Rising From Ashes: The Swapped Heiress

Chapter 8

Word Count: 663 | Released on: Today at 14:11

ife-wielding stance in the forest remained burned into his mind. He leaned his head back against the leather chair, s

phere inside the Blackb

ows, her fingers aggressively massaging her temple

stood nervously by the mahogany dining table. H

he Watkins girl, ma'am," E

ply against the marble floor. She sna

nd Haven's high school transcripts. The grades were flawless. Straight A's

ned with a sudden, i

brary, wearing faded jeans. "She's a parasite. She's using these grades to claw her w

ally done anything illegal, Mrs. Black

ped up. Her eyes

ifying whisper. "Gloria is traumatized. She's refusing her trust fund ob

med the fo

college. Leak rumors about academic dishonesty. Plagiarism. Whateve

ckly gathering the folder and

Gloria lay sprawled across a velvet sofa. The

humb swiping with angry, jerky movements. Her wrist sti

a video with a

kers. Gloria rolled her eyes, about to swipe past, whe

ia f

p against her ribs. She sat up, bri

me faded, worn fabric she had seen on Haven at the s

file. Appalachian Pur

irt under the fingernails. The fam

ria whispered t

be miserable. She was supposed to be crying in her trailer park. Instead,

tapped the comment box. She cre

e probably from a dumpster behind a grocery store. Yo

hit

buried under hundreds of new c

hone. It hit the wall, the screen shattering into a spi

reath coming in ragged, angry gasps. Sh

Chapter End

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Rising From Ashes: The Swapped Heiress

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“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.”