The Fake Heiress Cancels Her Engagement

The harsh scent of rubbing alcohol burned the back of her throat.

Diana dragged her eyelids open. The harsh, sterile fluorescent lights above sent a violent stab of pain directly behind her eyes. Her vision swam. The room tilted.

A sharp, rhythmic throbbing hammered against the base of her skull. She sucked in a harsh breath, her lungs fighting against the sudden influx of cold air.

Beep.

The steady, mechanical sound of an intravenous drip pump echoed in the quiet room.

Diana forced her stiff neck to turn. The crisp Egyptian cotton sheets rustled against her skin. Her gaze swept past the silver medical trays and locked onto a leather medical chair less than three feet away.

A boy sat there.

He was painfully thin. His pale skin looked almost translucent under the harsh lights. Thick leather straps bound his wrists and ankles to the heavy chair.

A thick, large-gauge needle pierced the fragile skin of his inner elbow, buried deep into his vein.

Dark red blood pulsed through a clear plastic tube. It flowed rapidly, pooling into a sterile collection bag hanging below the armrest.

A man in a pristine white lab coat stood over him. Dr. Evans. He adjusted the flow valve with practiced, clinical precision, completely ignoring the human being attached to the machine.

The boy, Jorden, didn't flinch. His dark eyes were entirely hollow, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. His jaw was locked tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his ear, but he offered no other reaction to the needle invading his body.

Then, the memories hit her.

It wasn't a gentle realization. It was a physical blow to the head. Seventeen years of someone else's life crashed into her brain. The extravagant parties. The cruelty. The name of the book: The Rules of Fifth Avenue Socialites.

Her stomach violently heaved. Acid burned the back of her throat.

She was the fake heiress. The villain. The one who ended up dead in the gutter.

Her heart rate skyrocketed. The ECG monitor beside her bed immediately picked up the panic, emitting a rapid, piercing alarm that shattered the sterile silence.

Dr. Evans paused. He turned his head, his hands leaving the blood valve.

He looked at Diana and offered a polished, sickeningly professional smile.

"The biological asset is ready, Miss McConnell. Your exclusive blood supply is prepped for transfusion whenever you feel weak."

Diana stared at the blood bag. It was warm. It was full of a teenage boy's life.

A wave of intense, physiological nausea hit her so hard she gagged.

She didn't think. She just moved.

Diana ripped the cashmere blanket off her body. She ignored the IV needle taped to the back of her own hand and yanked it out. A hot trickle of her own blood ran down her knuckles.

Her bare feet hit the freezing Italian marble floor.

The cold shot up her legs. Her knees buckled under the sudden weight, her muscles trembling from the concussion and weakness. She stumbled forward, her shoulder slamming hard into the edge of a metal tray.

"Miss McConnell!" Dr. Evans gasped, dropping his clipboard. He rushed forward, reaching out to support her arms.

Diana shoved his hands away. Her palms slammed against his chest, pushing him back with every ounce of strength she had left.

She lunged toward the apheresis machine.

Her trembling fingers found the large, red emergency stop button on the control panel. She slammed her palm down on it.

The machine let out a long, high-pitched whine. The internal pumps ground to a halt. The dark blood in the clear tube stopped moving.

Dr. Evans stared at her, his eyes wide with shock.

"Miss McConnell, what are you doing? Why did you interrupt the procedure?"

Diana gripped the edge of the machine to keep herself standing. Her chest heaved. She dug her fingernails into her palms until the pain grounded her.

"Pull the needle out." Her voice was hoarse, raw, but laced with absolute authority.

Dr. Evans blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"

"Pull the damn needle out of his arm, Evans. Now."

For the first time since she woke up, the boy in the chair moved.

Jorden slowly lowered his head. The deadness in his eyes seemed to ripple with a faint trace of confusion, a subtle fracture in his hollow mask, as if he couldn't comprehend why the person who constantly tormented him was suddenly protecting him.

Before anyone could speak, the sharp, rapid clicking of high heels echoed from the marble hallway outside.

The sound was fast. Angry. Approaching the door.