His Mad Heiress
Suddenly, the doors burst open.
A little girl, his three-year-old daughter, ran in, sobbing. She pointed a trembling finger at her father.
“Daddy,” she wailed, her voice piercing the silence. “Mommy’s gone bad.”
A collective gasp rippled through the reporters. Carter froze, his pen still in his hand.
The little girl wasn't finished. She pointed a small, trembling finger directly at me.
“And you’re still in here flirting with your canary!”
My back went ramrod straight. My hand, instead of reaching for the pen, shot to my purse for my phone.
What? Who’s gone bad? My God, someone call 911.
Wait a second.
Did she say… canary?
At me?
Nobody sent me the memo. And I sure as hell haven't seen a check for any "services rendered."
…
1
Every jaw in that room, including my own, was on the floor. The reporters, sensing blood in the water, went into a feeding frenzy. Cameras swiveled, flashes erupted, capturing the three of us in a perfect, scandalous tableau: the powerful tycoon, the newly-crowned Best Actress, and the little girl who couldn’t possibly know how to lie.
Carter Sterling pinched the bridge of his nose, a deep weariness settling over his handsome features. “Please, everyone,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “She’s a child. Don’t take her words seriously. Ms. Monroe and I have a professional relationship, nothing more.”
But the little girl’s sobs only grew louder, more heartbreaking. “Daddy, are you leaving us? Are you leaving me and Mommy?” she cried. “Mommy’s already dead—”
Seeing my thumb hovering over the 9-1-1 on my phone screen, Carter’s frown deepened. He was trapped. With a sigh that seemed to drain the life from him, he made a decision. He was going to have to take us all home to see the “bad” Mrs. Sterling for ourselves.
The Sterling residence was a palatial townhouse on the Upper East Side. Carter swept through the rooms, calling for his wife, Isabelle, his voice echoing in the marble foyer. The press corps, a pack of well-dressed vultures, followed closely. I trailed behind, feeling like I’d wandered onto the wrong film set.
I noticed the little girl, Lily, kept glancing nervously toward a heavy oak door at the end of the hall.
“Mr. Sterling,” I said quietly. “Have you checked the master bathroom?”
Recognition, or perhaps dread, flashed in his eyes. He didn’t answer, just strode to the door and threw it open.
“Isabelle, how long are you going to keep this up?” he roared, his voice cracking like a whip. “Get out of the damn tub! Now!”
The raw fury in his voice sent a shiver through the crowd. In an instant, they surged forward, cameras and microphones jostling for position to see into the bathroom.
And there she was. Isabelle Sterling, dressed in a delicate white slip, lay motionless in a clawfoot tub filled with water the color of arterial blood. The crimson liquid stained her dress and lapped at her pale skin, creating a tableau that was both tragic and eerily beautiful.
Lily started wailing beside me, a gut-wrenching, genuine cry of grief. “Mommy, don’t leave me! I’ll be good, I promise!” she sobbed. “I brought Daddy back from the bad lady, see? Please, just open your eyes!” She looked from the tub to me, her blue eyes filled with a pure, unadulterated hatred that was chilling to see in a child.
Just as I was about to finally make the call to the police, Carter did something shocking. He reached into the tub and hauled Isabelle out of the water, her limp body dripping red all over the pristine white marble.
“Stop it, Isabelle. Just stop,” he said, his voice flat. “There’s no smell of blood. This is that expensive red bath bomb you love so much.”
A stunned silence fell over the room as the reporters slowly processed his words.
“He’s right,” one of them whispered. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”
“And there are no wounds on her body.”
“So… why did the little girl say all that?”
All eyes turned to Lily. The three-year-old’s face turned scarlet, and she stared intently at her own tiny shoes, suddenly unable to speak.
Just as the silence became unbearable, Isabelle Sterling’s eyelids fluttered open. She blinked, feigning disorientation. “Carter? What… what are you doing here? What happened to me?”
Carter stared down at his wife, the last ounce of patience draining from his face. “Are you done playing games, Isabelle?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Faking your own suicide, coaching our daughter to lie for you… What was the point of all this?”
