The Jilted Stray Is A Zillionaire Heiress

Eloise yanked the heavy brass zipper of the faded canvas duffel bag. The metal teeth caught on a frayed thread of her old gray sweater.

She pulled harder, her knuckles turning white, until the zipper forced its way shut.

"Leaving so soon, sister?"

Eloise did not look up. She recognized the sharp, nasal tone and the soft padding of Kylie's designer slippers against the Persian rug.

Kylie stepped closer, holding a bone-china coffee cup. She extended her right foot and deliberately hooked the toe of her slipper under the worn plastic wheel of the duffel bag.

With a sharp kick, the bag lost its balance.

It slammed onto the hardwood floor just off the edge of the rug. The impact blew the strained zipper wide open.

A stack of hand-painted tarot cards, three raw amethyst crystals, and a bundle of parchment runes spilled out, scattering across the polished floorboards.

Kylie let out an exaggerated gasp, taking a half-step back and covering her mouth with her free hand. "Oops. My foot slipped."

Heavy, rapid footsteps echoed from the spiral staircase. Brenda Foreman marched down, her silk morning robe billowing behind her. Her face twisted into a mask of pure disgust as she looked at the mess on the floor.

"She's still playing with this voodoo garbage," Kylie said, squeezing a fake tear from the corner of her eye. "She was trying to curse me, Mom. I know it."

Brenda did not hesitate. She stepped forward, the heel of her stiletto piercing the center of a tarot card. She snatched the card from the floor-The Tower-and ripped it cleanly in half.

She threw the torn pieces directly at Eloise's face.

The sharp edge of the thick cardstock scraped across Eloise's cheek. A thin red line appeared on her pale skin.

Eloise did not flinch. She did not blink. Her dark eyes remained fixed on Brenda, cold and entirely devoid of human warmth, as if she were staring at a corpse.

"Your trust fund is officially revoked," Brenda snapped, her voice shrill enough to rattle the crystal chandelier. "The board agreed. You are mentally unstable. A complete embarrassment to the Foreman name. Get out of my house before I have you committed."

By the arched doorway of the kitchen, three maids in black-and-white uniforms stood whispering. Their eyes darted toward Eloise, their lips curling into mocking smiles.

Eloise crouched down. Her movements were slow, steady, and deliberate. She picked up the amethyst crystals one by one, feeling the cold, grounding weight of the stones against her palm. She gathered the remaining cards and parchment, ignoring the torn pieces of The Tower.

Kylie reached into the pocket of her silk pajama pants and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. She tossed it onto the pile of clothes inside the broken duffel bag.

"Keep it," Kylie sneered. "Use it to call a cab to the psychiatric ward. It's the least we can do for a stray."

Eloise did not touch the money. She slowly stood up, her spine perfectly straight. She shifted her gaze to Kylie, staring directly at the space between the girl's eyebrows.

For a full second, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"The front right tire of your Porsche has a bulge on the inner sidewall," Eloise said, her voice flat, carrying no malice, only absolute certainty. "Do not get on the highway today."

Kylie's face stiffened. The smug smile vanished, replaced by a flush of angry red creeping up her neck.

"You psychotic bitch," Kylie spat. "You're just a raving lunatic!"

Brenda pulled her phone from her robe pocket, her thumb jabbing aggressively at the screen. "That's it. I'm calling the community security. They can drag you out by your hair for all I care."

Before Brenda could press the call button, a massive crash shook the front of the house.

The heavy oak double doors were violently shoved open from the outside, slamming against the interior walls.

A gust of freezing November wind ripped into the grand foyer, kicking up the scattered tarot cards, sending them skittering across the polished floor.

Mitch Foreman stumbled over the threshold. His skin was a sickly, jaundiced yellow. Sweat poured down his forehead, soaking the collar of his expensive dress shirt. He clutched his chest, gasping for air as if he were drowning on dry land.