Betrayed Heiress Strikes Back

Chapter 8

The morning had been quiet, almost too quiet. Rylee Scott—Kya Byrd beneath the mask—had spent hours hunched over her laptop at home, spreadsheets open, emails half‑written, her mind drifting more often than focusing. The walls of her apartment felt close, suffocating, and she needed air. Jeans, sneakers, and a soft gray pullover were all she bothered with. No makeup, no jewelry, no armor. Just herself.

She didn’t want the driver today. She didn’t want the mansion’s polished cars or the silent bodyguards who shadowed her movements. She wanted anonymity. So she hailed a cab, sliding into the cracked leather seat, grateful for the ordinary hum of traffic outside. The city was alive—horns blaring, pedestrians rushing, the smell of exhaust mingling with roasted chestnuts from a street vendor. For once, she felt invisible.

The cab dropped her at a corner café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. It wasn’t grand, not the kind of place Elena Carney would ever be seen in, but it was warm, familiar. The bell above the door chimed as she stepped inside, and the scent of espresso wrapped around her like a blanket. Wooden tables crowded the space, their surfaces scarred with years of use. Chalkboard menus hung crookedly above the counter, listing lattes and pastries in looping handwriting. A barista with a nose ring smiled faintly as she took Rylee’s order.

She carried her latte to a window seat, notebook in hand. Outside, the city pulsed—buses groaning to a stop, couples walking arm in arm, a child tugging at his mother’s sleeve. Inside, the café hummed with quiet life: students bent over laptops, an elderly man reading the newspaper, a pair of women whispering over croissants. Rylee exhaled, shoulders loosening. Here, she wasn’t the Byrd heiress or Julian Gray’s fiancée. She was just a woman with coffee, scribbling thoughts in the margin of her notebook.

The bell chimed again.

She didn’t look up at first, too absorbed in her notes. But the sudden shift in atmosphere—the way voices dipped, the way the barista straightened—made her glance toward the door. And her stomach dropped.

Cecilia Henry swept in, her perfume sharp and cloying, her posture rigid with entitlement. At her side was Maya Hastings, heels clicking against the tile, coat draped over her shoulders like a queen’s mantle. Their presence was magnetic, drawing eyes from every corner of the café. Conversations faltered. Even the barista’s smile stiffened.

Rylee’s pulse quickened. She lowered her gaze, hoping to disappear into her notebook. But it was too late. Maya’s eyes had found her, gleaming with recognition.

“Well, well,” Maya drawled, her voice carrying across the café. “If it isn’t Sebastian’s little charity case.”

Cecilia’s laugh followed, brittle and cruel. “Look at her. Jeans, sneakers, no makeup. She looks like she rolled out of bed. Honestly, Sebastian must have been desperate.”

Heat rushed to Rylee’s cheeks. She tightened her grip on her cup, forcing her expression to remain calm. The café had gone quieter, patrons pretending not to listen but their eyes flicking toward the scene. The elderly man lowered his newspaper, students paused mid‑typing, even the women with croissants leaned closer.

Rylee lifted her chin, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. “Not everyone needs a costume to feel important.”

Maya tilted her head, lips curling. “Important? Darling, you were never important. You were a placeholder. Sebastian was always waiting for someone better.”

Cecilia stepped closer, her disdain dripping from every syllable. “How do you even afford coffee in this place?" She frowned. "You refused the settlement even though you have nothing on your name. And now I see you drinking—" Cecilia looked at Rylee's coffee. "Latte? You should take black— it's cheaper. Save some extra few bucks. God knows you're going to need it! You know, with the divorce and all. Better yet, maybe buy instant coffee and drink it at home. Oh, wait. Where are you staying these days? You can't afford an apartment. So you must be living in the streets. No wonder it... stinks around here." Cecilia smirked then fanned her face as if she smelled something nasty.

The words sliced through her, reopening wounds she thought had begun to heal. She remembered the nights she had cooked for Sebastian, the mornings she had scrubbed his floors, the hours she had poured into his dream. She remembered the cheap ring, the courthouse vows, the way she had believed love was enough. And now, here she was, mocked in public, reduced to nothing more than a discarded chapter.

Her fingers trembled around the cup, but she refused to let them see her break. She straightened, her voice low but sharp. “Funny,” she said, “I don’t remember you going out to places like this to get coffee either. I used to make you coffee at your place, and you'd ask for another one in the afternoon because there's nothing else to drink besides water.” Rylee raised a brow at Cecilia. She didn't mean to take a jab at her but Sebastian's mother was too much.

For a moment, Maya’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. But Cecilia scoffed, tugging Maya toward the counter. “Come on. Let’s not waste time on leftovers.”

They moved away, but the damage lingered. The café’s hum resumed, though softer, tinged with discomfort. The barista avoided Rylee’s eyes, sliding pastries into a bag with forced cheer. The students bent back to their laptops, though their glances betrayed curiosity.

Rylee sat frozen, her latte cooling in her hands. Her heart pounded, her throat tight. She wanted to vanish, to dissolve into the wood grain of the table. But beneath the humiliation, something else stirred—anger.

They could insult her clothes, her face, her worth. They could laugh at her pain, dismiss her sacrifices. But they couldn’t erase the truth. She had survived Sebastian. She had endured his betrayal, his mother’s cruelty, Maya’s lies. And she was still here.

This wasn’t just about coffee. It wasn’t about jeans or sneakers or plain faces. It was about war. Cecilia and Maya had drawn their line, and Rylee knew now—she was done playing quietly.

Rylee steadied herself, notebook tucked under her arm, ready to leave the café with what dignity she could salvage. The sting of Cecilia’s laughter and Maya’s venom still clung to her skin, heavy as smoke. She moved toward the door, chin lifted, when a voice drifted from the corner.

“Funny thing about people,” the man said, his tone smooth, almost amused. “The loudest ones are usually the emptiest. Especially those who pretend to be wealthy when they’re nothing but a polished nobody.”

The words cut through the café’s hum, sharp and deliberate. Heads turned, curious. Rylee froze, her gaze snapping toward the speaker. He stood half‑hidden in the corner, leaning against the wall with casual ease. Dark hair, lean build, eyes that glinted with something between humor and disdain. He hadn’t moved during the entire confrontation, but now his presence seemed to fill the room.

Cecilia and Maya stiffened at the remark, their faces tightening. Maya’s lips parted, ready to retort, but the man’s gaze was steady, unflinching. Something in it silenced her. With a scoff, Cecilia tugged Maya toward the counter, muttering under her breath. The barista, who had been frozen mid‑pour, resumed her work, though her eyes lingered on the stranger.

Rylee’s pulse slowed, the tension in her chest easing just slightly. She hadn’t expected anyone to intervene, let alone with words so precise, so cutting. A smile tugged at her lips—small, reluctant, but real. She turned back to her table, gathering her things with steadier hands.

The man didn’t approach, didn’t offer more. He simply watched, expression unreadable, as if he’d seen this scene play out a hundred times before. His comment hung in the air, a quiet shield against the cruelty she had endured.

Rylee slipped past him on her way out, her eyes meeting his for the briefest moment. There was something in that glance—recognition, perhaps, or curiosity—but she couldn’t place it. She only knew that his words had given her back a sliver of strength.

Outside, the city’s noise swallowed her again. The cab waited at the curb, its driver tapping ash from his cigarette. Rylee climbed in, clutching her notebook, her smile fading into thought. She didn’t know who the man was, or why he had spoken. But she knew this: not everyone in the room had been against her.

And somewhere in the shadows, someone had seen her pain—and chosen to speak.