Rising From Hell: The Vengeful Heiress Returns

Vice President Kyle Harrison stepped slowly out of the shadows.

The dim glow of the colonnade wall sconces illuminated the sharp, unforgiving angles of his jaw and his deep, stormy gray eyes.

He looked toward the pool. The splashing was getting weaker. Domenic had managed to pry Nora off his neck and was now simply holding her head under the water to keep himself afloat. It was pathetic.

Kyle's earpiece crackled. His lead Secret Service agent's voice came through. "Sir, we have a disturbance at the South Pool. Should we initiate a rescue?"

Kyle raised his right hand, tapping his earpiece.

"Maintain radio silence," Kyle ordered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Do not intervene."

He turned his gaze back to the path where Hester had disappeared. The image of her fluid, brutal kick and the dead, cold look in her eyes replayed in his mind. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a dark smirk.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy, glittering object.

It was the antique sapphire brooch. He had picked it up off the carpet outside the East Wing sitting room ten minutes ago.

Kyle slipped the brooch into his breast pocket, right over his heart. He turned and walked casually toward the West Wing, leaving no trace that he had ever been there.

Meanwhile, Hester was running for her life.

She had kicked off her heels and was sprinting barefoot across the thick wool carpets of the interior hallways.

She needed her injuries to look worse.

As she rounded a corner, she intentionally threw her body weight to the side, dragging her bare shoulder hard against the rough edge of a marble Roman pillar.

The expensive silk of her blouse ripped completely. The skin on her shoulder tore, leaving a bright, angry red scrape that stung fiercely.

She rubbed her knuckles into her eyes until the blood vessels popped, making them look bloodshot and swollen. Tears streamed down her face, fueled by the physical pain of her scraped shoulder.

As she approached the security checkpoint outside the First Lady's Quarters, Hester deliberately broke her rhythm. She let her breathing become ragged, loud, and hyperventilating.

The two armed Secret Service agents stationed at the heavy oak doors saw the usually poised Stanton heiress stumbling toward them, barefoot, bleeding, and half-undressed.

Both agents instantly dropped their hands to their holstered weapons.

Hester threw herself at the nearest agent, grabbing his suit jacket with trembling, desperate hands.

"Help me!" she screamed, her voice cracking into a hysterical sob. "Take me to my aunt! He's crazy! He's going to kill me!"

The agent didn't hesitate. He tapped his radio, barking an emergency code directly to Alex Stone, the First Lady's Chief of Staff.

The heavy double doors burst open. Alex, a sharp-featured woman in a tailored suit, rushed out. The color drained from her face the second she saw Hester.

Alex immediately stripped off her own suit jacket and wrapped it tightly around Hester's shivering shoulders, shielding her from the agents' eyes.

Hester collapsed against Alex's chest. She gripped the woman's shirt, burying her face in her neck, playing the role of a completely shattered victim to absolute perfection.

"It's okay, you're safe," Alex whispered fiercely, half-carrying Hester through the doors. She shot a lethal glare at the agents. "Lock down this corridor. No one gets near these doors."

Inside the private quarters, First Lady Elba Stanton was sitting on a French sofa, reviewing a guest list. She frowned at the sudden commotion.

Elba looked up.

When she saw her beloved niece-the pride of the Stanton family-dragged into the room looking like a broken doll, the gold pen slipped from Elba's fingers.

It hit the floor. Elba stood up so fast her knee clipped the coffee table. The hot tea spilled across the Persian rug, but she didn't even blink.

She crossed the room in three massive strides. She grabbed Hester's face, her eyes locking onto the swollen, red eyes, the torn clothes, and the bleeding scrape on her shoulder.

The blood rushed to Elba's head.

"Hester," Elba said. Her voice was shaking, high-pitched with pure, unadulterated rage. "Who did this? Who dared to touch you in this house? !"

Hearing her aunt's fiercely protective voice triggered a real memory for Hester. She remembered how Elba had died trying to protect her in the past life. The tears that fell now were genuine.

Hester threw her arms around Elba's neck and broke down. The raw, gut-wrenching sound of her sobbing echoed in the quiet room, making Alex's stomach twist.

Elba held her niece tight. The First Lady's eyes hardened. The ruthless, military blood of the Stanton family flared in her pupils. She looked at Alex.

"Lock down the East Wing," Elba commanded.

Hester cried against Elba's shoulder for two full minutes, letting the tension build until it was unbearable. Then, she slowly pulled back. She looked at her aunt with wide, terrified eyes.

"It... it was Domenic," Hester choked out, her whole body violently flinching at the name. "He tried to kill me, Aunt Elba."

Elba's breath hitched. Her pupils contracted. She stared at Hester, her brain refusing to process the name of her own son.

Hester grabbed Elba's wrists. Her nails dug into her aunt's skin. She delivered the kill shot with absolute, desperate certainty.

"He wanted to drown me in the pool," Hester sobbed. "He said he was doing it for Tricia, that manipulative intern from his office."