The Fake Heiress Cancels Her Engagement

It took an hour of crying, pleading, and playing the traumatized daughter to finally get Eleanor to take a sedative and go to the master bedroom.

Diana rubbed her temples. The throbbing in her head was getting worse.

She turned away from the grand foyer and walked down the east corridor. The thick carpets gave way to cheap hardwood. The lighting grew dim. This was the servant's wing.

She stopped in front of a door with peeling white paint. She took a deep breath, turned the brass knob, and pushed it open.

The smell of dampness and mildew hit her immediately.

The room was tiny. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Jorden was curled into a tight ball on a narrow, creaking cot in the corner.

At the sound of the door opening, Jorden violently flinched.

He shot up, pressing his back against the peeling wallpaper. His breathing hitched. His hands instantly crossed over his chest, his fingers digging into his biceps to hide the fresh needle marks on his inner arms. He stared at her like a cornered animal waiting for the final blow.

Diana's chest tightened. A sharp ache bloomed behind her ribs.

"It's too damp in here," Diana said, keeping her voice low and soft. "It's bad for your wounds."

She took a step toward the bed and reached out to gently grasp his forearm.

Jorden violently yanked his arm away.

"Don't touch me," he hissed. His voice was raw, scraping against his throat. "What new game is this? What do you want?"

Diana didn't argue. She turned around, opened the small, rusted closet, and pulled out a thick, brand-new cashmere sweater she had grabbed from her own room.

She tossed it onto the cot next to him.

"Put it on. Follow me." Her tone left no room for debate.

Jorden stared at the sweater. He looked at the door, then back at Diana. Years of conditioned obedience fought against his survival instincts. Slowly, with shaking hands, he pulled the heavy fabric over his head.

Diana led him out of the dark corridor. They walked across the apartment to the south wing.

She pushed open a set of heavy double doors.

Brilliant, blinding afternoon sunlight flooded the space. The room was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawling greenery of Central Park.

Jorden stopped dead in the doorway. He squeezed his eyes shut against the harsh light. He didn't take a single step onto the plush, cream-colored carpet.

Diana walked over to the massive King-size bed and patted the silk duvet.

"You're staying here from now on," she said.

Jorden opened his eyes. He stared at her, his jaw tight. He looked around the room, then back at her, as if waiting for the punchline of a cruel joke.

He bit his lower lip. "If I bleed on the carpet... will they break my legs?"

The words were spoken so quietly, so matter-of-factly, that they felt like a physical knife twisting in Diana's gut. The original owner of this body had truly been a monster.

Diana walked back to the doorway. She stopped right in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Listen to me," Diana said firmly. "From today on, no one is allowed to hurt you. Not the doctors. Not the guards. And especially not me."

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a small, silver tube of medical-grade scar ointment she had taken from the medical room.

She held it out to him.

Jorden stared at the tube. He didn't reach for it. His eyes darted across her face, searching for the trap.

Diana sighed. She grabbed his hand, pressed the cold metal tube into his palm, and closed his fingers around it.

"Use it," she said.

She turned around, walked out into the hallway, and gently pulled the double doors shut behind her.

The second the latch clicked into place, the trembling fear vanished from Jorden's face.

His posture straightened. The hollow victim disappeared, replaced by a cold, calculating predator. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared down at the Manhattan traffic, his eyes dark and unreadable.

He looked down at the tube of ointment in his hand.

With practiced, mechanical precision, he unscrewed the cap. He squeezed a tiny amount onto his finger, checking the consistency. He smelled it, analyzing the chemical makeup for toxins or hidden micro-trackers.

It was clean.

He rubbed the ointment into the angry red welt on his wrist.

The sharp, crisp scent of peppermint filled the air. He smoothed the cool salve over his bruised skin, and an icy stillness seeped into the wound.

Jorden's hand froze.

The distinct smell of mint made his fingers pause mid-air. A fragmented, dust-covered image flashed violently across his mind-the cold, sterile laboratory, the metal cages, and the little girl who used to sneak him peppermint candies through the bars. Anya. But years of brutal conditioning kicked in instantly. He ruthlessly suppressed the anomaly, forcing his logic back online to finish checking the ointment for micro-trackers. Only after he was absolutely certain he was safe and alone did the rigid tension in his shoulders break. Jorden stared at the closed mahogany door. His chest rose and fell rapidly. A dark, intense wave of profound shock and suspicion finally bled into his dark eyes.

Down the hall, Diana sat at the massive oak desk in her bedroom. She opened the sleek Apple MacBook. It was time to check her bank accounts. The real storm was coming, and she needed cash to survive it.