over. You'd win. You could go back to your spreadsheets and your monochrome world."

I took another step closer, until we were barely a foot apart. I could smell the clean scent of his cologne, see the fine lines around his piercing eyes.

"Or," I continued, my voice dropping to a seductive whisper, "you could not fire me. You could keep your enemy right where you can see her. Let me try to take you down, just to prove you're untouchable. Let me play my hand, just for the thrill of beating myself. Because we both know, Sterling… you're bored. And it is the most interesting thing that's happened to you in a very long time."

I had laid my cards on the table. A dare, aimed directly at his ego.

He stared down at me, his expression a maelstrom of anger, suspicion, and a dangerous, possessive curiosity.

The silence stretched. My entire plan hung in the balance.

"The gala," he said finally, his voice a low growl. Saturday. Seven o'clock. You'll still be there."

My breath hitched. He’d accepted my dare.

"And after the gala?" I pressed.

He leaned in, his voice dropping so low it was almost a caress, a promise of exquisite ruin. "After the gala," he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine, "we'll see who's still standing."