Rising From Hell: The Vengeful Heiress Returns

Before Domenic's hand could even cross Elba's shoulder, the First Lady moved.

Elba brought her arm back and swung with every ounce of strength in her body.

Crack.

The slap sounded like a gunshot in the enclosed room. Elba's palm connected with Domenic's freezing, pale cheek with devastating force.

Domenic's head whipped to the side. He stumbled backward, his heavy boots tangling in the thermal blanket. He clutched his rapidly swelling face, his eyes wide with absolute shock.

The room fell dead silent. Even the Secret Service agents lowered their eyes, refusing to look at the First Lady's wrath.

"You stupid, pathetic animal," Elba hissed, her voice vibrating with disgust. "You tried to murder the Stanton family's daughter over some cheap piece of trash?!"

Domenic's brain was misfiring from the cold and the blow. The sheer injustice of it made him see red.

"She's lying!" he bellowed, spit flying from his lips. "She kicked me! Look at her, she's faking it!"

Behind Elba, Hester let out a pathetic, trembling whimper, shrinking smaller into the cushions.

Elba sneered. She grabbed the physician by the sleeve and yanked him forward, then pointed a rigid finger at Hester's exposed wounds. "Doctor. Show him."

The physician, visibly rattled, held up his digital camera and scrolled through the raw images on the screen. The high-resolution shots of Hester's bruised wrists and bleeding shoulder flickered past, one by one, the fresh contusions rendered in brutal, undeniable detail.

"She kicked you?" Elba mocked, her voice dripping with venom. "A ninety-pound girl kicked a grown man into a pool? Are these bruises fake? Did she tear her own skin open just to frame you?!"

Domenic stared at the images on the camera screen. His mind spun. He had only tried to slap her. Where did those marks come from?

Before he could open his mouth to argue, raised voices erupted from the corridor. One of the agents stationed outside cracked the door and leaned in, his expression tight. "Madam First Lady, the intern coordinator is demanding access. She claims she has urgent information regarding your son."

Elba's eyes flickered with cold suspicion. "Let her in."

The door swung open. Jayleen Brooks, the senior White House staffer and intern coordinator, rushed into the room, her heels clicking frantically against the floor. Alex had radioed for medical support minutes earlier, and in the commotion of the physician's arrival, fragments of rumor had leaked through the residential staff channels—enough for Jayleen to piece together that Domenic was in serious trouble.

Jayleen took one look at Domenic—soaking wet, shivering, with a massive red handprint on his face—and let out a gasp of pure horror.

She completely ignored protocol. She threw herself in front of Domenic, shielding him with her body. She grabbed a dry towel from a nearby chair and began frantically drying his hair, her hands shaking.

Then, Jayleen did the unthinkable. She threw herself onto her knees in front of the First Lady of the United States, her face pale and streaked with terrified tears. "Madam First Lady, please, I beg of you, stop!" Jayleen pleaded, her voice trembling with a desperate, agonizing panic that crossed all professional boundaries. "He is just a boy, and he's freezing! He's going to catch pneumonia! You must let him get warm!"

Elba's eyes narrowed into dangerous, lethal slits. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Excuse me?" Elba said softly. "Since when does a staffer dictate how I discipline my son?"

From her safe spot behind Elba, Hester saw the golden opportunity. She let out a shaky breath and spoke up, her voice trembling.

"Aunt Elba... in the sitting room, Domenic said Tricia was his true love. And Tricia is Ms. Brooks's niece... they were working together."

The words acted like gasoline on a fire.

Elba's mind connected the dots instantly. This aging staffer was helping her niece seduce the President's son, trying to manipulate her way into the First Family.

"Get this insolent woman out of my sight," Elba ordered the agents, her voice absolute zero. "She is fired. Escort her off the grounds immediately."

Two agents stepped forward. They grabbed Jayleen by the arms and pulled her firmly to her feet, beginning to march her toward the door.

"No! You can't do this!" Jayleen shrieked, struggling wildly against the trained men.

Seeing Jayleen being forcibly removed snapped the last thread of Domenic's sanity.

With a guttural roar, Domenic lunged forward. He threw a wild, desperate punch at the jaw of the agent holding Jayleen's right arm.

The agent instinctively dodged and shifted his weight to grapple Domenic. In the sudden chaotic movement, the agent's grip on Jayleen loosened.

The sudden release of tension sent Jayleen stumbling sideways. Her heel caught on the rug.

She fell hard. Her forehead slammed directly into the sharp, carved wooden corner of the coffee table.

A sickening thud echoed in the room. Jayleen screamed. Blood instantly gushed from a deep gash above her eyebrow, pouring down her face.

"Jayleen!" Domenic screamed.

He wrenched against the remaining agent and dropped to his knees beside her. He pressed his hands to her bleeding head. He looked up at his mother, his eyes completely bloodshot and feral.

"You are a cold-blooded machine!" Domenic roared at Elba, his voice tearing his throat. "You don't deserve to be a mother! If she dies, I will never forgive you!"

The words struck Elba like a physical knife to the chest.

Her own son. The boy she had raised, protected, and groomed for power. He was cursing her, telling her she wasn't a mother, all for the sake of a staffer who was pimping out her niece.

Elba's face turned the color of ash.

Hester watched the First Lady sway slightly on her feet. A cold, dark thrill shot through Hester's veins. In her past life, Elba had bled herself dry for this ungrateful bastard. Now, the illusion was shattered forever.

Elba closed her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath. When she opened them, the motherly warmth was entirely gone, replaced by the ruthless calculation of a politician.

She turned to her Chief of Staff.

"Alex," Elba said, her voice dead. "Go to the Oval Office. Tell the President to come here immediately."