The performance dropped. Isabelle’s tears vanished, replaced by a venomous glare aimed at me. “It’s because of her!” she shrieked, pointing a dripping finger in my direction. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on. Stella Monroe, your new little canary. The Oscar you probably bought for her…” Her voice trailed off, her implication hanging poisonously in the air. “You haven’t been home in a week, Carter. All for her.”
I was speechless. I’m a glamorous actress, yes, but I built my career on talent and grit. I earned that Oscar with my own blood, sweat, and tears. But in the twisted narrative Isabelle was weaving, my greatest professional achievement was suddenly tainted, reduced to a transactional perk.
Isabelle’s face crumpled again, the tears returning on cue. “I… I just missed you,” she whimpered, her voice thick with manufactured pain. “I had to do something to get you to come home…”
Carter closed his eyes, looking utterly defeated. “I told you, the company has been…”
He didn’t get to finish. I’d had enough. “Mrs. Sterling,” I interrupted, my voice calm but firm. “I don’t know what misconception you have about me, but Mr. Sterling and I are business partners. Your husband’s company and my career goals align. That’s why they chose me as a brand ambassador. That is all.”
Isabelle collapsed against Carter’s chest, a fragile, weeping damsel. “Stella, please,” she sobbed, her voice just loud enough for every microphone to pick it up. “Please, don’t destroy my family. I love my husband so much. Our daughter needs her father.” She took a shaky breath, delivering the killing blow. “That lace teddy you ‘accidentally’ left in the sofa cushions last week… I washed it for you. It’s clean. You can have it back. Just please, give me my husband back.”
2
Her words were a grenade tossed into the room. The reporters exploded.
“Ms. Sterling, what is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Sterling?”
“How far has this affair gone?”
“Ms. Monroe, was your Oscar win influenced by your relationship with Carter Sterling?”
Isabelle buried her face in her husband’s chest, but not before flashing me a triumphant, malicious smile from the corner of her eye.
My mind went blank with rage. I’ve never even met this woman before today. Why was she fabricating this elaborate, career-destroying lie?
My composure finally snapped. I whipped out my phone, hit record, and aimed the camera squarely at her face.
“Mrs. Sterling,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “First, this is the first time I have ever set foot in your home. Second, I am the brand ambassador for a high-end lingerie line. And third, I have never had any private contact with your husband whatsoever. This entire conversation is being recorded. For your baseless and defamatory accusations, I will be contacting the police and instructing my legal team to file a lawsuit.”
For the first time, a flicker of panic crossed Isabelle’s face. Her eyes darted to Carter, her default setting when in trouble. But this time, her husband didn't rush to her defense. Instead, he peeled her off his chest and exposed her lie.
“What the hell are you doing, Isabelle?” he demanded, his voice laced with a fury I hadn’t heard before. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, a textbook love story, yet you insist on telling everyone we have an arranged marriage and that I’m destined to cheat on you. Over the years, you’ve accused my assistant, our nanny, and even our chef. I fired them all, just to give you peace of mind. I met Stella Monroe for the first time today. What is this canary nonsense you’re spewing?”
Isabelle’s lower lip trembled. “Then fire her, too,” she pleaded weakly. “Replace her with a male ambassador…”
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Carter’s lips. “She’s the face of our new line of sanitary pads, Isabelle. The artists have to test the product. How, exactly, do you suggest a man does that?”
Cornered and defeated, Isabelle’s eyes scanned the room, searching for a lifeline. They landed on her daughter.
“I wasn’t lying!” she declared, her voice rising with renewed conviction. “Lily saw it with her own eyes. She can prove that the lingerie belonged to Stella.”
She shot a look at Lily, a silent, menacing command. If you don’t back me up, you’re in for it.
The little girl began to tremble, fat tears rolling down her cheeks like pearls. “Mommy, I…” She hesitated, her small body shaking with fear and conflict. Finally, she took a deep breath.
“The panties…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Mommy put them there herself. And… and she told me what to say to Daddy…”
Isabelle’s face contorted with rage. But her fury wasn’t directed at her husband, who had exposed her, or her daughter, who had told the truth. It was all aimed at me.
