INK AND INTRIGUE A JOURNALISTS PURSUIT

Rejected Heiress: My Heartless Family's Regret

Cassandra

For seventeen years, I was the pride of the Carlisle family, the perfect daughter destined to inherit an empire. But that life ended the moment a DNA report slid across my father’s mahogany desk. The paper proved I was a stranger. Vanessa, the girl sobbing in the corner, was the real biological daughter they had been searching for. "You need to leave. Tonight. Before the press gets wind of this. Before the stock prices dip." My father’s voice was as cold as flint. My mother wouldn't even look at me, staring out the window at the gardens as if I were already a ghost. Just like that, I was erased. I left behind the Birkin bags and the diamonds, throwing my Centurion Card into a crystal bowl with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot. I walked out into the cold night and climbed into a rusted Ford Taurus driven by a man I had never met—my biological father. I went from a mansion to a fourth-floor walk-up in Queens that smelled of laundry detergent and struggle. My new siblings looked at me with a mix of fear and disgust, waiting for the "fallen princess" to break. They expected me to beg for my old life back, to crumble without the luxury I’d known since birth. But they didn't know the truth. I had spent years training in a shark tank, honing survival skills they couldn't imagine. While Richard Carlisle froze my trust funds to starve me out, my net worth was climbing by millions on an encrypted trading app. They thought they were throwing me to the wolves. They didn't realize they were just letting me off my leash. As the Carlisles prepared to debut Vanessa at the Manhattan Arts Gala, I was already making my move. "Get dressed. We're going to a party."

Modern Modern Revenge Drama Revenge Female-centered

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Chapter 1 – Arrival of Chaos

Debbie Lawson adjusted the strap of her leather tote as she stood at the edge of the driveway, staring at the sprawling mansion before her. She had seen pictures online - a mix of gothic architecture, glass panels, and wildly landscaped gardens - but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer chaos that radiated from every corner. Half-finished sculptures jutted from the lawns, stacks of books towered precariously on outdoor tables, and a fountain in the center of the driveway had somehow turned into a planter for sunflowers.

Her heels clicked on the cobblestones as she walked to the front door, her perfectly composed expression belying the knot of anxiety in her stomach. She had been warned about Greg Hartman, the novelist whose genius was matched only by his scandals. But Debbie didn't scare easily. Rules were her comfort, structure her armor - and she was here to enforce both.

A shadow moved behind the door, and before she could knock, the entrance swung open.

Greg Hartman stood there, hair sticking out in every direction, one pajama sleeve rolled halfway up his arm, a mug in hand that looked suspiciously like it hadn't been washed in a week. He squinted at her, dark eyes narrowing, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Debbie Lawson?" he drawled, his voice smooth and teasing. "I've been expecting a storm. And here she is - a walking, talking corporate handbook."

Debbie's jaw tightened, but she forced a neutral smile. "Mr. Hartman. I'm here to ensure your next book doesn't give your publisher another heart attack."

"Ah," he said, leaning against the doorway. "Straight to the point. I like that. You're exactly what I imagined: impeccably stiff, possibly judgmental, and wonderfully boring."

Her pulse quickened despite herself. There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself - reckless charm that made it impossible not to notice him. But Debbie's resolve was firm. She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze.

"I assure you, Mr. Hartman, I'm here for your work. Not... your opinions."

He chuckled, a low, knowing sound that made her stomach flutter and her teeth grit in equal measure. "Good. Because opinions are dangerous things. But rules... rules are boring. And boring can be fixed."

Debbie stepped inside, navigating a foyer cluttered with books, loose papers, and what appeared to be a half-completed sculpture of a horse. The scent of coffee - burnt, bitter, and oddly comforting - filled the air.

"You'll find my office upstairs," Greg said, waving vaguely with his mug. "Though I must warn you: it's not exactly... tidy."

"I prefer order," she replied, resisting the urge to straighten a leaning stack of manuscripts on the way past.

Greg's smirk widened. "And I prefer chaos. This might get... interesting."

Debbie's eyes swept the room as she followed him upstairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the sprawling grounds outside, but all she could focus on was the clutter of papers, manuscripts, and half-drunk coffee cups littering every surface. A notebook lay open on a desk, filled with scribbles, crossed-out paragraphs, and notes in scrawled handwriting that seemed both genius and insane.

"Here we are," he said, gesturing to the desk like it was a throne. "Welcome to my kingdom of chaos. Take a seat, Debbie. You'll need it."

She perched on the edge of a stiff chair, noting the contrast between his casual disarray and her own meticulous preparation. "I'm ready," she said, opening her notebook and pen. "Let's see what needs fixing."

Greg leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat, his gaze on her with that unnerving intensity that made her feel simultaneously scrutinized and exposed. "Brace yourself. I don't do revisions lightly. I rewrite everything at least twice, sometimes three times. And I swear by chaos as inspiration."

Debbie's fingers itched to correct him, to impose order on his wild ideas. But she held back, reminding herself that part of her job was to guide, not control - at least at first.

They dove into the manuscript. The first chapter was an intricate weave of intrigue, romance, and danger - but it was messy, sprawling, and occasionally nonsensical. Debbie made notes in the margins, flagging inconsistencies, character flaws, and pacing issues. Greg leaned over her shoulder, peering at her markings with an expression that oscillated between curiosity and mild irritation.

"Really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at one comment. "You think that plot twist is too predictable?"

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