The Daughter They Buried Twice

Ten years after my wealthy family took me back, I died in the rental house my billionaire parents had dumped me in.

My son was three.

Just to mess with me, the kidnapper gave me three chances to call for help.

If even one person was willing to come see me, he'd spare my child.

The first call was to my father, the man who'd spent fifteen years searching for me.

He was busy directing the staff as they set up my adoptive sister's birthday party.

When he picked up, he barked, "Estelle Emerson, seriously? Can you go one week without causing a scene? It's your sister's birthday. I'm busy. Don't kill the vibe."

The second call was to my mother, the woman who brought me home and changed my name from Dixie to Estelle.

But Vera snatched the phone and laughed so hard she could barely get the words out.

"Estelle, seriously? If you're gonna make something up, at least make it believable. You look so broke you probably don't even have fifty bucks. What kidnapper would pick you?"

The third time, I called Luca's father, my legal husband.

He said he was in a meeting and didn't have time to play games with me. He also said that if I behaved myself, he'd agree to take me home for dinner next week.

After the final call ended, I looked at the grinning kidnapper in despair and sent the last two messages of my life.

A photo of myself covered in blood.

And a short message, every word sincere.

[I'm really going to die. In my next life, don't bring me home.]

When the call went through, Dad was snapping orders for Vera's birthday party.

"What now?" he barked.

I stared at the kidnapper's bloody knife and shook.

"Dad, I've been kidnapped. Please come get me and Luca."

Luca was my son. Three years old.

The kidnapper had broken in while I was putting him to bed.

Now Luca was on the floor, bleeding out.

"Estelle Emerson, seriously? Can you go one week without causing a scene? It's your sister's birthday. I'm busy. Don't kill the vibe."

Then he yelled, "Beatrice, is Vera's cake here yet? I ordered twenty tiers. Twenty."

Click.

The call dropped.

The dial tone buzzed in my ear as my chest clenched.

Actually, today was my birthday too.

Twenty-five years ago, Vera and I were born in the same hospital.

One nurse mixed up our name tags.

Just like that, Vera became Kingsley City's heiress. Spoiled. Protected. Loved by everyone.

And me?

I became the unwanted girl a crippled man named Frank pulled out of a dumpster in some backwoods place. To him, I was worth less than trash.

I worked as long as I could remember.

Food wasn't guaranteed.

Sometimes I got so hungry I fought hogs for their slop. One time, I passed out in the pen.

When I woke up, part of my ear was gone.

Frank said I'd been unlucky ever since.

He said people like me were never meant to have a whole, happy life.

But life wasn't all bad.

On my fifteenth birthday, I ate my first full meal.

I still remembered it.

A steaming bowl of oatmeal.

Two pieces of bread.

To me, it felt like a feast.

Frank said he'd taken money from a family across the county. He was handing me over to their forty-year-old son—a man who could barely take care of himself.

According to Frank, my luck had finally turned around.

That's when my parents found me.

They brought me home and told me I was their missing daughter.

They told me to get along with Vera.

By the next day, I realized I'd only traded one hell for another.

When I was twenty-one, Vera's fiancé, Tristan Schulz, got drunk and barged into the storage room where I slept.

I got pregnant.

I got married.

Now I was about to die.

And weirdly, the thought didn't even hurt anymore.

Then Luca twitched at my feet and mumbled, "Mom."

My breath caught.

I gave a bitter laugh and looked at the kidnapper filming everything.

"Give me another chance."

***

The second call was to Mom.

In high society, she was a famous philanthropist. Always in the headlines. Every year, she donated millions and made sure every headline mentioned it.