“You!” she screamed, lunging toward me before a security guard caught her arm. “What did you do to my daughter? Why would she help a manipulative slut like you instead of her own mother?”
I stood my ground, my face a mask of stone. “Mrs. Sterling, for the last time, I am not your husband’s mistress, and I have no interest in your marriage.”
“Enough!” Carter’s roar silenced the room. “One more word, Isabelle, and we are getting a divorce.”
He had his security team escort the reporters out. As I turned to leave, finally extricating myself from this nightmare, Isabelle lunged again, grabbing my arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
“You’re not going anywhere!” she hissed. “You conniving bitch, is this your endgame? Getting Carter to divorce me?”
Carter looked like he had aged ten years in the last hour. “What are you talking about? Our divorce would have nothing to do with Ms. Monroe…”
Before he could finish, little Lily suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, her hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“Pretty lady,” she whispered, her eyes wide and pleading. “Please… please don’t take my daddy away.”
3
I knelt, gently helping her to her feet. I smoothed down her tangled curls, my heart aching for this poor, confused child. “Honey,” I asked softly, “who told you I was going to take your daddy away?”
Lily glanced nervously at her mother before quickly dropping her gaze back to the floor.
That was all the answer I needed.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to worry,” I assured her, giving her a small, reassuring smile. “I would never, ever take your father away from you.”
I stood up, ready to tell Carter Sterling that he could keep his endorsement deal; no amount of money was worth this circus. But he spoke first.
“One million dollars added to the endorsement fee,” he said, his voice clipped and businesslike. “And Sterling Corporation will donate ten thousand feminine hygiene products to girls in underserved communities, in your name.”
The words died in my throat.
Really, Mr. Sterling. The money is hardly the point.
But that donation… that was a masterstroke.
He then knelt down to his daughter’s level. “Lily, listen to me. I will always be your daddy. No one and nothing will ever change that. You understand?”
Isabelle opened her mouth to protest, but a single, withering look from her husband silenced her. She settled for glaring at me with pure, unadulterated venom.
After that day, I went to great lengths to ensure Carter Sterling and I were never in the same room. While he and his team had managed to kill the story with the press, a faint, ugly rumor still clung to me within the industry.
Just as the whispers were starting to fade, Isabelle went live on Instagram.
She appeared on screen looking pale and haggard, her voice raspy.
“Stella Monroe,” she began, her eyes staring directly into the camera. “I’m begging you. Can you please just give me my husband back?”
My name, alongside Carter’s, shot to the top of the trending topics.
“My daughter, Lily, is sick,” Isabelle continued, her voice breaking. “She has a terrible fever. But I can’t reach Carter. He hasn’t been home in a week.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I know you’re the one keeping him away, but Lily misses him so much. Please…”
As if on cue, she turned the camera to show Lily lying on a couch, her little face flushed bright red with fever. The child was barely conscious, mumbling “Daddy… Daddy…” over and over again. It was a heart-wrenching sight, and the comments section immediately exploded with vitriol directed at me.
【Figures. The whole Hollywood scene is rotten. Stella Monroe looks like an angel but she’s just another homewrecker.】
【I knew that story wasn’t fake! She’s totally sleeping with Carter Sterling…】
The tide of online hate was overwhelming. My fans tried to defend me, but their voices were drowned out in the flood. I was about to request to join her live stream and confront her when someone else beat me to it.
Carter Sterling’s exhausted face appeared in a split screen. His voice was rough with fatigue.
“Isabelle, what are you doing now?” he demanded. “I told you a week ago I was on a business trip overseas. What’s wrong with Lily?” He sounded genuinely alarmed. “Why haven’t you called the family doctor? Why is she so sick? I pay him a hundred thousand dollars a month to be on call!”
Suddenly, a man’s trembling voice could be heard from off-screen on Isabelle’s side. “Mr… Mr. Sterling, it’s Dr. Evans. I’m here. But Mrs. Sterling won’t let me give Lily anything for the fever…” His voice dropped lower. “Sir, she’s been making her take a cold bath every hour. She said she’d fire anyone who tried to stop her…”
4
I knew Isabelle was unhinged, but I never imagined she was capable of this. Lily was only three years old. How could a mother be so cruel?
