From Captive Fake Daughter To Untouchable Billionaire Heiress

I stood in the cramped, windowless room at the end of the servant’s hall that had been my bedroom for three years. I packed a single, small duffel bag with two changes of faded clothes.

Before leaving, I walked up the grand staircase to Oliver’s private study. Sitting in his top drawer were the divorce papers he had drafted a year ago to keep me obedient.

I pulled the thick stack of documents out, picked up his expensive fountain pen, and signed my name.

When I reached the section for the billion-dollar compensation clause, I drew a single, hard line through the empty boxes.

I folded the papers, left them dead center on his mahogany desk, and walked out of the estate forever.

My last stop was Greenville General Hospital. I bypassed the chaotic emergency wing and took the private elevator up to the VIP floor. Julian’s room was quiet.

"Live well, Julian," I whispered to his sleeping form. "My debt to your brother is paid in full."

I turned and walked out of the hospital, stepping into the freezing, overcast courtyard. I had three months to live, and I planned to spend them as far away from Greenville as possible.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The sharp, mocking voice made me stop.

Beatrice was standing alone beneath the hospital awning. Oliver was nowhere in sight—likely inside settling her discharge paperwork or retrieving the car.

She wore a pristine designer coat, her arm wrapped in a delicate bandage from the crash. When she saw the cheap duffel bag in my hand, a cruel smirk spread across her face.

"Running away?" Beatrice sneered, stepping into my path. "Finally realized Oliver will never love a pathetic blood bag? Good. It saves me the trouble of having him throw you out."

"I left the signed divorce papers on his desk," I said, my voice completely dead. "You can have him."

I tried to step around her, but my absolute apathy infuriated her. Beatrice was used to me crying. She was used to me begging.

"Don't you walk away from me!" she hissed, lunging forward and grabbing my arm with her good hand. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into my bruises. "You don't get to leave on your terms, Carmella! You leave when we say you're done!"

"Let go of me," I warned, my voice dangerously low.

"Or what?" she taunted, raising her hand to slap me. "You're nothing! You're a stray—"

I didn't think. I just reacted.

I violently ripped my arm out of her grip and shoved her backward. I didn't push hard, but Beatrice stumbled in her designer heels and fell hard onto the wet pavement, scraping her knees.

"You bitch!" she shrieked, her eyes wide with fury. "I'm going to tell Oliver you attacked me! He'll kill you!"

I didn't wait for Oliver to walk out those hospital doors. I wasn't going to let him drag me back to that mansion.

I turned and ran.

I sprinted out of the hospital gates and into the freezing rain. My fractured ribs screamed in agony with every step, and my lungs burned, but I didn't stop.

I ran down the slick, gray sidewalk, desperate to disappear into the city.

I reached the busy main intersection. The pedestrian light was red, but I couldn't wait. I just needed to get to the other side. I needed to be free.

I stepped off the curb and bolted into the street.

I didn't hear the screeching tires over the sound of the pouring rain. I only saw the sudden, blinding glare of headlights to my left.

A massive, pitch-black Maybach was hurtling through the intersection.

Time froze. I turned my head, staring directly into the chrome grille of the armored car.

Smash.

The impact was devastating. The heavy steel shattered my remaining strength, throwing me violently through the freezing air.

I hit the wet asphalt with a sickening thud. My duffel bag skidded away, spilling my faded clothes into the muddy puddles.

The world instantly tilted on its axis. A high-pitched ringing drowned out the sound of the rain. I lay on the freezing road, completely paralyzed, my blood pooling onto the street.

Through my rapidly darkening vision, I looked back toward the hospital gates.

Beatrice was standing on the sidewalk. She wasn't screaming or faking a cry anymore. The delicate, victimized mask had completely slipped. As she stared at my broken body bleeding out in the street, a slow, chilling smirk spread across her face.

The sleek black Maybach skidded to a halt just a few feet away. The heavy, armored doors flew open.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

The last thing I saw before my eyes rolled back was a pair of immaculate, expensive leather shoes stepping out of the black car and rushing toward me.

Then, everything went pitch black.