The Jilted Heiress And Her Karmic Revenge

The living room fell dead silent.

Daryn's frown deepened. He clearly thought the word Deepfake was just a pathetic excuse.

Byron bent down, his knees popping, and snatched one of the photos off the rug. He squinted at it. "The lighting is wrong on her face. Alice wouldn't do this."

"They were sent to my private, encrypted email server," Daryn said, his voice cold and clinical. "A normal person can't do that. It's premeditated."

Horatio sat in his wheelchair, his wrinkled hands gripping the armrests. He looked at Alice, his eyes filled with a heavy, exhausting sadness. "Do you have anything else to say, child?"

Alice didn't rush to defend herself. She walked slowly to the coffee table and picked up the clearest photograph.

She tapped her finger against the image of the girl holding the voodoo doll.

"Look at the right hand," Alice said, her tone completely flat. "The fingers are smooth. The nails have a fresh French manicure."

Daryn leaned in, his eyes tracking her finger. He saw the manicured nails. He scoffed. "So what? That proves nothing."

Alice didn't argue. She simply raised her right hand to the buttons of her hospital gown.

Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned the cuff. She rolled the sleeve up past her elbow. The fabric felt heavy, sliding over her skin.

Under the warm glow of the floor lamp, her arm was exposed.

It was a landscape of horrors. Jagged, raised burn scars overlapped with dark, purple whip marks. Her wrist bone protruded at an unnatural angle from an old fracture that had healed wrong. The skin was rough, calloused, and broken.

The silence in the room became absolute. The air stopped moving.

Horatio's pupils dilated. His pale lips trembled violently. A choked, agonizing whimper escaped his throat.

Daryn's cold, CEO facade shattered. His face froze. He stared at the mangled flesh, his eyes wide with a shock so profound it looked like physical pain.

Byron, who had seen glimpses of the bruises earlier, now saw the full extent. He let out a roar of anguish and slammed his fist into the wooden load-bearing pillar next to him. The wood cracked. Blood instantly seeped from his split knuckles.

Alice held her arm up, standing perfectly still.

"The Wallaces never let me keep my nails long," she said quietly. "It made scrubbing the floors too difficult."

Daryn stumbled backward. His heel caught the edge of the rug. A tidal wave of guilt crashed over him, suffocating him.

Horatio struggled, trying to push himself out of the wheelchair. His hands reached out, shaking violently, wanting to touch her but terrified of causing her pain.

Alice walked over and knelt beside the wheelchair. She let the old man's trembling fingers gently stroke a small, unscarred patch of skin near her elbow. His tears dripped onto her arm.

Daryn spun around. He ripped his phone from his pocket. His voice was hoarse, raw with fury. "Trace the IP address of that email. I don't care what it costs. Find them."

Byron walked over, his chest heaving. He picked up a heavy cashmere coat from the sofa and draped it over Alice's shoulders, carefully hiding the scars from the cold air.

Daryn hung up the phone. The ruthless corporate emperor walked over to Alice and bowed his head deeply.

"I am so sorry," Daryn choked out. "I let my prejudice blind me. I will make the Wallaces pay in blood."

Alice shook her head. "I'll handle my own revenge. I just wanted to come home."

The word home shattered the last of the men's defenses.

Daryn reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick, slightly crumpled paper envelope. He pressed it firmly into Alice's hand. "For clothes. Pocket money."

Alice looked down. Inside was a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills, easily five thousand dollars.

She raised an eyebrow, looking at Byron. Weren't they a poor, blue-collar family?

Byron didn't miss a beat. He kept a straight face. "Daryn just got his year-end bonus from the property management company. And I chipped in some overtime pay. We've been saving up for when we finally found you."

Daryn nodded firmly, his eyes filled with a desperate earnestness. "Yes. It's just a little spare cash. Take it."

Alice looked at the two grown men, clumsily lying to protect her feelings. Her mind, sharpened by decades of surviving the occult underworld, easily cataloged the glaring inconsistencies: the military-grade cameras outside, the impeccably tailored suit Daryn wore, and the sheer amount of disposable cash they handed over without a second thought. They were hiding something massive. Yet, as she looked at their anxious, hopeful faces, she recognized the raw, unfiltered protective instinct underneath the deception. They weren't trying to harm her; they were terrified of losing her again. For the first time since she woke up in this body, a real, relaxed smile touched her lips. She slipped the envelope into her pocket, deciding to let them keep their secrets for now. She would uncover the truth on her own terms.