His Lethal Wife: The Heiress's Vicious Comeback

The sleek, unassuming Vance family Bentley glided to a smooth stop. The wrought-iron gates of St. Jude's Academy loomed ahead, choked with thick green ivy.

The driver hurried out and pulled the rear door open.

Vivian stepped out. Her sharp, stiletto-heeled ankle boots crunched against the fallen autumn leaves on the brick path.

She looked up at the towering Gothic architecture. A sharp, physical pain stabbed behind her ribs. The image of the closed body bag on the steel table of the morgue flashed behind her eyes, the heavy industrial zipper sealing away her sister's face forever.

Vivian's stomach twisted. She forced the bile down.

She slid her dark sunglasses over her eyes. She straightened her spine. The old Eleanor would have slouched, trying to make herself invisible. Vivian walked with the predatory grace of a soldier entering a war zone.

The trust-fund girls lounging on the lawn stopped talking. They lowered their Starbucks cups and clutched their Hermes Birkin bags.

Whispers erupted like a swarm of hornets.

They stared at her face. The rumors said Eleanor had been horribly disfigured in the car crash. Yet here she was, flawless and radiating a terrifying coldness.

Tammy-Lynn McCoy marched down the tree-lined path. She was the apex predator of the school's bullying ring. Two of her clones trailed behind her.

Tammy-Lynn held a steaming venti caramel macchiato. She locked eyes with Vivian and sneered.

She swung her arm, aiming the scalding coffee directly at Vivian's pristine white cashmere coat.

Vivian saw the muscle twitch in Tammy-Lynn's shoulder a fraction of a second before the throw.

Vivian didn't flinch. She pivoted her torso precisely three inches to the right.

The coffee flew past her in a brown arc. It splashed directly onto the chest of the girl standing behind Tammy-Lynn, ruining a limited-edition Chanel dress.

The girl let out a piercing shriek.

Tammy-Lynn froze. Her brain couldn't process the miss. Her face flushed a dark, ugly red.

She lunged forward. She extended a finger tipped with a sharp French manicure, aiming to jab Vivian in the collarbone. It was her signature move of physical intimidation.

Vivian's eyes went dead.

Her hand shot out. She grabbed Tammy-Lynn's wrist. Her thumb found the radial nerve cluster.

Vivian squeezed. Hard.

Pain exploded across Tammy-Lynn's face. Her knees buckled instantly. She collapsed onto the brick path, forced into a humiliating, kneeling position at Vivian's feet.

The courtyard went dead silent. The whispers stopped. Dozens of students stared in absolute shock.

Tammy-Lynn opened her mouth to scream a curse.

Vivian twisted the wrist another millimeter. A sickening pop of cartilage echoed in the quiet morning air.

Tammy-Lynn gasped, choking on her own breath. Tears ruined her heavy mascara, leaving black streaks down her cheeks.

Vivian leaned down. She lowered her sunglasses just enough to expose her eyes.

"Touch me again," Vivian whispered, her voice a razor blade, "and I will snap this bone in half."

True, primal terror flooded Tammy-Lynn's eyes. She nodded frantically. She couldn't speak through the pain.

Vivian released her grip with a look of utter disgust. She let Tammy-Lynn's arm drop like a piece of rotting meat.

Vivian reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out an antibacterial wet wipe. She meticulously cleaned her fingers, wiping away the sensation of Tammy-Lynn's skin.

She crumpled the wipe. Without looking, she tossed it. It landed perfectly in a trash can ten feet away.

Vivian turned her back on the sobbing girl and walked toward the main building.

The students in the hallway parted like the Red Sea. They pressed their backs against the lockers to give her a wide berth.

Vivian found the locker assigned to Eleanor.

The metal door was covered in bright red spray paint. The word 'SLUT' dripped down the vents.

Vivian stared at the red paint. Her chest tightened. She remembered the tear-stained pages of Eleanor's diary. The fire in her blood burned hotter.

She unzipped her bag. She pulled out a bottle of industrial-strength solvent and a rag.

With aggressive, sweeping motions, she scrubbed the metal. The red paint dissolved. She erased the weakness. She erased the victim.

A boy a few lockers down raised his phone, trying to record her.

Vivian snapped her head toward him. She leveled a glare so violently cold that the boy flinched.

His phone slipped from his sweaty hands. It hit the floor. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass.

The bell rang.

Vivian grabbed her Art History textbook. She walked toward the lecture hall.

She pushed the double doors open.

The professor stopped speaking mid-sentence. Every head in the amphitheater snapped toward the entrance.

Vivian ignored them. She walked up the stairs to the very back row. It was the dark corner where Eleanor used to hide and cry.

Vivian dropped her heavy bag onto the desk. The loud slam echoed off the high ceiling.

She sat down. She crossed her legs and leaned back.

The wealthy heirs sitting in the front rows exchanged nervous glances. The prey they used to hunt had returned, but she had grown fangs.