Reborn Heiress: Rejecting The Biker Ex

Helena Austin POV:

"Put the damn patch on, Helena."

The harsh demand slammed into my ears, cutting through the deafening roar of heavy metal and the thunderous laughter of thirty armed bikers.

A phantom agony tore through my abdomen-the memory of a rusty scalpel, cold concrete, and my unborn child being carved out of me in the dark while the Harrington crew drank upstairs. I was twenty-two again.

I opened my eyes and looked down. Resting in my palm was a freshly cut leather strip, the words Property of Harrington stamped into the hide in thick gold lettering.

I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing the violent tremor in my hands down into my gut. My left thumb slid up, brushing against the cold, heavy silver skull ring on my index finger.

The solid bite of the metal against my knuckle anchored me.

I was standing in the center of the Harrington MC clubhouse on the exact night of the Alliance property claiming ceremony.

The crowd of patched members parted around the pool tables. Heavy engineer boots thudded against the beer-soaked hardwood as a tall man marched toward me, the harsh neon lights reflecting off his slicked-back blonde hair.

Calhoun Gardner.

The Vice President of Harrington MC. The man who had bled my family's transport empire dry and left me to die in a ditch.

He wore his leather Cut proudly, the golden eagle of the Harrington MC gleaming across his chest. He stopped a foot in front of me, looking down with the lazy, entitled arrogance of a prince inspecting a stray dog.

"What are you daydreaming about?" Calhoun sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. "Sew the rocker onto your vest. The brothers are waiting for the toast. Don't make me look like an idiot in my own clubhouse."

He reached out, his heavy, ring-laden hand moving to clamp down on my shoulder.

I didn't hesitate. I stepped sideways, letting his hand grasp empty air.

Calhoun's fingers froze in the space where my neck had been. His brows slammed together, his jaw tightening as his neck flushed a dark, furious crimson.

"The hell is wrong with you?" Calhoun lowered his voice, his tone turning venomous as he rolled up his right sleeve, revealing the jagged eagle-claw tattoo on his forearm. "Tonight is the night you bring your father's transport fleet under our banner. Don't play hard to get in front of the club."

My gaze drifted past his broad shoulder.

Hiding just behind him, clutching the hem of his leather vest with delicate, manicured fingers, was Bernadette Roach.

She looked up at me with wide, tear-filled green eyes, biting her lower lip like a frightened doe.

"Is Helena upset because I'm here?" Bernadette whispered, her voice trembling softly enough to make every man in the room want to defend her. "I'm so sorry, Calhoun... Maybe I should just wait in the back room..."

She said she would leave, yet she pressed her chest harder against Calhoun's bicep, subtly tilting her neck to expose the faint birthmark beneath her collarbone.

Calhoun immediately wrapped an arm around her waist, shielding her as if she were a fragile porcelain doll, and glared at me.

"Look at that venomous face you're making," Calhoun spat, his lip curling. "Bernie is just a harmless Sweetbutt who needs a roof over her head. You can't even show a little grace on our claiming night? You're acting like a jealous shrew."

Around the room, several Prospects and patched members started chuckling, their voices loud and mocking.

"The boss's girl thinks she owns the place already."

"Just a grease monkey with deep pockets. She ought to be grateful Calhoun is giving her a title."

I lifted my right hand, holding the Property of Harrington patch between two fingers, letting it dangle under the flickering neon lights.

"Grace? You think this is about grace, Calhoun?"

My voice was quiet, yet in the sudden lull between heavy metal tracks, every word cut clean across the room.

"Sew it on," Calhoun ordered, taking a menacing step forward. "Now."

I loosened my grip.

The heavy leather patch slipped from my fingers, tumbling through the air before slapping wetly into a puddle of spilled whiskey and dirt on the floorboards.

The entire clubhouse went dead silent.

The laughter died in the men's throats. The pool cues froze mid-stroke. Dropping a club patch into the dirt wasn't just disrespect-in the One-Percenter world, it was an unforgivable declaration of war.

Calhoun's face drained of color, his eyes bulging in disbelief.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" he roared, his voice cracking with rage. "Pick it up! Pick it up right now before I make you eat it! You just insulted the entire club!"

I didn't bend down. Instead, I lifted my right combat boot.

With steady, deliberate force, I brought the heavy steel-toed sole down directly onto the golden eagle embroidered on the patch, grinding the leather into the filth beneath my heel.

The leather groaned under the pressure.

Calhoun let out a sharp, choked gasp, flinching as if the heavy boot had just landed squarely across his face.

"Insult?" I looked straight into his furious eyes, my own devoid of warmth. "No. I'm just putting garbage where it belongs."

Bernadette let out a theatrical gasp, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh God... Helena, how could you desecrate Calhoun's colors like that..."

I took half a step toward her, my gaze locking onto her trembling face. "Shut your mouth, Bernadette. The cheap perfume you stole from the corner pharmacy is giving me a headache."

Bernadette's face turned paper-white. She recoiled so fast her high heel caught on an empty beer bottle, sending her sprawling onto the sticky floor with a pathetic yelp.

"You bitch!" Calhoun bellowed.

With a metallic screech, he ripped the tactical combat knife from the sheath at his hip, the jagged blade stopping less than an inch from my throat.

"I can slit your throat right here under the highway code, and not a single soul in this state will give a shit!"

The cold steel radiated against my skin. I didn't flinch. I didn't step back.

Instead, I leaned forward half an inch, letting the sharp tip graze the collar of my leather jacket.

"Go ahead and cut, Calhoun," I whispered, my smile widening into something wild and sharp. "Let's see if your club survives the night once my dispatchers pull every truck, every engine part, and every cent of funding from your territory."

Calhoun's hand locked rigid in mid-air. The blood drained from his face as the reality of my words hit him like a concrete wall.

I shoved his blade aside with a flick of my gloved wrist, turned my back on his frozen blade, and walked straight toward the wooden podium at the center of the hall.