The Framed Heir Betting On The Wrong Horse Chinese Drama

Claire Avila sat up in the bed, her lungs seizing.

A scream tore through her throat, raw and jagged, but the sound died before it hit the air. She clawed at her neck. Her fingers dug into soft skin, searching for the bruise, the wire, the hands that had squeezed the life out of her just seconds ago.

Nothing.

Her skin was smooth. Damp with cold sweat, but smooth.

She gasped, sucking in oxygen until her chest burned. The air smelled of lavender and expensive starch, not the metallic tang of blood or the mold of a basement.

Claire scrambled off the mattress. Her legs tangled in the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and she hit the floor hard. She didn't feel the impact. She crawled toward the bathroom, her body shaking so violently her teeth chattered.

She gripped the marble edge of the sink and pulled herself up.

The face in the mirror was hers, but it was wrong. It was too young. The eyes were wide and terrified, not dead and hollow. There were no wrinkles around the mouth, no gray hairs at the temples.

She looked down at the vanity. A small, gold-embossed calendar sat next to a stack of plush towels.

June 12, 2014.

The world tilted on its axis.

Bile rose in her throat. Hot and acidic. She leaned over the toilet and dry heaved, her stomach cramping as if trying to expel a poison that wasn't there yet.

2014. The day of her engagement party. The day she signed her life away to the devil.

A vibration buzzed against the marble counter.

Claire froze. She turned her head slowly, as if the noise were a physical threat. Her phone lit up.

Derrick

The heart emoji mocked her. It was a remnant of a girl who was stupid, blind, and pathetically in love.

She reached out. Her hand didn't tremble this time. She picked up the device. It felt heavy, like a brick of lead.

"Good morning, my angel. I can't wait to see you tonight."

The text message flashed on the screen.

Claire didn't reply. She didn't delete it. She walked to the bathtub, turned on the faucet, and plugged the drain. She watched the water rise, clear and cold.

When the tub was half full, she dropped the phone.

It made a small splash. The screen flickered once, illuminated the water with a ghostly blue light, and then went black.

She stared at the submerged metal. It looked like a corpse.

"Good," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, unused.

She splashed freezing water on her face. Once. Twice. The shock numbed her skin and sharpened her mind. The panic was receding, replaced by something colder. Something harder.

She remembered this day. She remembered the schedule.

Hair at ten. Makeup at noon. Photos at two.

And right now, down the hall in the Presidential Suite B, Branch Brewer was waking up with a hangover.

In her past life-her dead life-she had avoided him. She had looked at him with disdain, believing Derrick's lies that Branch was nothing but a waste of a trust fund. A chaotic element to be avoided.

Now, she knew better. Chaos was exactly what she needed.

Claire walked back into the bedroom. She ignored the modest, pastel dress hanging in the closet-the one Derrick had picked out for her. Instead, she grabbed a black silk slip dress from her suitcase. It was sleepwear, barely appropriate for a private breakfast, let alone the hallway of The Pierre.

She didn't care.

She pulled it on. The silk skimmed her body, cold and fluid. She grabbed her trench coat and threw it over her shoulders, leaving it unbuttoned.

She didn't put on shoes.

The carpet in the hallway was thick and plush under her bare feet. It muffled her steps as she walked toward the elevators. The corridor was silent, the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains at the end of the hall.

The elevator doors chimed.