Isabelle kicked wildly in the direction of the doctor’s voice, her eyes red-rimmed and frantic. “Carter, don’t listen to him! He’s lying! She’s obviously paid him off, too!”
Tears streamed down her face, splashing onto her phone. “I know you’re not really working, Carter. You’re on vacation with Stella Monroe…”
My fans were spamming the comments, pointing out that I was in the middle of a film shoot in the States and posting set photos as proof, but Isabelle was either ignoring them or too far gone to care.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I hit the request to join. A second later, my face appeared on the live stream.
“Seriously, lady, get a grip,” I snapped, not bothering to hide my anger. “Look at me. It’s nighttime here. I’m in the middle of the damn desert. There’s nothing but sand and stars. Now look at your husband. The sun is shining so brightly on his face it’s practically blinding. How could we possibly be together? For the love of God, keep me out of your weird, twisted games. I’m begging you!”
The undeniable proof was like a slap in the face. Isabelle froze, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, utterly speechless.
In that moment of stunned silence, Dr. Evans seized his chance. He darted into the frame, scooped up the feverish Lily, and rushed away. Other people—staff, presumably—grabbed a struggling Isabelle, who accidentally ended the live stream in her frantic attempts to break free.
Suddenly, it was just me and Carter Sterling, staring at each other from opposite sides of the world through our phone screens.
He looked grim, his face an emotionless mask. It wasn't stoicism; it was the look of a man who had simply run out of options.
“Stella,” he said, his voice heavy. “I am so sorry for this. I will make sure my wife apologizes to you.”
Before I could tell him to absolutely not do that, he ended the call.
A week later, I was on set for a Sterling Corp commercial shoot when Carter appeared, with Isabelle in tow.
“Stella, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, refusing to meet my eyes. “I shouldn’t have gotten so jealous. I shouldn’t have said those things about you and my husband in front of all those people…” She sniffled, and the waterworks began anew. “It’s just… after I had Lily, I let myself go. It’s only natural for Carter to want something new and fresh.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. Was this supposed to be an apology?
I felt a surge of rage so intense I was about to leap out of my chair and give her a piece of my mind. My agent, sensing disaster, grabbed my arm under the table. “The contract is signed,” she hissed. “Breaching it now will cost you millions.”
The thought of that astronomical penalty was like a bucket of ice water. I clenched my fists and forced myself to sit back down.
Carter was watching his wife, a look of profound disbelief on his face, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
Isabelle, oblivious, continued her masterclass in non-apologies, each word a veiled insult designed to reinforce her narrative.
Carter caught my eye and silently held up one finger. A moment later, his assistant approached me and discreetly slid a script across the table.
It was for the lead role in a new film by one of the most acclaimed international directors working today.
My vision cleared instantly. Suddenly, Isabelle didn’t seem like a demonic succubus anymore. She was my lucky charm. My golden goose.
Carter then wrapped an arm around his wife, pulling her into an embrace. “Honey, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ve been neglecting you. I’m going to clear my schedule for the next month. We’re going to find you some help. A good doctor.”
I learned later that Carter and Isabelle had been college sweethearts, a genuine love story that had culminated in a fairytale wedding. But after Lily was born, Carter’s work became all-consuming. Isabelle, alone and isolated, fell deep into the world of over-the-top romance novels, the lines between fiction and her own life blurring until she couldn’t tell them apart. She was a woman suffering from severe, untreated postpartum depression. Thinking of it that way, I found it hard to stay angry at her.
After that incident, I avoided Carter Sterling like the plague. If I saw him at an event, I would execute a perfect 180-degree turn and walk in the opposite direction.
But even with me keeping my distance, Isabelle wouldn’t let it go.
5
She refused to see a therapist, insisting there was nothing wrong with her. So Carter, the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation, started working from home to be with her. Trapped in the house, Isabelle began a new campaign, mailing photos of me and Carter from the press conference to every tabloid and gossip blog in the country, hoping someone would expose my "true identity" as his canary.
