The Arrogant Young Lady’s Awakening Chapter 01

The Arrogant Young Lady’s Awakening Chapter 01

I’m the most spoiled, most insufferable heiress in all of Manhattan.

Three years ago, I strong-armed Adrian Sinclair—the city’s coldest tech prodigy—into marrying me.

I slid the ring onto his finger myself.

The unspoken rule: no female within ten feet of him, ever, unless she has a death wish.

Today I popped into his office.

I saw him lean over, tucking a girl’s hair behind her ear gently.

In three years of marriage, I had never once seen him look at anyone like that.

I was about to do what I always did—kick the door open and burn the whole place down.

Then a row of text scrolled across my vision.

Dense, glowing, impossible.

“Heads up, everyone! Classic villainess meltdown incoming!”

I froze.

More comments came pouring in:

“God, I can’t stand this side chick.Crazy and dumb.”

“Three more months and she’s done. Her dad’s company is about to crater, his fraud case breaks wide open, every asset frozen. Our poor baby Adrian is finally free of her.”

“Right? And she ends up on the street, working at some sleazy dive bar where a customer pours liquor on her and gropes her.”

“It gets better. She gets hit by a car later, loses the use of her legs. Stuck in a wheelchair with no one to push her.!”

The leg I had already lifted to step forward—I pulled back.

—

The spilled broth had splattered all over my brand-new heels.

I looked down.

Dior’s limited fall collection, patent pearl-white, now drowning in chunks of corn-and-rib soup.

Three years ago, I would’ve kicked over the trash can next to me.

Then I would have shouldered through that door and slammed the thermos straight into Adrian Sinclair’s face, in front of that woman, without blinking.

But right now, I just stood there.

Hollow.

Not just because of those scrolling comments and their ugly prophecy.

But because Adrian really did look at that woman differently.

Was that the so-called female lead?

The one Adrian Sinclair was destined to love?

I sucked in a breath and forced my eyes away from the gap in the door.

Inside the glass conference room, she stood angled toward me—soft waves over her shoulders, a misty-blue knit dress draped on her slender frame.

Gentle.

Composed.

Standing right next to my husband.

She held a document, pointing at something with one finger.

Adrian followed her gaze.

And the sharp, perpetually tense line of his jaw—softened.

So he can make that face after all.

Three years of marriage.

I once held a knife to his throat and couldn’t pull that expression out of him.

But the comments echoed in my skull, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t dare make a scene.

I bent down obediently and picked up the dented thermos.

The lid was gone. So was the soup.

The staff in the hallway saw me and their faces went through every shade of horror.

Some shoved their noses into their monitors.

Some flicked panicked glances toward the conference room.

A few wore expressions that openly screamed:

Oh god, the heiress is here, someone’s dying today.

I didn’t look at any of them.

I walked straight to the elevator and hit the down button.

Footsteps came hurrying after me.

“Mrs. Sinclair.”

It was Adrian’s secretary, Whitman.

He’d been with him five years. He knew better than anyone how often I came in to check up.

He jogged up beside me, voice dropped low.

“Are you… here to see Mr. Sinclair? I’ll let him know.”