Reborn And Pampered: The Genius Heiress Returns
I am the biological daughter of the wealthy Fitzpatrick family, but I spent my childhood eating out of dumpsters.
When I was finally brought back to the estate at age seven, I thought I would experience my parents' love.
Instead, my biological parents looked at my dirty clothes with raw disgust. They only cared about Hallie, the fake daughter who lived like a princess.
The moment I walked in, Hallie hurled a heavy ceramic cup at my head, slicing my hand open.
"Get out of my house!"
My father didn't even look at the blood. He raised his hand to strike me, accusing me of bringing trailer park rules into his home.
In my past life, I dropped to my knees and begged for their forgiveness. I endured their abuse, hoping they would eventually love me.
But they let the maids humiliate me, let Hallie steal my identity, and eventually threw me back onto the streets to die. Even my playboy Uncle Byron, the only person who ever showed me mercy, was driven to suicide by them.
I didn't understand why my own flesh and blood hated me so much, or why a vicious liar deserved everything while I was treated like a jinx.
Opening my eyes again, I was back on the exact day I first returned to the estate.
As my father raised his hand to hit me, I didn't cower.
Instead, I looked at the family patriarch and pointed directly at my notorious, alcoholic uncle.
"I want him to be my new guardian."
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Chapter 4
Cordelia did not answer immediately. She slowly turned her head and dragged her gaze over to Alton. She looked at him from head to toe, her eyes filled with quiet, clinical judgment.
Alton felt the heat explode in his chest. His sanity snapped. He felt like this filthy child was laughing at him.
Alton shoved Antoinette out of the way. His heavy body lunged forward like a rabid dog breaking off its leash.
"Who do you think you are? !" Alton roared. Spit flew from his lips. "You do not make demands in my house!"
"Stop!" Glenwood shouted.
But the old man's body was too slow. His cane hit the floor a second too late.
Leland twitched, wanting to intervene, but Alton shot him a look so murderous that Leland's feet glued themselves to the marble floor.
Cordelia stood perfectly still. Her feet were planted firmly on the rug. She did not blink. Her brain rapidly calculated the distance between Alton's hand and her face. She prepared to shift her weight to minimize the impact.
Alton closed the gap. He raised his right hand high into the air. The force of his swing tore through the air, aiming straight for Cordelia's small, pale cheek.
Antoinette let out a short shriek and squeezed her eyes shut. Hallie's eyes widened with sick excitement.
The palm was two inches from Cordelia's skin.
CRASH.
The heavy oak front doors of the estate were thrown open with a deafening bang, slamming against the interior walls.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure stormed into the foyer, bringing a gust of humid summer air and the sharp stench of alcohol.
The man moved with terrifying speed. He crossed the marble floor in three long strides. A large hand, wrapped around the wrist by a million-dollar Richard Mille watch, shot out like a steel trap.
The hand clamped down hard on Alton's wrist in mid-air.
The sheer kinetic force stopped Alton's swing dead. The sudden halt jerked Alton's shoulder forward, nearly pulling his arm out of its socket.
The wind from Alton's stopped hand blew Cordelia's bangs across her forehead. She slowly turned her head to look at her savior.
The man was wearing a wrinkled Armani dress shirt. His silk tie hung loosely around his neck. His blond hair was a messy, unstyled disaster.
It was Byron Fitzpatrick. The notorious black sheep of the family. The youngest son who spent his life in clubs. And the only person in Cordelia's past life who had ever shown her an ounce of mercy.
Byron let out a loud hiccup. He squinted his playboy eyes, but the look he gave his older brother was absolute ice.
Byron twisted his grip and shoved Alton's arm backward. Alton stumbled on the marble, his arms flailing as he barely caught his balance against the coffee table.
Byron let out a dry, mocking laugh. His voice was lazy, dripping with sarcasm. "Wow. The great heir to the Fitzpatrick empire. Starting your morning by beating a seven-year-old girl?"
Alton regained his footing. He recognized his brother, and his face twisted with pure hatred. "Back off, Byron! You worthless piece of trash. This is family business!"
Byron shrugged his broad shoulders. He stepped casually in front of Cordelia. His tall, muscular frame acted like a solid brick wall, completely hiding her from Alton's view.
"Family business?" Byron dug his finger into his ear, pretending to clean it. "All I see is a pathetic coward picking on a kid."
Alton's chest he heave. The veins in his forehead throbbed. "You do nothing but drain your trust fund! You are a disgrace!"
Byron did not flinch. He reached into his slacks, pulled out a peppermint, and popped it into his mouth. He crunched down on the hard candy. The loud cracking sound echoed in the room, a blatant display of disrespect.
Behind Byron's back, Cordelia stared at the wrinkled fabric of his shirt. She smelled the heavy mix of expensive cologne and cheap whiskey. Suddenly, her throat tightened. Her eyes burned.
In her past life, when she was thrown out onto the streets, it was this exact man who had secretly shoved a credit card into her pocket.
Glenwood watched his two sons. His patience evaporated. He lifted his cane and smashed it against a marble pillar.
The deafening crack silenced the room instantly.
"Shut your mouths!" Glenwood roared, his chest heaving with exertion. "Have you not embarrassed this family enough?"
The living room fell dead silent. Every pair of eyes snapped back to the old man, waiting for the final verdict.
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7.4
I single-handedly saved my family's corporate empire from a hostile takeover, securing our market share for the next decade.
But my grandfather didn't see me as a hero. He saw me as a flawed piece of inventory.
To calm the board and fix the reputation I supposedly ruined, he forced me into an arranged marriage, auctioning me off to the highest bidder.
Desperate, I turned to my childhood friend, Egnacio, the only person who ever promised to protect me.
