The Socialite

I was once a New York socialite. Now, I was a ghost eating garbage from a dumpster behind the building that still bore my family’s name.

Then I heard his voice. Brigham. My former lover, my step-brother, the man I had come back for.

He was on the phone with Eve, the woman who had stolen my life, my family, and my face.

He saw me, a disfigured heap of rags, and his face filled with disgust. He told his assistant to give me money and "get this filth off company property."

For a fleeting moment, he saw the infinity tattoo on my wrist—our secret promise of forever. He even whispered my name, "Eloise?"

But then he shook his head, dismissing the impossible. He turned his back on me, walking away without a second glance. That final rejection broke the last piece of my soul.

I walked to the Brooklyn Bridge and let go.

Just as my body hit the cold water, a doctor was on the phone with Brigham, his voice trembling with the results of a new DNA test. The original test, the one that had destroyed my life, was a fake. I was the true heiress all along.

Chapter 1

The stench of rotting food and wet cardboard filled Eloise Conway's nostrils. It was the smell of her life now. She plunged her good hand deeper into the dumpster, her fingers searching past slimy bags and broken glass. This particular dumpster, behind the gleaming Conway Tower, was often a goldmine. The upscale restaurant on the ground floor threw out food that was barely a day old.

A former New York City socialite, she knew quality. Now, she was just another homeless woman, a ghost haunting the edges of her own past. The city lights blurred in her vision. Hunger was a constant, gnawing ache in her stomach.

She pulled out a sealed plastic container. Inside was a half-eaten slice of expensive-looking cheesecake. A small victory. She sat on the cold pavement, her back against the brick wall of the alley, and used her fingers to scoop the creamy dessert into her mouth. It tasted like heaven. It tasted like a life she no longer had.

Her face, once on the cover of magazines, was now a roadmap of scars. A thick, puckered line ran from her temple down to her jaw, pulling her lip into a permanent sneer. Acid. Her left hand was a mangled claw, the bones crushed beyond repair. She couldn't speak, not a single word. Her vocal cords were gone.

Was it better to starve with dignity or to live like this? The question was a dull, repetitive drum in her head. But every time the hunger became unbearable, the answer was the same. She chose to live. She chose the dumpster.

A car door slammed nearby. The sound was sharp, expensive. She ignored it, focusing on the last bite of cheesecake. Suddenly, a man's voice cut through the air, crisp and familiar.

"Just leave it on the seat, Mark. I'll take it from here."

Eloise froze. She knew that voice. She would know it anywhere. She slowly looked up.

Brigham Conway stood under the alley light, his tailored suit perfect, his face hard and handsome. Her step-brother. Her former lover. The CEO of the company whose garbage she was eating. He was talking on his phone, his back to her.

"Eve, honey, I'm just leaving the office. Yes, I'll be home soon."

Eve. The name was a physical blow. The woman who had taken everything from her. The new heiress. Brigham's fiancée.

A wave of nausea washed over Eloise, stronger than the hunger. She wanted to run, to hide, but her body was frozen. This was why she had come back. After months of walking, of hitching rides, of starving her way from that desolate town back to New York, it was for this. To see him one last time.

She had held onto a foolish hope, a tiny flicker in the vast darkness of her life. Maybe he would see her. Maybe he would recognize her. Maybe, just maybe, he still cared.

Now, hearing him speak to Eve with such tenderness, that hope died. It was a fool's dream. He was happy. He had moved on. Her existence was an inconvenience he wasn't even aware of.

He laughed at something Eve said, a low, intimate sound that tore Eloise apart. The cheesecake churned in her stomach. She felt the bile rise in her throat and turned her head, vomiting onto the dirty pavement.

The sound made Brigham turn. He saw her then, a wretched heap of rags on the ground. His face tightened with disgust.

"Mark, get over here," he snapped.

His assistant, Mark, a young man in a sharp suit, hurried over.

"Sir?"

"Give her some money. Get her out of here. I don't want to see this filth on company property."

Mark approached Eloise cautiously, pulling a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. He held it out, his nose wrinkled.

"Here. Now you need to leave."

Eloise didn't look at the money. She didn't look at Mark. She looked at Brigham. Her eyes, the only part of her face that was still hers, pleaded with him. Look at me. Please, just look at me.