The Heiress Rises From The Mud

The Maybach tore through the flooded streets of Manhattan.

Cristofer sat in the back seat. His long fingers unconsciously rubbed his lower lip again. The metallic taste of blood and the smell of dirty rain still clung to his skin. It made his stomach tighten with an unfamiliar agitation.

Simon, his chief assistant, watched him through the rearview mirror from the passenger seat. Simon reached back and offered a sanitized wet wipe.

Cristofer ignored it.

"Pull every traffic camera in Lower Manhattan," Cristofer ordered. His voice was absolute ice. "Dig up the entire grid. Find that girl with the green eyes."

Simon swallowed hard. He immediately opened his tablet, connected to the Barrett family's private security network, and started running facial recognition algorithms.

Miles away, Anne dragged her soaking wet body down a narrow concrete stairwell. She found the spare key hidden under a dead potted plant and unlocked the door to a miserable basement in Queens.

She locked the deadbolt behind her and slid down the wall until she hit the freezing linoleum floor.

Cristofer's energy was tearing through her system. Her muscles spasmed violently.

Anne gritted her teeth. She forced the dark energy to flow into her broken bones. A series of sickening pops echoed in the quiet room as her ribs slowly knitted themselves back together.

As her body repaired itself, the dead girl's memories slammed into Anne's brain. The sheer volume of information made bile rise in her throat.

She saw a rotting trailer in the Appalachian Mountains. She heard her biological mother's dying breaths. She saw a one-way ticket to New York.

Then, the final memory hit her. Two men in black ski masks cornering her in a Manhattan alley. A suppressed pistol pressing hard against her chest.

Anne opened her eyes. The green irises were sharp and deadly. She clearly remembered the black snake tattoo on the wrist of the man who pulled the trigger.

She pushed herself off the floor and walked into the tiny bathroom. She stared at the mirror. The face looking back was covered in grime, but the bone structure was flawless.

"I will make them pay for what they did to you," Anne whispered to the glass.

She stripped off the bloody clothes. The killers had taken her wallet and ID. The only thing left in her pocket was a cheap, cracked burner phone.

She pressed the power button. The screen flickered and miraculously lit up. The notification bar showed fourteen missed calls.

They were all from the same unsaved New York number. Anne's new memories told her exactly who it was. The Montoya family.

The phone vibrated in her hand. The harsh ringtone bounced off the concrete walls. It sounded impatient and demanding.

Anne took a deep breath. She tightened her vocal cords, mimicking the terrified, raspy voice of the dead girl. She pressed answer.

"Where the hell are you?"

The male voice on the other end was cold and dripping with elitist arrogance.

Anne matched the voice to a face in her memories. Braden Montoya. The eldest son. A Wall Street venture capitalist.

Anne forced her breathing to sound ragged and panicked.

"I... I got lost," she stuttered. "Some bad men chased me. I just found my phone."

Braden let out a harsh breath through his nose. The disgust was palpable through the speaker.

"Send your location," Braden commanded. "I am giving you exactly ten minutes. If you aren't there, you can rot in the mountains forever."

The line went dead.

Anne stared at the cracked screen. A cold smile stretched across her face.

She used a tiny fraction of her restored energy to dry her hair. She dug through the duffel bag on the bed and pulled out an oversized gray hoodie and faded jeans.

She did not wash the dirt off her face. She even pinched the skin around her eyes until it turned red and puffy, perfectly faking the physical symptoms of a severe panic attack.

She typed out a location and sent it to Braden. She picked an abandoned convenience store three blocks away. She would never expose her safe house.

Anne pulled the hood over her head. She walked back out into the freezing rain. Her footsteps were completely silent.

Across the city, Braden sat in his black Range Rover outside the Port Authority bus terminal. He stared at the location pin on his phone and yanked hard on his silk tie.

He slammed his foot on the gas. The heavy SUV roared to life, tearing into the rain to pick up the biggest public relations disaster the Montoya family had ever faced.