Time Traveling Love

Phoenix Rising: The Scarred Heiress's Revenge

Xiao Hong Mao

I lived as the "scarred ghost" of the Stephens penthouse, a wife kept in the shadows because my facial burns offended my billionaire husband's aesthetic. For years, I endured Kason's coldness and my family's abuse, a submissive puppet who believed she had nowhere else to go. The end came with a blue folder tossed onto my silk sheets. Kason's mistress was back, and he wanted me out by sunset, offering a five-million-dollar "silence fee" to go hide my face in the countryside. The betrayal cut deep when I discovered my father had already traded my divorce for a corporate bailout. My step-sister mocked my "trashy" appearance at a high-end boutique, while the sales staff treated me like a common thief. At home, my father threatened to cut off my mother's life-saving medicine unless I crawled back to Kason to beg for a better deal. I was the girl who took the blame for a fire she didn't start, the wife who worshipped a man who never looked her in the eye, and the daughter used as a human bargaining chip. I was supposed to be broken, penniless, and desperate. But the woman who stood up wasn't the weak Elease Finch anymore; she was Phoenix, a tactical predator with a $500 million secret. I signed the divorce papers without a single tear, walked past my stunned husband, and wiped the Finch family's bank accounts clean with a few taps on my phone. "Your money is dirty," I told Kason with a cold smile. "I prefer clean hands." The cage is open, the hunt has begun, and I'm starting with the people who thought a scar made me weak.

Modern Revenge

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The smell hit her first.

It wasn't the usual mustiness of her bedroom or the faint lavender of the sachets she kept in the linen closet. It was thick, metallic, and raw. It coated the back of her throat, pulling her up from the depths of a dreamless sleep.

Katherine opened her eyes, blinking against the darkness. The air conditioning hummed its steady rhythm, but a strange chill crept over her skin. She shivered, pulling the duvet tighter.

Her hand slid across the sheet to adjust her position, and her fingers brushed against something wet.

She froze.

It was cold. Sticky. It soaked into the fabric under her palm, clinging to her skin. A sickening slide of liquid against her knuckles.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She snatched her hand back, sitting bolt upright in the bed. The movement made the liquid squelch beneath her.

She stared into the dark, her breath coming in short, shallow puffs. She reached out blindly, her fingers finding the brass lamp on the nightstand. She fumbled for the switch, her hands shaking so badly she nearly knocked it over.

Click.

Yellow light flooded the space, stinging her eyes. She looked down at her hand.

Red. Dark, wet, sticky red.

Blood.

A gasp tore from her throat. She scrambled backward, her spine pressing against the headboard of the massive four-poster bed. It was the bed she had bought just last week at Sotheby's—the supposed final resting place of some long-dead European king—and it dominated the attic-turned-master-suite she had renovated two years ago, the centerpiece of her private sanctuary. Now, it was a crime scene.

Her eyes drifted to the left.

A man lay beside her.

He was enormous, taking up more than half the mattress. He was dressed in what looked like a costume—dark velvet coat, gold embroidery, heavy fabrics that belonged in a museum. But the velvet was torn, and the gold thread was stained black with blood.

A low, ragged groan escaped his lips.

Panic seized her chest like a vice. Her throat closed up, choking off the scream that desperately wanted to come out. She couldn't make a sound. She could only stare as the man shifted, his face twisting in pain even in his unconscious state.

He was dying. Right there, in her bed.

She had to get out. She had to call the police.

She slid toward the edge of the mattress, moving inch by inch. Her feet touched the cold hardwood floor. She stood up, her legs trembling beneath her.

Her heel caught on the leg of a standing mirror.

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