The Genius Heiress Returns For Vengeance

The surgical blade sliced through her skin.

Blood spilled hot and fast over Annette's freezing fingers. Her muscles seized against the heavy iron chains binding her to the chair. The damp air in the basement smelled of rust and copper.

Gayla stood just out of reach. She held up a plastic blood bag, watching the dark red liquid fill the tube. A cold smile stretched across her flawless face.

"You are nothing but a mobile blood bank, Annette," Gayla said.

Annette stared at her. Her eyes burned. Her chest tightened until her ribs ached, but she could not speak. The blood loss was draining the heat from her core.

Bryton took a step back. He covered his nose with a pristine white handkerchief. He looked at Annette with pure disgust.

"The smell is unbearable," Bryton muttered. "Hurry it up."

Annette looked at the man who was supposed to be her fiancé. Her stomach dropped. A hollow ache spread through her chest, replacing whatever foolish hope she once had.

Gayla leaned in close. Her expensive perfume mixed with the smell of blood.

"Did you know?" Gayla whispered. "Your mother didn't die of a heart attack. My father poisoned her. He watched her choke on her own foam."

Annette's heart slammed against her ribs. The monitor beside her spiked. Extreme fury flooded her veins. She thrashed against the metal chair. The iron chains tore into her wrists, peeling back skin, but the metal did not yield.

Her vision blurred at the edges. The room faded into gray. She swore to herself, with the last beat of her heart, that if she ever had another chance, she would tear them all apart.

The heart monitor let out a long, piercing flatline.

Total darkness swallowed her.

A sharp, grating alarm clock rang out.

Annette gasped. Her eyes snapped open. She sat up so fast her head spun. Cold sweat dripped down her forehead, stinging her eyes.

She grabbed her left wrist. Her fingers rubbed frantically over the skin. It was smooth. No cut. No blood. No chains.

She froze. Her lungs pulled in air that smelled of moldy wallpaper and leaking pipes. She looked around. The cramped space, the peeling yellow paint, the tiny window overlooking a dirt lot.

This was the trailer in the Rust Belt. The place she lived when she was seventeen.

She stumbled out of the narrow bed and pushed open the bathroom door. She gripped the edges of the cracked sink and stared into the mirror. The face looking back was young, wild, and completely unscarred.

She turned on the faucet. Ice-cold water splashed over her face. The freezing temperature shocked her skin. It was real. She was back.

She looked at the calendar taped to the wall. Three days before the Fernandez family would send a car to bring her back to their estate. Three days before her nightmare originally began.

The memory of her mother's murder burned in her throat. Annette pulled back her fist and slammed it into the mirror.

The glass shattered. Cracks split her reflection. Her dark eyes stared back, completely devoid of warmth.

She spun around and walked to the small closet. She reached behind the bottom panel and pulled out a hidden stack of cash, a fake passport she had stashed away for emergencies, and a small metal lockbox. Inside the lockbox was a heavy black metal key engraved with a silver iris flower—the key to her mother's safety deposit box. Next to it lay a battered laptop and a compact signal jammer she had built years ago. Her fingers brushed over the equipment. She had prepared for this day.

She stripped off her pajamas and pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. She gathered her long, dark hair and tied it into a tight, high ponytail. She shoved the cash, passport, and the lockbox into a worn canvas backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and walked out of the trailer.

The cold wind hit her face, carrying the smell of industrial exhaust. She locked the door and did not look back.

She walked two blocks to a rusted payphone. She dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed a long, encrypted number.

"Get me the fastest ticket to Manhattan," Annette said, her voice low and steady.

"Yes, Echo," a mechanical voice replied.

She hung up the phone. As she turned around, three men stepped out from the alley. They wore dirty hoodies and smelled of cheap beer.

"Where are you going, little girl?" the tallest one asked. He reached out to grab her shoulder.

Annette's eyes went cold. She did not step back. As his hand touched her jacket, she grabbed his wrist, twisted her hips, and snapped his arm downward.

A loud crack echoed in the street.

The man dropped to his knees, screaming. He clutched his broken arm. The other two men froze, their eyes wide with shock. They backed away, stumbling over their own feet.

Annette stepped over the crying man. She adjusted her ponytail and kept walking toward the Greyhound bus station.

She bought a black coffee from a vending machine and sat in the back row of the waiting area. The bitter liquid burned her tongue, keeping her awake. She needed to plan.

James Fernandez wanted her mother's perfume patent. That was why he brought her back. She had to get to the bank vault before he even knew she was in New York.

The bus arrived. She handed her ticket to the driver and walked to the very back seat. She sat by the window and closed her eyes. The engine rumbled beneath her.

Hours passed. The broken roads of the Rust Belt turned into smooth highways.

When the bus finally pulled into the terminal, the morning sun was reflecting off the glass skyscrapers of Manhattan. The bright light stung her eyes.

Annette grabbed her bag and stepped off the bus. She looked up at the towering buildings. A cold, bloodthirsty smile touched her lips.