The Fake Heiress's Revenge Eight Years Later, I Own Everything

Daniel's eyes flickered as he exchanged a glance with Harold.

"Fine, I'll get you in touch with Jade."

I handed her the dashcam memory card I'd kept hidden. It clearly showed Stella hitting someone, then fleeing in a panic.

"Believe me! Even if I end up ruined and disgraced, I'm going to sue these people into the ground!"

The fire in her eyes still made me believe in justice.

On the day of the trial.

I stood at the defendant's table, listening to a string of fabricated accusations. From beginning to end, Jade didn't say a single word, letting one charge after another be pinned on me.

Just as the judge's gavel came down, I shouted: "I have evidence!"

I looked at Jade. She avoided my pleading gaze, her eyes full of struggle.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "They went after my mom."

That barely audible sentence shattered everything.

I spent four years in prison. The endless high walls ground away all my spirit. I tried to find work; every resume vanished into silence. On the rare occasions I got an interview, when they saw the four-year gap that couldn't be explained away, their expressions would shift—subtle, distant.

Even a hotel dishwashing job wouldn't take someone who'd done time.

Just as I stood on a street corner with heavy makeup, about to sell my first night for two hundred dollars, Harold appeared.

He sat in a Maybach, window rolled halfway down. No joy at our reunion after all those years—just calm appraisal. As if to say:

See?

After returning everything to the Swansons, I went back to the life I was supposed to have. This cheap. This filthy.

I gave in.

Once again I knelt at his feet and kowtowed. My bitter sobbing didn't change his expression. But I got a letter of appointment.

Under Stella's smug gaze, in the posture of a stray dog, I was exiled to the Frontier Region.

On that barren, lawless land, I survived six assassination attempts, took thirteen bullets, and was knocked down by malaria twice.

Eight years.

I brought that dying outpost back to life, turning it into the most dazzling number on Swanson Group's financial reports. The mineral veins, logistics, infrastructure—all mine.

I drank throat-burning liquor and let the scorching plains wind wash over me. The Swanson family felt like something from another life.

Until a transfer order from headquarters came flying in. At the time I was surveying gold deposits, mapping out the next quarter's plans.

"Return to headquarters. There will be another important appointment."

Sitting on the plane home, I wasn't thinking about fame or success—just every time I'd escaped death over those eight years.

At the celebration banquet, Harold lavished praise on the Frontier Region branch's achievements.

"The tremendous success of the Frontier Region market couldn't have happened without Director Stella's remote coordination and outstanding leadership. She strategized from the rear, ensuring every step went smoothly."

Stella showed a perfectly timed shy smile. "Dad, you're praising me too much! The colleagues on the front line had it harder. Especially Alex—her execution is strong. She's my capable assistant."

Eight years of fighting through blood and fire. Nine brushes with death. And all I got was "capable assistant."

Stella wore an expensive custom gown, weaving through the crowd, basking in endless flattery. Daniel stayed by her side, thoughtfully blocking drinks for her. Between them, an unmistakable tenderness.

I stood in an inconspicuous corner, like a piece of background scenery. Stella's gaze cut through the crowd toward me, the corner of her mouth holding a smile that belonged only to a victor.

It seemed to be saying:

Look, everything you clawed your way toward—all of it—just became my stepping stone.

I raised my wine glass and tilted it her way.

Enjoy the stolen flowers and applause while you can.

Everything that's mine?

I'll take it back. Principal and interest.

In ways you'll never see coming.