Reborn From Ashes: The Vengeful Heiress

brought

uencies she'd never known existed. Her face. Her hands. Her legs. Each location announced itse

opened h

soft hiss of mechanical breathing. She tried to turn her head, but something held it immobile-a collar

e direction of the window. "Your vocal cords were damaged

ilored suit that caught the morning sun and turned it to charcoal and silver. His hands were in his pocke

fire. The fall. The hands that had lif

nes, strong jaw, eyes the color of winter ice. Handsome in a way that registered as threat rather than attraction. "My name is Connor Galloway. I

ng, covering everything from her hairline to her jaw. She traced the edge

s, your lower legs. The surgeons have done what they can, but you'll need extensi

e ceiling. The white, empty ceiling

mptons house burned to the foundation. Two bodies recovered, identified through dental records. The news is cal

d been. She felt tears track down her temples, pool in her ears, and she cou

obably cost more than her apartment. "Your family's assets have been liquidated. The trust you signed over to Jefferson? He converted it to cash with

The Wall Street Journal. She couldn't focus on the date, but the headline was cl

anged in the perfect mask of controlled grief she'd seen him practice in mirror

nection point. She could pull it free. Could find something sharp,

over hers. His skin was

nd stole your name and burned your face-he's going to pay. But not with prison. Not with a fine. With everything. His money, his power, his reputation, his

the calculation in his eyes, the assessment, the cold weighing of cost against benef

as a whisper, barely aud

that created him-the system that lets men like him destroy lives for profit-that's what I want to hurt.

me manageable, become fuel. She thought of her mother's hands in the garden dirt. Her father's laugh a

er vital signs. She watched the numbers, found t

e ye

peak, her voice emerging from the damage as something new-lower, rougher, accented with the European intonations of her speech therapists. She learned

eraged buyouts. She sat in rooms with men who had built empires on the bones of competitors, and she learned to smile the

e surgeries that rebuilt her face into something beautiful and strange and not quite her own. He never offered comfort. N

became

nd Milan, established in the rarefied world of European haute couture as a designer of brutal, architectural elegance. No photographs existed of her face-she insist

olyn stood in front of a mirr

eyes, miracle of miracles-were the same green-gray, but set differently, framed by brows she'd learned to draw in a sharper arc. Her

d, a pale thread visible beneath the makeup she'd learned to apply with surgical precision. She didn't hide it c

me from the doorway. She didn't turn. "Kennedy Airpo

le

e moved to stand beside her, their reflections merging in the glass. "Douglas Jefferson is

lace, imported from Belgium, obscurin

but she felt the strength in his fingers, the implicit threat. "You've spent three years b

sform. "Karolyn Yates was soft. She believed in love, in loyalty, in the basic goodn

iled, the first genuine expression she'd seen fr

r that when you see him.

ancials, Krystle's social calendar, the architecture of Yates Group's remaining assets. She memorized names, dat

ume of people who had never waited in lines, never been told no. She moved through it without hu

fficient, forgettably pretty. "Ms. Mo

e-a single Hermès case, carefully curated to establish her legend-and held

institute requests a consultation. And tonight-" she paused, consulting her phone "-there's an event at a new boutique on Fif

nd transformed. She'd grown up in these streets, in these buildings, in the world of inh

she said. "Take m

"Ms. Moreau, Mr. Galloway

met her eyes in the rearview mirror.

r. Alice noted the building's history-a former bookseller, according to the file Connor had provided. The kind of place a girl li

re than most people's monthly rent. A red carpet stretched to the curb. Photographers l

posture and the silence do their work. The photographers turned, sensing something, and found o

g. Inside, the boutique was a cathedral of consumption, all white marble and rece

ecognition. "Ms. Moreau! We weren't expec

alibrated to suggest old European money and dangerous secrets. "I'm looki

whelmed. "Of course, of cou

pace, her heels silent on the marble. "Something in

at's-it's been reserved, Ms.

w who

pet, the arriving limousine, the familiar shape of Douglas Jefferson unfold

is arm. Wearing a dress that cost more than the annual salary o

ed beneath

e said, "that Alice