The Discarded Heiress Owns The Wasteland

"Miss Martinez! Are you here to stalk Kayson?"

"Did Henderson family force you out?"

"Are you planning to ruin the show?"

The questions were needles. The flashes were knives. Casey raised her hand, using the back of her wrist to shield her eyes. Her jaw clenched tight.

A male reporter stepped too close, his microphone almost hitting her chin. "Miss Martinez, any comments on being called a desperate stalker?"

Casey didn't speak. She dropped her shoulder and drove it forward, slamming into the reporter's chest.

He gasped, stumbling backward into the crowd. Security guards scrambled, pulling up velvet ropes to hold back the press.

Casey didn't wait. She pushed through the gap, her boots clicking on the polished floor. She walked into the dark tunnel leading to the main stage. The roar of the crowd grew louder.

She took a breath and pushed open the heavy double doors.

Spotlights hit her. Three beams of blinding white light, pinning her in place. The heat from the lamps was suffocating.

Boos erupted from the audience. Thousands of people, screaming their hatred. Holographic comments floated in the air above her head.

Get out of A13!

Toxic bitch!

Go back to the slums!

Casey tilted her head back slightly, scanning the floating text. Her expression didn't change.

Kayson Cross stood on the other side of the stage. The golden boy. The idol. His arms were crossed over his chest, his handsome face twisted in disgust.

He saw her and started walking. Fast. Angry. He stopped inches away from her, towering over her.

"Listen to me," he hissed, his voice low but venomous. "Stop your disgusting games. Stay away from Coralie, or I'll make your life a living hell."

Casey looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw a spoiled brat. A boy playing tough. She felt nothing but a vague sense of confusion. Why was this insect talking to her?

Her silence, her utter lack of reaction, snapped something inside him. Kayson's face turned red. He lunged, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist.

Before he could pull back, her body reacted on pure instinct. She didn't dodge. Instead, she slammed the heel of her palm upward into his wrist, using his own momentum against him. The unexpected, brutal force made him cry out and stumble back. It wasn't a trained martial arts form, just the raw, desperate strength of someone used to fighting for their life.

Kayson gasped. A sharp intake of breath. His knees buckled. His tall frame bent awkwardly as pain shot up his arm.

The audience gasped. The holographic comments froze for a second, then exploded with exclamation marks.

Casey leaned in close, her lips near his ear. "Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice like ice. "You're dirty."

Kayson's face flushed crimson. Humiliation and rage battled in his eyes. He tried to yank his arm away.

Casey let go. Abruptly. He stumbled backward, nearly falling on his ass. He caught himself, rubbing his wrist, staring at her like she was a monster.

Casey slowly clapped her hands together, dusting off invisible dirt. The insult was clear.

The crowd went wild. The comments turned into a wall of hate, demanding her head, but amidst the flood of insults, a few stray comments flickered: 'Damn, that was a clean move.' 'He started it, lol.' 'Who is she? Kinda badass.'

Casey glanced at the floating text. A smirk touched her lips. She raised her left hand, tapping the interface on her wristband. She navigated to the settings.

She hit the button. The holographic comments vanished. The silence in her own head was sudden and absolute.

She turned her back on the audience.