But instead of saving me, he publicly humiliated me. He used my desperation as a networking opportunity, pitching my arranged marriage as a business deal to a ruthless private equity king named Dexter Mathews.
Later that night, I caught Egnacio holding my cruel cousin in his arms.
"What man wants to be with a woman who looks at you like she's planning a hostile takeover?"
Hearing him mock my pain shattered the last bit of hope I had.
I realized I was never family to them. I was just a sharp knife, used to cut down their enemies and then traded for cash before I got dull.
The heartbreak vanished, replaced by a cold, violent rage.
I didn't break, and I didn't run.
Instead, I got into the back of Dexter Mathews's car. He had watched my family tear me apart, but he didn't see a broken pawn. He saw a queen.
And together, we were going to burn their entire empire to the ground.
7.1
For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big.
On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe."
Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero."
Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends.
"She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy."
Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder.
I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number.
"Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."
9.3
Elliana sat on the cold marble floor, staring at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test. Overjoyed, she went to her husband Garrett’s study to surprise him.
But the room was empty. On his iPad, she accidentally opened a muted security video from the night before. As a graphic novelist trained in facial anatomy, she easily read Garrett’s lips as he spoke to their housekeeper.
"Increase the hallucinogens and the birth control. Let her become a complete lunatic."
The truth shattered her reality. Her three years of inexplicable exhaustion and mental collapses were orchestrated to keep her away from her ex-fiancé, who was now married to Garrett’s sister, Cristina. The nightmare worsened during a horrific highway crash. As their SUV flipped and caught fire, Garrett ruthlessly abandoned a pregnant Elliana in the crushed backseat. He dragged Cristina to safety, leaving Elliana to burn. She survived, but her right hand—her drawing hand—was permanently destroyed.
Lying in the hospital with her career ruined and her intellectual property stolen by the husband who forged her signature while she was drugged, a freezing void of hatred consumed her. She was nothing but a sedated decoy to hide Garrett's twisted, incestuous obsession with his own sister.
When Garrett knelt by her hospital bed with fake tears, Elliana didn't scream or expose him. Instead, she forced a pathetic, dependent smile, playing the perfect broken wife. She was going back to his penthouse to steal his encrypted files, ready to feed him to Manhattan's most cutthroat divorce lawyer and watch his empire burn.
9.2
Arla was supposed to marry Clinton Freeman, the perfect fiancé who had promised to love her and protect her five-year-old son.
But instead, the cold steel of a dagger pierced her chest.
As she collapsed onto the freezing basement floor, she watched her adoptive sister Blair laugh.
"Look at her," Blair sneered, kicking her son's small, blue, lifeless body.
Clinton stood there, calmly wiping the bloody blade on a pristine handkerchief.
In her dying moments, the horrifying truth became clear. Her fiancé and her adoptive family had been plotting all along to steal her massive trust fund.
To break her, they had secretly tortured her child. Clinton had watched Blair pierce the little boy's arms with sewing needles, rewarding him with candy to keep him silent.
Arla's lungs burned with the taste of copper and ash.
She couldn't understand why the family she trusted could be so monstrous, or why they had to brutally murder an innocent child just for money.
The darkness swallowed her whole, drowning her in suffocating hatred and absolute despair.
Then, she gasped for air.
The concrete floor was gone, replaced by the silk sheets of a hotel penthouse suite.
Arla had been reborn to the exact night six years ago—the very day Blair first dragged her son into the dark attic.
This time, she picked up a solid silver letter opener, ready to burn them all to the ground.
9.2
I was a broke freelance copywriter, tortured for three sleepless nights by an impossible corporate client.
Needing to vent, I typed out a wild, highly inappropriate rant mocking the brand's stiff heritage.
But in my exhausted, sleep-deprived blur, I accidentally sent the massive block of text to the wrong chat.
The recipient wasn't my friend. It was Emerson Beard, the elite, ruthless brand consultant I was supposed to desperately network with.
I waited for the professional execution, terrified of the massive five-figure penalty fee hanging over my head.
Instead, he didn't block me. He critiqued my unhinged draft.
He saved my career through late-night, encrypted phone calls, his deep, commanding voice becoming my only lifeline.
But when I heard a woman with a sultry French accent knocking on his hotel door during our call, my ugly jealousy flared.
I yelled at him and hung up, completely humiliating myself.
I thought I was just a pathetic, annoying workaholic interrupting his romantic getaway.
But he texted back to clarify he was entirely single, and in the process, realized I was actually twenty-five, not a fresh-out-of-school teenager like he had assumed.
The cold, distant mentor instantly vanished.
In his place was a man radiating a raw, aggressive, and predatory energy that bled right through the screen.
"Texting is too inefficient. The full integration requires face-to-face communication."
He dropped a location pin for an ultra-exclusive Manhattan club, demanding I meet him to save my contract.
Wearing a desperately bought emerald silk dress, I pushed open the heavy oak door, stepping right into the trap of a man who had just taken off his leash.
8.8
I've always been the unwanted child-the invisible one. The rebel no one ever tried to understand.
And yet, I never resented my perfect, beloved sister. All I ever wanted was for her to be happy.
But one cruel twist of fate-and a devastating betrayal by someone I trusted-changed everything.
I woke up in a stranger's bed, losing the one thing I had guarded so carefully. Back then, I thought that was my greatest loss.
I was wrong.
Because not long after, my sister introduced me to her fiancé.
And the man standing in front of me... was the same stranger from that night.
Now he haunts me-day and night, in my dreams and in my waking hours. And just when I start to believe the nightmare might finally fade with the dawn, Alan walks back into my life.
This time, he has no intention of letting me forget.
Not the insult I dealt him.
...or that one unforgettable night.