Revenge Of The Neglected Heiress

Revenge Of The Neglected Heiress

Evie Schoofs

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I was just a freshly unemployed paralegal in Chicago, killing time by hate-scrolling the trashiest online serial, "Heiress Undone." "This writing is an abomination," I muttered, typing a furious comment about the doormat protagonist and cartoon villains. The moment I hit 'post,' my screen flickered. A pop-up declared: [Narrative Correction System Activated.] Before I could react, my apartment dissolved. One blink later, I was in a ridiculously opulent mansion, dressed as a personal assistant, right in the middle of the Miller family drama I' d just criticized. It was the exact scene: Eleanor Miller shrieked at meek Ava, while her 'sister' Brittany feigned illness. My tablet chimed, revealing a grim truth: Ava's narrative was at "98% failure" for justice. Then, the unbelievable offer: fix this story, and I'd get $7.8 million in royalties. My paralegal brain screamed "Insane!" but the payout was real. Yet, seeing Ava' s quiet despair, the infuriating injustice of these cartoon villains resonated deeper than any sum. I was just a reader, but now I was unexpectedly tangled in a living, breathing train wreck. As Eleanor demanded Ava apologize, I stepped forward. "Actually," I said, my voice clear, "Ava has nothing to apologize for." The System buzzed. This wasn't just about the money anymore. "We're going to get you out of this mess," I promised Ava. "I'm in."

Introduction

I was just a freshly unemployed paralegal in Chicago, killing time by hate-scrolling the trashiest online serial, "Heiress Undone." "This writing is an abomination," I muttered, typing a furious comment about the doormat protagonist and cartoon villains.

The moment I hit 'post,' my screen flickered. A pop-up declared: [Narrative Correction System Activated.] Before I could react, my apartment dissolved. One blink later, I was in a ridiculously opulent mansion, dressed as a personal assistant, right in the middle of the Miller family drama I' d just criticized.

It was the exact scene: Eleanor Miller shrieked at meek Ava, while her 'sister' Brittany feigned illness. My tablet chimed, revealing a grim truth: Ava's narrative was at "98% failure" for justice. Then, the unbelievable offer: fix this story, and I'd get $7.8 million in royalties.

My paralegal brain screamed "Insane!" but the payout was real. Yet, seeing Ava' s quiet despair, the infuriating injustice of these cartoon villains resonated deeper than any sum. I was just a reader, but now I was unexpectedly tangled in a living, breathing train wreck.

As Eleanor demanded Ava apologize, I stepped forward. "Actually," I said, my voice clear, "Ava has nothing to apologize for." The System buzzed. This wasn't just about the money anymore. "We're going to get you out of this mess," I promised Ava. "I'm in."

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The heavy iron gate groaned open, releasing me after seven long years. Dr. Evelyn Reed. Once a brilliant surgeon, now just an ex-con. My husband, David, and our son, Ethan, were there, a beacon of hope in the sharp sunlight. "Evelyn, you' re finally out. Welcome home," David whispered, holding me tight. I thought their love was my lifeline, the one thing that kept me alive. But in a dusty closet, an old voice recorder shattered that illusion. "Dad, didn' t you set her up? Why didn' t you let her stay in jail longer? Seeing her makes Aunt Sarah unhappy." Ethan' s voice, then David' s, stern and unfamiliar. "She deserves everything she got!" My blood ran cold. The evidence against me-medical malpractice, illegal human trials, organ trafficking-it had all been fabricated. David, my own husband, had actively participated. My son, Ethan, had testified against me. My adopted grandfather, dead. My biological parents, publicly disowning me for Sarah, the girl they raised in my place. My career, ruined. My life, a stepping stone for her. The house, once a sanctuary, was a shrine to Sarah, filled with portraits of her painted by David and Ethan – a love and adoration they never showed me. All their affections, all their promises, were a monstrous lie. Overwhelmed, I stumbled upon a forgotten phone number-a promise made in the depths of my despair. My hands shook as I dialed, a quiet whisper sealing my fate. "The time has come to fulfill that promise."

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