From Neglected Girl To Unstoppable Heiress

Carolina POV

The grey light of dawn was just breaking as Hulda rushed out the door, her face etched with a desperate, frantic energy. Carleton, roused by her agitated movements, followed close behind, his own expression a mixture of worry for his wife and quiet annoyance. "This is ridiculous, Hulda," he grumbled, pulling on his jacket. "A waste of time. I told you, that girl is just trying to get a rise out of us."

Hulda didn' t respond, her mind consumed by a terrible dread she refused to acknowledge. "They' re lying," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "They have to be."

But the moment she entered the sterile, cold morgue, the truth hit her like a physical blow. My body lay there, still and lifeless, covered by a white sheet. A single, small tag identified me: Carolina Fitzgerald.

Hulda stumbled back, a choked sob escaping her lips. "No! It can' t be! She… she was fine! Just a few scrapes!" She reached out, her hand trembling, to pull back the sheet.

My face, though pale and still, bore indeed only minor external injuries. There was a faint bruise on my temple, a small cut on my cheek, but nothing that suggested a fatal accident. Her mind raced, grappling with the impossible contradiction. How could this be? She had seen me, hours before, walking away from the crash, looking mostly intact.

What she hadn' t seen, what her biased eyes had refused to register, was the violent impact my body had sustained as I shielded Estrella. The force had collapsed my lung, ruptured my spleen, and caused massive internal hemorrhaging. The outward appearance was deceptive. My golden child, Estrella, had emerged with a fractured wrist and some superficial cuts, while I had absorbed the full, brutal force of the collision. The medical staff had explained, patiently, that the absence of external wounds often masked the most devastating internal trauma.

But Hulda, a medical professional herself, had focused solely on Estrella, dismissing my condition as an attention-seeking stunt. Her gaze had never lingered on me long enough to notice the subtle signs, the faint pallor, the shallow breathing, the fear in my eyes. Her attention had been, as always, entirely consumed by her favored daughter.

My former life, Carolina Fitzgerald, was truly over.

My spirit, now firmly anchored in Claire Tillman' s body, felt a profound, almost dizzying sense of release. The grief for my old self was a dull ache, distant and manageable. The past was a closed book.

The memories of Claire Tillman were a raw, open wound in my mind, fresh and burning. Claire, the timid heiress to Tillman Beauty, a global cosmetics empire built by her visionary parents. Parents who had died tragically in a plane crash a year ago, leaving her, an only child, to inherit everything.

But Claire was a pushover, easily swayed, utterly unequipped for the cutthroat world of corporate power. Her fiancé, Bradford Nielsen, a handsome but utterly useless man with a predatory gleam in his eyes, had swiftly taken advantage. He' d charmed his way into her company, positioned himself as her protector, and slowly, systematically, began to embezzle funds. He had betrayed her trust, his lavish affair with a junior executive an open secret within the company.

Claire had discovered his treachery only days ago-his plans to fully seize control of Tillman Beauty, to strip her of everything. The shock, the humiliation, the utter sense of helplessness had been too much. She had taken a bottle of sleeping pills, wanting only to escape the suffocating weight of betrayal.

But I was no longer Claire. I was Carolina. And I refused to be a victim again. Never again. The cold fury that had simmered in my spirit for a lifetime ignited into a roaring fire within Claire' s resurrected body.

Bradford Nielsen, my new target, would regret the day he ever underestimated Claire Tillman.

I rose from the hospital bed, the IV still in my arm, and felt a surge of cold, focused determination. The first thing I did was demand access to Tillman Beauty's financial records from my hospital bed. I didn't care that the nurses looked at me like I was insane. I didn't care that my body ached. I poured over spreadsheets, expense reports, and internal audits. It didn't take long. Bradford's tracks were sloppy, his arrogance blinding. I found the shell companies, the inflated invoices, the unauthorized transfers to offshore accounts. I built a case, meticulously, ruthlessly.

A week later, while still recovering in the hospital, my new body twitched as I saw a news headline flash across the screen of the hospital TV: "Fitzgerald Family Mourns Daughter Carolina." A small, grainy photo of my old self appeared beside it. A pang, sharp and fleeting, pierced through me. Not for the life I' d lost, but for the utter absurdity of it all. Hulda and Carleton, finally forced to acknowledge my existence, were planning a funeral.