The Pregnant Heiress: Rising From The Grave

Olga bent down to pick up a large shard of the champagne flute near the torn train of the gown. She grunted, the tight bodice of her uniform digging into her ribs.

Behind her, on the chaise lounge, Callie’s index finger twitched.

Inside her body, the brain fought back. Adrenaline surged, countering the paralytic. The pre-administered beta-blockers had bought her precious seconds, a buffer against the chemical onslaught. The strategist—the side of her honed in the cutthroat world of Wall Street law—assessed the paralysis receding from her limbs. The dose had been calculated for a woman of a hundred and ten pounds. Callie’s lean, wiry physique, forged by years of punishing discipline, was a variable they hadn’t anticipated.

Danvers stood by the door, her back turned, phone pressed to her ear. “Yes, madam. It’s done. She looks… peaceful.”

Olga felt a change in the air pressure behind her. A subtle displacement. She frowned and turned her head.

The chaise lounge was empty.

Olga’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened to scream, a primal animal instinct.

But before a sound could escape, a cold, wet hand shot out from the shadows of the heavy velvet curtains. It clamped over Olga’s mouth, sealing the cry inside. Another hand pressed something hard and sharp—the stem of the broken champagne flute—against the soft skin just below her jaw.

Callie wasn’t using strength she didn’t have. She used leverage and fear. She leaned close, her whisper a rasping blade: “The carotid artery is two millimeters away. Make a sound, and you’ll bleed out on this carpet before she even turns around.”

Olga froze, the whites of her eyes stark against her flushed skin. She was an obstacle, not a person. An obstacle to be removed.

Callie looked over Olga’s terrified face, her gaze locking on the syringe Danvers had left on the side table. She stretched out her free hand and closed her fingers around it.

Thud.

She slammed the base of a heavy silver picture frame into Olga’s temple. Just enough force. Efficient. Brutal.

Olga went limp, collapsing to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Danvers heard the noise. She spun around, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. “Olga, you clumsy fool, if you’ve broken something else—”

The words died in her throat. Her phone slipped from her fingers and landed silently on the plush carpet.

Callie stood in the center of the room. She had torn away the remaining shreds of lace from her gown, leaving only a short, jagged slip. Bruises were already blooming on her pale legs.

“Attempted murder,” Danvers stammered, backing up until her spine hit the doorframe.

Callie tilted her head. When she spoke, her voice was no longer Callie Elliott’s breathy soprano. It was an octave lower, hoarse from the poison.

“Mrs. Danvers, that’s life in prison,” she said, her voice cold and precise. “Aiding and abetting, twenty years. Is the money Victoria Morton paying you worth that?”

Danvers scrambled for the doorknob, her nails scraping against the wood.

Callie moved with fluid economy. She kicked a pouf into Danvers’ path. The older woman tripped and fell with a yelp. Before she could inhale to scream, Callie was on her. She didn’t strike. She simply pressed the tip of the retrieved syringe against Danvers’ throat.

With her other hand, Callie reached into Danvers’ apron pocket and pulled out the master key card.

“Tell Victoria,” Callie whispered into the terrified woman’s ear, “that her stop-loss just failed.”

She slammed Danvers’ head against the wall. The housekeeper went limp, unconscious.

Callie didn’t pause. She grabbed the unconscious Olga by the ankles and dragged her into the walk-in closet, then returned for Danvers, hauling her inside as well. She closed the closet door, hiding the evidence. She stood up, swaying slightly as the room spun. She walked into the bathroom, turned on the cold tap, and plunged her face into the icy water. She held it there for ten seconds, counting her heartbeats.

She lifted her head, water dripping from her chin. She looked at the stranger in the mirror. Those eyes were dark, hollow, filled with lethal intent. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of a wolf finding an open gate.

She walked back into the bedroom and found a bottle of Claudius’s thirty-year-old single malt scotch, pulling the stopper. She poured the amber liquid over the deep scratches on her arms. She didn’t hiss. She didn’t blink.

Outside, the heavy footsteps of security echoed. Claudius was coming to check on the “job.”