Lovers where here

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

Download the Book on the App

Jasmine Thompson sat alone in her modest apartment, the glow of her laptop casting shadows across the room. In her hand was the grainy photograph she'd spent the last two weeks staring at-a man's face, sharp-jawed and dark-haired, caught by a security camera outside an alley. It wasn't the clearest image, but it was enough.

Enough to know that this was the face of the man who had stolen her sister, Miranda, from her.

Her breath hitched as she thought of that terrible day two years ago. The day her life splintered into a before and after.

She had been at the law firm, neck-deep in court filings, when the call came. At first, she'd let it go to voicemail, assuming it was just another client. But the same number called again. And again. By the third ring, her curiosity outweighed her frustration, and she picked up.

"Ms. Thompson?" The voice on the other end was calm, almost robotic. "This is Officer Calloway with the Metro Police Department. I'm afraid there's been an incident involving your sister, Miranda. Can you come to the city morgue immediately?"

The words didn't make sense. "Incident?" Jasmine repeated, gripping the edge of her desk. "What do you mean? What's happened to Miranda?"

"I'm sorry," the officer said, his voice tinged with the kind of sympathy that made Jasmine's stomach drop. "It's better if we speak in person."

She barely remembered the drive to the morgue. Her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it over the hum of traffic. Every worst-case scenario played through her mind, but nothing could have prepared her for the truth.

The cold, sterile room smelled like disinfectant. The coroner pulled back the sheet, and there she was-Miranda. Jasmine's vibrant, free-spirited younger sister, now pale and lifeless. Her hazel eyes, so much like Jasmine's, were closed, and bruises marred her once-radiant skin.

"The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head," the coroner explained clinically. "It appears to have been a robbery gone wrong."

Jasmine couldn't process the words. Her vibrant, artistic, loving sister-who had just the day before been gushing about an art exhibit she was planning to attend-was gone. Just like that.

A robbery. That's what they called it. A random, senseless act of violence in a city teeming with crime.

But Jasmine knew better. Miranda was cautious, always aware of her surroundings. She wouldn't have wandered into a dangerous area without a reason. And the police's explanation-that she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time-felt like a lazy conclusion rather than the truth.

For months, Jasmine begged the detectives to dig deeper. She followed up on every lead, called every day for updates, but each time, the answer was the same: no progress.

Eventually, they stopped returning her calls. Miranda's case became just another unsolved crime.

But Jasmine couldn't let it go.

Every spare moment she had outside of her demanding job at the law firm, she spent poring over the evidence herself. She read the reports so many times she could recite them from memory. She replayed the last voicemail Miranda left her-the one about the art exhibit she was so excited to attend-until it was burned into her brain.

And then, a breakthrough.

The photograph had been buried deep in the police's case file, dismissed as inconclusive. But to Jasmine, it was everything. The man in the image was walking out of the alley where Miranda was found, just minutes before her estimated time of death. He wasn't some shadowy figure in the background. He was there, front and center, as if daring someone to find him.

But who was he?

Read Now