Justice for the Vance Heiress

Justice for the Vance Heiress

Gavin

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I woke up on my wedding day, the morning sun streaming into my opulent Charleston bedroom. But the taste of asphalt and blood was still in my mouth, memories of screeching tires and a crushing impact vivid in my mind. My stepfather' s perfect plan: a staged hit-and-run, his neat solution to inherit my mother' s fortune. Because I had died. Now I was back, alive, staring at the date-my wedding day, the day he had me killed. A wave of phantom pain, of broken bones and crushed hope, washed over me. Then I saw her: my stepsister, Brielle, in my custom wedding dress, admiring herself in the mirror. The sight was a physical blow, a reminder of the humiliation and betrayal I endured in my first life as they drugged me and locked me away. He walked in, Senator Richard Thorne, playing the concerned father, but his eyes were cold and full of the disappointment I' d known my whole life. He gaslighted me, painting me as hysterical, just as he did before, controlling everything. "Your mother is gone," he hissed, "And I control you. Don\'t you ever forget that." I was trapped, again, the crushing weight of powerlessness threatening to suffocate me. Rage, so profound it burned, replaced the despair. Why did I have to relive this nightmare, this perfect setup for my destruction? But something was different this time. The naive girl died on that dark road; I was what was left. If he wanted to control the Vance family, there would be no Vance family left to control, not the way he expected. I found my mother' s hidden failsafe: an encrypted flash drive, her "in case of Richard" file. It held years of meticulous corruption, a dossier so damning it would send him to federal prison for life. With a grim smile and a single click of the send button, I launched the nuclear option, sending it to the FBI, SEC, and every major news outlet. The game had changed, and they didn' t even know they were playing.

Introduction

I woke up on my wedding day, the morning sun streaming into my opulent Charleston bedroom.

But the taste of asphalt and blood was still in my mouth, memories of screeching tires and a crushing impact vivid in my mind.

My stepfather' s perfect plan: a staged hit-and-run, his neat solution to inherit my mother' s fortune.

Because I had died.

Now I was back, alive, staring at the date-my wedding day, the day he had me killed.

A wave of phantom pain, of broken bones and crushed hope, washed over me.

Then I saw her: my stepsister, Brielle, in my custom wedding dress, admiring herself in the mirror.

The sight was a physical blow, a reminder of the humiliation and betrayal I endured in my first life as they drugged me and locked me away.

He walked in, Senator Richard Thorne, playing the concerned father, but his eyes were cold and full of the disappointment I' d known my whole life.

He gaslighted me, painting me as hysterical, just as he did before, controlling everything.

"Your mother is gone," he hissed, "And I control you. Don\'t you ever forget that."

I was trapped, again, the crushing weight of powerlessness threatening to suffocate me.

Rage, so profound it burned, replaced the despair.

Why did I have to relive this nightmare, this perfect setup for my destruction?

But something was different this time.

The naive girl died on that dark road; I was what was left.

If he wanted to control the Vance family, there would be no Vance family left to control, not the way he expected.

I found my mother' s hidden failsafe: an encrypted flash drive, her "in case of Richard" file.

It held years of meticulous corruption, a dossier so damning it would send him to federal prison for life.

With a grim smile and a single click of the send button, I launched the nuclear option, sending it to the FBI, SEC, and every major news outlet.

The game had changed, and they didn' t even know they were playing.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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