THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 92: The Eggs Are Back

Chapter 92: The Eggs Are Back

There, right outside the front entrance, was a crowd.

More than fifty people stood gathered just outside the glass doors, waving large signs with her face on them — and not in admiration.

The words were big, bold, and impossible to miss.

**HOME WRECKER!**

**GOLD DIGGER!**

**WHORE!**

Her photo had been printed on huge boards, some of them set on fire with cigarette lighters, while others were being ripped apart in pieces and handed out like flyers.

And the eggs were back.

Rotten, foul-smelling, and being passed around like popcorn.

She stared at them in disbelief.

How could this even be happening?

This was private property. A company building. A place with security — cameras — rules.

How were they just allowed to—

Her eyes snapped toward the nearby security team standing off to the side.

They were doing nothing. Not just nothing — they were smiling. Actually smiling.

Heather marched straight toward the nearest one.

"Excuse me," she said, pulling her sunglasses down so he could see exactly who she was. "Are those people supposed to be on private property?"

The man shrugged without looking at her.

"I dunno."

Heather blinked, stunned.

"You don’t know?"

He gave her a lazy glance, chewing on something, completely unfazed.

"Isn’t it your job to control these people?" she asked, keeping her voice calm but firm.

He turned to face her fully now, folding his arms across his broad chest, clearly trying to tower over her with his size.

"Isn’t it your job to mind your business?" he said, eyes narrowing.

For a moment, Heather didn’t move. She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Her mouth parted slightly. He didn’t just speak to her like that.

He didn’t just say that. Not while people were holding burning posters with her face outside.

She looked past him to the other guards. None of them intervened. If anything, they looked amused.

She was clearly their entertainment now.

Heather took a breath, trying to collect herself, and to remember that she was supposed to be better than this.

But no.

She reached down, slipped her heel off, and without hesitation—

BAM.

She brought it down on his head.

The man recoiled, shocked. "What the fuck, woman?!"

BAM.

She hit him again.

BAM.

And again.

He staggered back, holding the side of his temple like he couldn’t believe what was happening.

Heather raised the shoe and stared down the rest of the guards.

"Who else wants to see what a gold digger can do with Italian leather?" she asked.

The others shifted back, their hands up, and they backed away without a word.

She stepped closer to the one now kneeling on the floor, using her bare foot to nudge his shoulder.

"I will not be repeating myself," she said, quieter now. "Move them off the property."

The man stared up at her with wide eyes, still holding his head.

"Madam Lauren gave orders to let them in," the guard muttered.

For a moment, Heather didn’t respond. She just stood there, blinking slowly, as her mind processed what he’d said.

Of course it was Lauren; it had to be.

This was no longer a crowd of fans. This was a coordinated show, designed to humiliate her. By her own half-sister.

Fine.

And all of it — the signs, the chants, the eggs — was over a man she didn’t even want.

They were fighting over a man she had spent every ounce of strength trying to forget.

She inhaled slowly through her nose and then exhaled.

She would deal with Lauren later.

Heather turned her head slowly and looked out through the tall glass entrance again. The crowd hadn’t moved.

They were still there, loud and angry, chanting and laughing like they were at Coachella.

Her face was plastered across half the signs, most of them either defaced or torn. Some were set on fire and then stomped out as if that made their point louder.

Others had big red words painted across them. Slurs, accusations, and lies.

And the eggs... they were still being passed around. One woman even handed out gloves to the others like they were part of some twisted team.

Heather’s stomach turned. She felt sick just watching them.

They were celebrating her humiliation.

And the worst part?

Security was doing nothing. They were all just standing there, arms crossed, letting it happen, because of some stupid instruction.

She slowly turned back to the man who’d just spoken.

"Then go outside and tell them to leave," she said, her tone flat. "It’s private property. Do something."

The guard hesitated. He shifted from one foot to the other like a child who’d just been caught doing something wrong.

He looked like he wanted to argue again, but Heather didn’t wait for a reply.

She raised her stiletto; just a little.

Not even a full threat.

But the man flinched. Clearly, he hadn’t recovered from the last time. And now he knew she wasn’t bluffing.

He ducked behind a low pavement divider and came back out holding a megaphone.

Heather stared at it, then at him.

So they had that the entire time and didn’t use it?

Unbelievable.

The man stepped outside, standing stiffly in front of the angry crowd. His shoulders were tense. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

The crowd turned toward him slowly, curious.

He lifted the megaphone.

"Everyone needs to clear out," his voice rang out, a little shaky though. "This is private property. You’re trespassing. I’m going to have to ask you all to leave—"

Before he could finish the sentence, someone in the crowd shouted over him.

"Shut the fuck up!"

And then came the first egg, it hit him square in the chest.

He stumbled back, caught off guard.

Then a second egg flew, landing on his shoulder and splattering.

Then a third.

And just like that, the floodgates opened.

The entire crowd erupted into boos and laughter, and the eggs came flying from all directions.

People weren’t just throwing — they were chasing him now, hurling whatever they had.

Heather watched the man run.

Actually run.

He tossed the megaphone and ducked back behind the building, arms over his head as he scrambled to get away from the barrage.