The Wronged Heiress’ Revenge

Crimson liquid trickled down Zara Powell’s neck, soaking slow into the collar of her clothes.

That icy chill, tangled up in crippling fear, sent full-body shivers racing down her spine.

But she didn’t have time to fall apart. All she wanted was to get out. Her mind was already stretched thin, ready to snap.

Sharp whispers bit at her from every direction.

"Is that really Zara Powell from two years ago? Back then, her paintings went for half a million bucks easy."

"Unreal. One look and you’d think she’s some homeless beggar who snuck in, hahaha."

"Doesn’t matter how talented she was. She’s always been rotten goods. A cold-blooded killer like her doesn’t belong anywhere decent."

"And Samir only dragged her here to humiliate her, right? Look over there—he’s watching the whole show unfold."

Zara clutched her head in agony, shoving through the crowd desperate to leave.

But Samir’s cold indifference had already set the tone. Everywhere she turned, people stepped right in her way on purpose.

Jeers and insults bounced off the walls around her, and Zara’s sanity was already teetering on the edge of collapse.

*SLAP!*

A rough hand wrenched her hair back, and a second later, a palm cracked hard across her face.

Her vision and hearing blurred to static. Through the fog, she could just make out the furious woman who’d hit her—Cataleya Rivera, Ailani’s mother.

"You heartless monster! My son’s body isn’t even cold, and you have the nerve to show your face around here!"

The crowd, hungry for a spectacle, pointed and whispered their disdain.

Samir sprawled on a couch nearby, long legs crossed, watching Zara crumple to the floor. A cigarette burned between his fingers, its tip glowing faint crimson, and his dark giveaways revealed nothing—no anger, no pity, nothing at all.

Zara struggled and hauled herself to her feet. She didn’t bother with explanations, just babbled a hurried apology: "I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll leave."

Cataleya’s eyes turned blood red. She kicked off her high heel and launched herself at Zara.

"See! You admit it! You killed my son on purpose! I swear to God, I’ll kill you today!"

She threw herself at Zara, scratching and punching with wild abandon.

Zara curled into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her head. For a second, she was right back in that dark room a year ago, learning to take the blows from the orderlies and the patients. It was just the same old routine.

As fists rained down on her, a soft, smooth voice cut through the chaos: "Mom, that’s enough."

The second the sound hit her ears, Zara’s fists clenched for half a heartbeat before she went limp again, her face slipping back into that empty, lifeless mask.

Ailani Rivera glided in, all grace and poise. Her pale yellow Victorian dress shimmered under the chandelier light, like she was glowing from within.

She tugged Cataleya off Zara and chided gently: "Mom, this isn’t the place for a scene. Samir brought Zara here as a guest, and the court already ruled on what happened. We shouldn’t bring it up again."

Reluctantly, Cataleya shot a death glare at Zara, who was already trying to stand again. She huffed, catching her breath: "Ailani, you’re too nice to this wicked bitch. She needs to be put in her place!"

Ailani softy rebuked her again: "That’s enough. It’s Thanksgiving, we have guests everywhere. You’re making Samir look bad."

With that, she stepped toward Zara and slipped her arm through Zara’s: "Miss Powell, let me take you to change before you catch a cold from that wet dress."

Zara tried to jerk away, but when she caught Samir’s blank, indifferent gaze, she lowered her head and followed Ailani down the hall to a private room.

Once the bedroom door clicked shut, Ailani pulled a dress from the wardrobe and tossed it right on the floor at Zara’s feet. "Change into this."

When Zara bent to pick it up, Ailani’s stiletto slammed down hard on the back of her hand.

Zara looked up at her, her face calm as still water.

Ailani sneered: "Recognize this room?"

Zara said nothing. That blank, impassive expression only stoked Ailani’s jealousy hotter.

"This is Samir’s room. You used to live here, didn’t you? But now it’s mine. I’m the one who stays here with him. How dare you even set foot in here, you dirty street rat?"

Zara’s voice was soft, steady: "Do you have a long-sleeve shirt? I’m not comfortable in dresses."

Ailani’s brow furrowed so sharp it looked like it would crack. She dragged her heel off Zara’s hand: "Did you even hear a word I just said to you?"

Zara stood up, brushed the lint from her hand onto her stained dress, and nodded: "I heard you."

Ailani stormed back to the closet, yanked out a plain dark shirt, and stomped it into the carpet with her heel over and over.

She taunted, holding it out like garbage: "Fine. Wear this instead."

Zara walked over calmly, picked the shirt up off the floor, and turned her back to Ailani to change.

Ailani’s face twisted with disbelief. What the hell was this? Zara never would have taken this humiliation lying down before, right?

She ground her teeth and hissed low: "You’re just trying to win Samir’s sympathy, aren’t you? Pretty clever tactic, Zara. But let me save you the trouble—it’s never going to work."

Finished changing, Zara held her wine-stained old sweater and turned back around, still calm as anything: "Miss Rivera, may I leave now?"

This couldn’t be Zara.

Had that rotten whore sent a lookalike to sneak in here instead?

Furious, Ailani yanked hard on Zara’s collar, glaring daggers into her face: "Who are you really?"

Zara’s voice came out almost mechanical: "Miss Rivera, you know me. I’m Zara Powell."

"Impossible! You lying bitch! Tell me where the real Zara Powell is!" Ailani seethed, raising her hand to slap Zara again.

But Zara caught her wrist mid-swing.

She held Ailani’s gaze and said, flat and steady: "You can’t hit me." Anyone else could. But not you, Ailani. And definitely not Samir.

Ailani gritted her teeth. This bitch is just putting on an act!

She tried to yank her wrist free, but for all Zara’s calm, her grip was iron-tight. She couldn’t move an inch.

The door clicked open. The familiar thud of confident footsteps echoed across the hardwood.

Ailani gasped and threw herself backward dramatically, like Zara had pushed her.

Samir crossed the room in two quick strides and caught her, steadying her: "Are you alright?"

Ailani nodded, biting her lip, tears welling up in her big brown eyes.

Samir’s gaze snapped to the still, quiet Zara standing by the wardrobe. "Did you push her, Zara?"

In that split second, Zara remembered his words from two years ago, sharp as a knife to the chest: "Just because Ailani loves me, you tried to hurt her brother?"

Her eyes flickered, so fast no one could have noticed, before she answered: "I’m sorry. It was my fault."

Samir’s jaw tightened. He closed the distance between them, until he was so close Zara could smell his cigarette smoke: "Explain it to me. Tell me it wasn’t you."

Zara stood her ground, and shook her head just barely: "I shouldn’t have pushed her. I’m sorry."