From Trash To Treasure: Masked Heiress

The Ford rattled as Ivy drove through the service entrance of the Goff estate. She killed the headlights before turning onto the gravel path that led to the kitchen.

Braylon lay across the backseat. The bleeding had slowed, thanks to the gel, but he was pale. He watched the back of her head. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm on her thigh.

She parked behind a row of hedges.

"Get out," she said.

She opened the back door and pulled him out. He leaned heavily on her. They stumbled across the wet grass toward the back door.

Ivy kicked the door open. The kitchen was warm. The smell of cinnamon tea hung in the air.

A light flicked on.

Joette Goff stood by the island counter, clutching her robe. She dropped her mug. It shattered, tea splashing across the pristine tiles.

"Oh my god!" Joette screamed. "Ivy!"

Ivy clamped a hand over her mother's mouth instantly.

"Mom, quiet," Ivy whispered harshly. "It is a hit and run victim."

Joette's eyes were wide with terror. She looked at Braylon, at the blood soaking his shirt and Ivy's uniform.

"We need to call 911," Joette whimpered against Ivy's hand.

"No police," Ivy said. She removed her hand but kept her gaze intense. "He has no insurance. I will handle it."

Joette blinked. She was used to Ivy taking charge. She nodded, her hands trembling.

"I... I will get towels," Joette said.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Heavy, deliberate steps.

"Mrs. Goff? Is everything alright?"

It was Mrs. Pringle, the housekeeper. Her voice was like sandpaper wrapped in velvet.

Ivy's eyes narrowed. She shoved Braylon into the pantry cupboard under the stairs. She slammed the door shut and leaned her back against it.

Mrs. Pringle appeared in the doorway, her gaze sweeping across the entire kitchen: the shattered mug, the puddles and mud smudges on the floor, and the faint red streak of blood on Ivy’s arm.

"I stepped in a puddle," Ivy said in a flat, emotionless voice. "It startled Mom. Go back to bed."

Mrs. Pringle didn’t move. Her eyes lingered on the bloodstain for a long moment, and she sniffed sharply at the air, searching for any chink in the story, any trace of something amiss—but found nothing.

"You ought to be more careful, Miss Ivy," Mrs. Pringle said, her voice tight with tension. "That was a nasty fall."

Ivy stared straight at her, not blinking once.

"Go to bed, Pringle."

The housekeeper forced a stiff, fake smile and turned to leave. But she didn’t head upstairs; Ivy heard her pause in the hallway outside.

Ivy waited a full minute, and only when the footsteps finally continued on did she unlock the pantry door.

Braylon tumbled out. Ivy caught him.

She practically dragged him up the back stairs to her room. She dumped him onto her bed. The duvet was pink and fluffy. It smelled of lavender.

Ivy locked the door. She went to her bookshelf and pulled a specific book. The shelf clicked and swung open slightly, revealing a high-intensity surgical lamp.

She dragged a heavy case from under the bed. She opened it. Scalpels, clamps, sutures, a portable defibrillator.

Braylon watched her through half-lidded eyes.

"Standard issue for high school girls?" he rasped.

"Only for the ones who expect trouble," Ivy said.

She cut his pants open to check his leg. Then she moved to his abdomen. She threaded a curved needle.

"I don't have anesthesia," she said.

"Do your worst," Braylon muttered.

She began to stitch. Her hands were steady. Every time the needle pierced his skin, Braylon's muscles seized. He bit his lip until it bled, but he didn't make a sound.

Ivy watched his face. She respected the silence. Most men screamed.

She finished the knot and snipped the thread. She injected a syringe of antibiotics into his thigh, followed by a sedative.

Braylon's eyes grew heavy. The pain dulled to a throb. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His fingers were weak now.

"Name," he whispered.

Ivy pulled her hand away. She packed the tools back into the box.

"None of your business."

She watched him succumb to the drugs. Outside her door, in the hallway, Mrs. Pringle typed a text message on her phone.Yes, she hadn’t actually left at all. She’d seized the chance when the moment slipped, and snapped a photo.