A False Heiress's Guide to Love and Power

The roar of the motorcycle and the rush of wind tore past their ears as they weaved across the street. After a quick turn, the two women slipped down a narrow alley and finally came to a stop at the end. The door to the bar stood wide open, looking unremarkable from the outside. Inside, just two or three people were quietly tidying up, getting ready for the night ahead.

Alessia pulled off her helmet and ran a hand through her long hair, smoothing it absentmindedly. Stella, with her neat, close–cropped hair, gave it a quick tousle and seemed content to leave it be–until Alessia rolled her eyes and reached over to pat down a stray tuft sticking up at the back.

A server spotted them and rushed over, taking their helmets. Stella tossed him her keys as well, then slipped an arm around Alessia’s shoulders and led her inside. At five–six, Alessia wasn’t short, but Stella still had nearly a head on her.

“So? It’s just like your plans,” Stella said, barely through the door before her excitement bubbled over. “You’re supposed to be the co–owner, but you never even showed up for the grand opening.”

“You know I prefer to keep a low profile. Besides, didn’t I send you some little gifts as an apology?” Alessia cupped her face in her hands and winked. “Miss Laine is far too gracious to hold a grudge–right?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare be mad at my favorite sponsor.” Stella glanced over at the display of glasses and bottles behind the bar, shaking her head with mock admiration. “Seriously, though.”

“Just some baubles worth, what, almost eight million?” Alessia replied with a smirk. That was exactly why Stella hadn’t worried when Alessia left the Tate family.

How many pampered heiresses could, before even turning twenty–one, casually spend eight million on “little trinkets“-and, while she was at it, invest another million into her friend’s pipe–dream bar, all without any help from home?

answer further. She simply made a slow circuit of the bar,

in a warm, golden glow–not sultry, but quietly luxurious. Anyone with an eye for it would notice: from

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seat. Stella snapped her fingers, and a server appeared with a cocktail and a

up her cocktail with one hand and

illustrious patron–are you pleased with what you

sip of juice, and set it down. “Not bad.

“How’s Queenie doing?”

end of the

but if something’s really wrong, nobody’s better at hiding it than her. Last time, she nearly died and I only found out because I was extra nosy. Otherwise, she’d still be keeping

always riled Stella up, Alessia steered the conversation elsewhere. “But you called me over today–was there something

on the eyes. How about we grab dinner later, then come back for a couple

interested, but she