The Heiress's Scars: A Vengeful Return

heart, Derek, I was kidnapped. I was a wealthy

and his assistant, Krystal, used the

s. When I finally escaped, I stumbled upon their charity event, naked an

against me, had me committed to a psychiatric h

shes, leaving me with nothin

he's back, begging for forgiveness. He doesn't know the torture left me infertile,

pte

r Smit

ped. I gripped the lukewarm coffee cup, my knuckles turning white, but the h

doing what I did every day. Lily' s school was nearby, and her after-school art cl

t videos. The usual white noise of the internet. I rarely paid attention. Most of it felt distant, trivial

handle. A name I hadn't seen, or

tal

en skimming, locked onto the post. It was a picture, first, of Krystal, radiant and smug, draped in silk, a

ption. My st

of triumph. She bragged. Not subtly, not indirectly. Bragged with raw, unbridled mal

delay the ransom payment. Advised him that my family wa

yes, each one a fresh cut.

of brutal, dehumanizing torture. They had been the reason I was publicly shamed, then locked away in a psychiatric ho

led to my broken body, my shattered mind. She even mentioned the "difficult but necessary decis

ly catching it before it fell. "Look at us now, Derek and I. Strong

a pre-meditated, calculated humiliation, t

"Queen!" and "Goals!" plastered everywhere. It was pinned to

ece Derek had commissioned for me, a delicate silver vine with tiny, intricate leaves. I had

him see that some dead weight needed to be shed." Dead weight. That was me.

andal, propelled by his brilliant assistant, Krystal Peck. They didn't know the ashes were me. The story she told omitted the ransom money. Omitted the fact th

enter door. It was almost time f

article. A grainy picture. Me. Pre-kidnapping. Pre-torture. Pre-psych ward. Happy. Smiling

a thin blanket. Next to it, Krystal, impeccably dressed, her arm linked through Derek' s, a look of serene concern on her face. A stark, brutal co

shadows, ready to pounce. It had been broadcast to the world, a public specta

to dislodge the images, the memories. I n

my screen. Deleted. The virality had probably caught up to h

ppearance, my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar n

just on

ath

poken not by a stranger, but by someone who knew me intimately. Only one person had

re

ike a phantom limb, reaching out from a past I had painstakingly amputated. It felt

ions, too late for whatever twisted form of redemption he might be seekin

rip on the coffee cup, then forced myself to stand, to walk towards the bustling entrance where Lily would soon emerge. The past was a f