But no one took the bait. The photos clearly showed a professional, social distance between us. In fact, a few of the more reputable journalists contacted me directly to warn me about her.
Undeterred, Isabelle upped the ante. She sent a new batch of photos to the seediest online gossip sites—blatantly photoshopped images of me and Carter in compromising positions. Her goal was to create a scandal so massive it would force him to terminate my contract.
The plan backfired spectacularly. The photos ended up in Carter's hands before they were ever published. The paparazzi, however, had a field day capturing the fallout. Photos of Carter, his face like thunder, were splashed across every entertainment site. The accompanying articles detailed their explosive argument, with Isabelle screaming that he was protecting me.
“Right now, Stella is just your canary, but soon you’ll divorce me for her!” her voice was recorded saying. “You’re going to fall in love with her, I know it!”
“I love you, Carter! I don’t want to lose you!”
Carter’s fury was palpable even in the grainy photos. He was seen throwing a stack of files across his study. “I have told you a thousand times, my relationship with Stella Monroe is purely professional! It is not whatever twisted fantasy you’ve cooked up in your head!” he roared back. “And sending these obviously fake AI-generated pictures to gossip sites? Are you trying to destroy my reputation or hers?”
For the first time, it seemed to dawn on Isabelle that she had gone too far. Seeing the genuine rage in her husband's eyes, her bravado crumbled. "Fine… I'll apologize to her, okay?" she stammered.
I wanted nothing to do with another one of her "apologies." I just wanted her to leave me alone.
But, of course, her next apology was as unique and horrifying as the last.
I was at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new Sterling Corporation manufacturing plant. As I stood on the stage, scissors in hand, Isabelle suddenly burst through the crowd, dragging Lily behind her. She threw herself to the ground at my feet, a dramatic, theatrical kneel.
“Ms. Monroe, I know I was wrong!” she cried out for all the news cameras to hear. “Please, I’m begging you, don’t make Carter throw my daughter and me out on the street!”
I was completely bewildered.
Carter rushed forward, trying to pull her to her feet. “What are you talking about?” he gritted out. “You’re my wife! When have I ever said I was kicking you out?”
Isabelle ignored him, her performance solely for the audience. “Carter, I know I shouldn’t have exposed your affair with Ms. Monroe,” she sobbed. “But I’m a mother! I have to think of my child’s future! Ms. Monroe,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, menacing tone, “I will not let you destroy my family.”
She looked up, her eyes like a cornered snake’s, locking onto mine.
In one swift movement, she sprang to her feet, produced a small, black pill from her pocket, and shoved it into my mouth.
I tried to spit it out, but she clamped her hand over my mouth, forcing me to swallow.
Chaos erupted. People screamed and rushed forward to pull her off me. But before they could reach us, Isabelle popped an identical pill into her own mouth. The crowd froze, terrified of what she might do next. Lily was screaming, lost in the sea of panicked adults.
Carter’s face was a mask of pure fury. “Isabelle, what did you give her? What did you do? You said you were here to apologize!”
A faint, triumphant smile played on her lips as tears streamed down her face. “You wouldn’t choose between me and your canary, Carter, so I’m making the choice for you,” she said, her voice breathy. “We both took the same pill. It’s a powerful aphrodisiac, and the only antidote is… a man. It takes effect in three minutes. The cure is in your jacket pocket.”
Her eyes gleamed with a crazed light. “But there’s only one dose. Who do you save, Carter?”
His hand shot to his pocket, pulling out a small vial. He stared at the single pill inside, his eyes wide with horror.
“You have two minutes,” Isabelle taunted, her breathing already becoming labored.
“This is insane, Isabelle! Give me the rest of the antidote, now!” Carter yelled, his voice tight with panic.
My vision was already starting to blur at the edges. A wave of heat washed over me.
Beside me, Isabelle let out a soft moan, but her smile was chillingly triumphant. “Time is running out, Carter.”
Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Thirty seconds.”
“I choose!” Carter shouted, his voice raw. He lunged forward, holding the antidote out to…
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