His Loss, The Tycoon's Gain: The Lost Heiress Returns

The man stopped two feet away. The massive black umbrella shielded both of them from the pouring rain.

His deep blue eyes locked onto hers.

She took a step back, her hand instinctively reaching into her pocket for the black business card the stranger had given her earlier.

The man noticed her fear. He stopped moving.

"Do not be afraid," he said.

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a waterproof document folder. He held it out to her.

Even in the dim streetlights, she could see the logo of the most elite genetics laboratory in the country stamped on the front.

"My name is Hubert Wilder," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I am your oldest brother."

She let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "I grew up in the foster system. I do not have a family."

Hubert's eyes turned red. "Twenty-three years ago, at a private hospital in Manhattan, our nanny switched you with another baby. We have been searching for you every single day since."

He pointed to the papers in the folder. "That is a 99.99% DNA match. They ran your mandatory blood sample from the foster system against our family registry."

She stared at the numbers on the page.

The bold, black ink seemed to blur as her mind violently rejected the information.

She stared at the 99.99%, her hands beginning to shake uncontrollably.

Twenty-three years of eating scraps, wearing hand-me-downs, and enduring the absolute worst of the foster system flashed behind her eyes.

She had spent three years being treated like dirt by Joaquin and his mother because of her "lowly" bloodline.

Now, this stranger in a bespoke coat was telling her it was all a cosmic mistake? A suffocating wave of delayed grief and profound injustice crashed into her chest, stealing the air from her lungs.

Hubert's gaze dropped to her wrists.

He saw the deep, bloody rope burns. He saw the torn fabric of her jacket and the red bruise on her jaw.

The gentle brother vanished. A terrifying, murderous rage flashed in his eyes.

He immediately stripped off his expensive trench coat and wrapped it tightly around her freezing shoulders. The warmth enveloped her.

A massive bodyguard stepped forward to take her broken suitcase. She flinched and gripped the handle tighter.

Hubert raised a hand, stopping the guard. He stepped forward and gently took the muddy handle from her fingers himself.

He opened the door of the Rolls-Royce and guided her into the heated, luxurious cabin.

The eight-car motorcade sped out of Manhattan, heading straight for the Hamptons.

Inside the car, two doctors in white coats immediately went to work. They cleaned her bleeding wrists with antiseptic and wrapped them in soft bandages. They drew a vial of blood for a full panel.

Hubert sat across from her. He held a secure satellite phone to his ear.

"Find out exactly what the Stafford family did tonight," Hubert ordered, his voice like crushed ice. "Every detail."

Hearing his protective tone, a strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in her chest.

An hour later, the motorcade passed through massive iron gates and entered a sprawling, hundred-acre estate.

The main house was lit up like a palace. Two private jets sat on a helipad in the distance.

The car stopped. Charles, the head butler, stood on a red carpet flanked by two dozen staff members.

The moment her foot touched the carpet, a beautiful woman in a silk robe ran out the front doors.

"My baby!" Sean, her mother, sobbed. She threw her arms around Kinsley, burying her face in her neck. She was shaking violently.

Arthur, her father, stood behind her, wiping tears from his eyes.

Four men walked out of the grand hall. Her brothers. Bennett, Declan, Ethan, and Carter.

Carter, the youngest of the brothers, saw the bandages on her wrists.

His face, usually bright and charismatic, went completely dead.

He didn't yell. He didn't throw a tantrum. Instead, a terrifying, suffocating silence fell over him.

He slowly pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb moving deliberately across the screen as he typed a message. "Find out exactly whose fingerprints are on her," Carter said, his voice dropping to a chilling, razor-sharp whisper that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I want them breathing through tubes by morning."

Declan, the third brother and a top surgeon, pushed past him. He scooped her up into his arms effortlessly. "She needs rest. I am taking her to the medical wing."

Surrounded by this overwhelming, aggressive wall of family, the tension holding her body together finally snapped. She closed her eyes and passed out against Declan's chest.

Arthur watched her go. He turned to the butler. "Lock down the estate. Prepare the trust fund transfer immediately."

Up on the second-floor balcony, standing in the shadows, Amiyah watched the scene. She was the adopted daughter. Her perfectly manicured nails dug so deeply into her palms that they drew blood.