From a poor girl to a wealthy heiress, I became the center

The shouting carried up the curved staircase before I even reached the landing.

"She's doing this on purpose, Mom!" Victoria wailed, her voice cracking with raw theatrical misery. "She wants everyone to think I’m a joke! She wants Ethan to leave me so she can take him too!"

I walked into the grand parlor.

Victoria was curled on the velvet sofa, her head buried in Eleanor’s lap. Eleanor stroked her blonde hair, murmuring soothing words, while Richard stood in front of the marble fireplace, his face carved from granite.

Richard slammed an iPad down onto the glass coffee table. The screen showed the campus forum post of me and Ethan by the north gate.

"Explain this, Vivian," Richard demanded.

"There's nothing to explain," I said, keeping my hands in my jacket pockets. "Ethan stopped me at the gate. I told him to stay away from me."

"Liar!" Victoria shrieked, lifting her tear-stained face. "He told me you've been texting him! You told him you were the real daughter and that I was just an imposter living in your house! You’re humiliating me in front of the entire university!"

"Did you text him, Vivian?" Eleanor asked, her gaze cold and disappointed. "Tell me the truth."

"He got my number," I answered evenly. "I told him to leave me alone."

"You haven't been back in this house for a full month," Richard snapped, cutting through my words like a blade. "Not even four weeks, and you’ve already dragged our name through the campus tabloids. Victoria has spent nineteen years building a spotless reputation, and you tear it down in three days."

"You didn't ask what Ethan said," I pointed out, staring straight at him. "You didn't ask why he approached me. You just assumed Victoria’s fairy tale was the truth."

"Victoria doesn't lie to us," Eleanor said softly, though the chill in her voice was unmistakable. "She is fragile, Vivian. You grew up in the foster system. You’re tough, you know how to fight, but she doesn't. You can't come in here and treat this family like a battlefield."

A bitter, quiet realization settled into my ribs.

Nineteen years of missing biological parents meant nothing. A DNA test was just ink on paper. They didn't want their lost daughter; they wanted a convenient doll who wouldn't disturb the furniture.

"I see," I said.

I turned around and walked toward the stairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" Richard called out.

"To pack."

Ten minutes later, I walked back down into the foyer carrying the exact same worn canvas duffel bag I had brought with me from Boston. My thrift-store jeans. My three flannel shirts. My old sneakers.

The designer dresses Eleanor had bought sat untouched in the walk-in closet, tags still hanging from the silk hems.

Richard stood blocking the heavy mahogany double doors, his arms crossed.

"Put the bag down," he ordered. "You aren't throwing a tantrum under my roof."

"I'm not throwing a tantrum," I replied. "I'm checking out."

"If you walk out that door, Vivian, don't expect this family to wait for you forever," Richard warned, his voice dropping into a harsh, authoritarian rasp. "You have no money. You have no connections. You won't survive a week out there without the Sterling name."

I glanced back at the towering chandelier, the polished marble, and the mountain of unopened gift boxes stacked near the parlor archway.

A laugh slipped out of my mouth.

"What is funny to you?" Richard asked, his eyes flaring.

"Don't worry," I said, meeting his hard glare without flinching. "I never planned on relying on you to feed me."

I shoved past him, pushed the heavy door open, and walked out into the dark.

A torrential downpour hit me the moment I cleared the front gates.

Thunder rattled the hills above the coast. Rain soaked through my denim jacket in seconds, plastering my hair to my neck. I didn't care. I kept walking down the winding canyon road toward the main avenue, where the neon sign of an exclusive private club glowed through the sheets of water.

Headlights swept over the asphalt behind me.

Tires cut through the flooded gutters. A sleek, midnight-black Bentley Continental glided to a halt right alongside the curb, blocking my path.

The tinted rear window rolled down two inches, cutting through the hiss of the storm.

"You're drowning your sneakers," a deep, smooth voice murmured from the shadows inside.

I stopped, wiping rainwater from my eyelashes. "Keep driving."

The door swung open. A tall man stepped out holding a massive black umbrella, completely unbothered by the downpour. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over an open-collared white shirt. He wasn't loud or flashy like the college boys. He moved with the quiet, dangerous authority of someone who owned the ground beneath his polished shoes.

Adrian Prescott.

The name ran through every financial paper in the country. Old money. The kind of dynastic wealth that made the Sterlings look like retail managers playing dress-up.

He tilted the umbrella slightly, shielding my face from the driving rain. His steel-gray eyes scanned my soaked clothes and the dripping duffel bag clutched in my fist.

"I saw the evening news," Adrian said, his voice low, steady, and sharp. "The long-lost heiress returns to the throne."

"Old news," I said.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Kicked out?"

"To be exact," I said, lifting my chin, "I walked out."

Adrian studied my face for two beats. A faint, intriguing smirk touched the corner of his lips. Most people in this tax bracket looked at me with pity or disgust; Adrian looked at me like he’d just found an unexploded shell on a pristine golf course.

"A girl with pride," Adrian murmured. "Those are expensive to maintain in a storm."

"I can afford it," I said.

"Clearly," he replied, glancing down at the puddle swallowing my shoes. He stepped back, holding the car door open. "Get in. I have an empty penthouse on Ocean Avenue. Consider it temporary shelter until you figure out which empire you want to burn down first."

"Why would you help me?" I asked, staying rooted to the pavement.

"Because I despise Richard Sterling," Adrian said frankly. "And because watching you defy him might be the only entertaining thing to happen in this city all year. Get in before you catch pneumonia."

I looked at the warm leather interior, then back at the empty road behind me.

"Fine," I said, stepping into the dry warmth of the Bentley.

Down the street, the roar of a modified truck engine tore through the storm.

Jason's black pickup jumped the curb twenty yards away, slamming to a halt against the sidewalk. The driver's door flew open with violent force.

Jason vaulted out into the torrential rain, his athletic jacket open, his hair soaked black. His chest heaved as if he’d sprinted miles to get here.

"Vivian!" Jason roared over the crash of thunder, sprinting toward the curb. "Vivian, wait!"

I froze, turning toward the rear glass.

Adrian shut the door behind me with a solid, heavy thud. He climbed into the driver's seat, shifted into gear, and pressed the accelerator.

"Wait—" I started.

"Too late," Adrian said smoothly, watching the rearview mirror.

Through the rain-streaked rear window, I saw Jason stop dead in the middle of the street. His hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, water streaming down his jaw as he watched the Bentley speed away into the night. His expression was completely fractured, torn between wild rage and gut-wrenching shock.

Fifty feet back, parked under the dripping canopy of an oak tree, another car sat idling.

Inside, Victoria lowered her window just enough to slide her phone through the crack.

The flash caught the Bentley's license plate, Adrian's silhouette behind the wheel, and my face looking out from the back seat.

Victoria pulled the phone inside, her lips curling into a wicked, venomous sneer.

"A billionaire's car at midnight," Victoria whispered, tapping the screen with a manicured nail. "Now, I finally know how to completely ruin her."