Beyond The Scratches: An Heiress's Revenge

Beyond The Scratches: An Heiress's Revenge

JENNIFER JARVIS

5.0
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The exclusive charity gala was a suffocating display of elite hypocrisy, a world I, Gabrielle Johns, knew all too well. My stepfather and his golden child took center stage, gushing over a scholarship student named Maria Chavez. But Maria was no fragile victim; she was a snake, waiting for her moment to strike. And she did, seizing the microphone to publicly accuse me of relentless bullying and making her life a hell. Suddenly, her gaze locked on mine, and she wailed about being driven to self-harm, pulling up her sleeve to reveal faint scratches that were obviously fake. My stepbrother, Andrew, blinded by rage and infatuation, lunged at me, his eyes spitting venom. "You monster," he snarled, "you made her want to die!" The crowd' s sympathy for Maria solidified into open disgust for me, painting me as the entitled villain. Even my stepfather, Matthew, the man my mother married, stood by, playing the disappointed patriarch, complicit in the charade. Yet, as the room swam with their judgment and their lies, I refused to move, refusing to kneel. How could these people, who claimed to care about charity, be so easily duped by such a transparent act? Why was the man my mother made powerful so quick to turn on me, his own stepdaughter? This wasn' t just a malicious accusation; it was a cold, calculated strike against everything I believed my family stood for. But they had made a fatal mistake: they hurt me. And they had no idea who they were truly dealing with, or what I was capable of doing to protect what was mine.

Introduction

The exclusive charity gala was a suffocating display of elite hypocrisy, a world I, Gabrielle Johns, knew all too well.

My stepfather and his golden child took center stage, gushing over a scholarship student named Maria Chavez.

But Maria was no fragile victim; she was a snake, waiting for her moment to strike.

And she did, seizing the microphone to publicly accuse me of relentless bullying and making her life a hell.

Suddenly, her gaze locked on mine, and she wailed about being driven to self-harm, pulling up her sleeve to reveal faint scratches that were obviously fake.

My stepbrother, Andrew, blinded by rage and infatuation, lunged at me, his eyes spitting venom.

"You monster," he snarled, "you made her want to die!"

The crowd' s sympathy for Maria solidified into open disgust for me, painting me as the entitled villain.

Even my stepfather, Matthew, the man my mother married, stood by, playing the disappointed patriarch, complicit in the charade.

Yet, as the room swam with their judgment and their lies, I refused to move, refusing to kneel.

How could these people, who claimed to care about charity, be so easily duped by such a transparent act?

Why was the man my mother made powerful so quick to turn on me, his own stepdaughter?

This wasn' t just a malicious accusation; it was a cold, calculated strike against everything I believed my family stood for.

But they had made a fatal mistake: they hurt me.

And they had no idea who they were truly dealing with, or what I was capable of doing to protect what was mine.

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His Silent Vengeance: A Director's Redemption

His Silent Vengeance: A Director's Redemption

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The smell of antiseptic still clung to me, a phantom reminder of the fire that consumed my old life. Lying in a hospital bed, a mummy of bandages, I clutched onto the last hope: an experimental skin graft, my only chance to survive. I was a special effects artist, the guy behind the scenes, but I'd clawed my way to this lifeline. Then, Jocelyn Chavez, my protégée, the girl I' d trained and paid for, walked in. My "little sister." Her eyes were red, but not for me. "Andrew," she stammered, "you have to give it to Matthew. He needs his looks. He's a leading man, Andrew. You're… behind the scenes. He needs this more." I stared, aghast. I was dying, but Matthew's career was her priority. She didn' t see me; she saw a stepping stone for the charming star she was infatuated with. Despite my pleas, she left. Hours later, the nurse told me my spot had been "reallocated" at Jocelyn's request, for "greater public value." I died that night, alone, betrayed by the girl I' d given everything to. My last thought was of her face, twisted with devotion for him, not sorrow for me. The betrayal burned hotter than any fire. Then, I jolted awake. The acrid smell of a smoke machine, not real smoke, filled the air. I was back on set, a year before the fire. A stunt had just gone wrong. And there was Matthew, playing the hero, pointing to a girl with a real injury, Jocelyn, expecting me to handle the "trouble." This time, things would be different.

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