Rising From Ashes: The Swapped Heiress

Chapter 4

Word Count: 865 | Released on: Today at 14:11

ven bamboo basket on her back. The rough material dug into her shoulders through her thin windbreaker. Sh

shivered in the morning chill. She clutched a thick walking stic

I read that the hunter from the news segment warned about these still being active." In truth, after her rebirth, she

d, giving the s

avine where the sunlight barely penetrated the dense canopy.

scanned the base of a

sh of yellow

amp moss was a cluster of golden chanterel

d, her voice tigh

. Months of studying sustainable harvesting methods flashed through her mind, and she car

ening as she spotted a patch of honey

knife and their quiet breathing. The bottom of Haven's basket w

branch breaking under a boo

. She scrambled backward, raisi

e kept the blade low and hidden against the back of her wrist, her pulse hammering in her ears. All those months ste

hes ten yards

tepped

et. But Haven's eyes immediately dropped to his feet. Custom-fitted, It

em. A flicker of genuine surprise cro

th hands, palms open, sh

ce was a deep, resonant baritone that carried easi

Her thumb remained rigid along

ven said, her tone ice-cold. "People

bs into the straps of his high-end tactical backpac

ping to the basket on Haven's back. "Those are beautiful Morchella e

the Latin name. He knew the e

relaxing at the sight of his calm demeanor. "Go

out a sleek, insulated water bottle and held it out

it, Haven stepped sideways,

lies," Haven said fla

s gaze shifted back to Haven, a spark of calculation lighting up his dark eyes. He register

eep incline to his left. "I'll take the western ridg

Haven replied, her voice dev

away, his expensive boots making almost no sound on the wet

da whispered, lowering

the tension drain from her f

the mud aren't nice, Mom," Haven said, turni

Chapter End

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Rising From Ashes: The Swapped Heiress

Bai Bian Billionaires

“My son Leo had just died, and the silence in our cramped apartment felt like a physical weight crushing my chest. Before I could even process the grief, my husband, Preston, kicked the door open and threw divorce papers onto the table. Behind him stood Gloria, wearing a pristine cashmere coat and the diamond pendant Preston swore he had pawned to pay for Leo's hospital bills. "Sign it," Preston said coldly. "You get nothing." Gloria smirked, mocking me for failing to keep my sick child alive. When I tore up the papers in a blinding rage, Preston slapped me to the floor. Then, my biological mother, Jerilyn, walked in. Instead of helping me, she pulled a serrated kitchen knife from her bag and plunged it deep into my stomach. As I lay dying in a pool of my own blood, Jerilyn leaned in and whispered the devastating truth. "I swapped you in the nursery. Gloria is my blood, and you belong in a Manhattan mansion. I can't let you ruin her life." Until my lungs stopped working, I was consumed by a roaring, violent hatred. My own mother had traded my life of privilege for poverty, let my son die, and then murdered me to protect the fake. Opening my eyes again, the dingy ceiling and the agonizing pain were gone. I was sitting at a wooden desk, surrounded by the chatter of teenagers. I was back in high school. And this time, I was going to make them pay.”