Reborn From Ashes: The Heiress's Comeback

The windshield wipers slashed frantically across the glass, but they couldn't keep up with the Manhattan storm. Brynn Vance gripped the leather steering wheel of her Porsche. Her knuckles were bone-white. Her palms sweat so much they slipped against the material. She glanced down at the passenger seat. The white plastic pregnancy test sat there, two pink lines glaring up at her in the dim dashboard light. She pressed the dial button on her phone again. "You have reached the voicemail of Haden Mason..." The automated voice was like ice water down her spine. She threw the phone onto the passenger seat. Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. Suddenly, a massive shape loomed in the headlights. A heavy semi-truck swerved violently into her lane. Brynn slammed her foot on the brake pedal. It went straight to the floor. Soft. Useless. Her heart stopped. The air vanished from her lungs. The Porsche spun. Metal screamed as it tore into the steel guardrail. The airbags exploded outward, punching her in the face with the force of a concrete wall. Blackness swallowed her vision. When she opened her eyes, the world was sideways. Blood dripped from her forehead, burning her eyes. But that wasn't the worst of it. A sharp, tearing agony ripped through her abdomen. She gasped, choking on the smoke filling the cabin. She slammed her bloody hands against the jammed door. "Help!" she screamed, the sound tearing her throat. Headlights cut through the rain. A black Maybach rolled to a smooth stop on the shoulder. The rear door opened. A black umbrella bloomed in the dark. Corrie stepped out. Her designer heels clicked sharply against the wet asphalt. Brynn let out a sob of relief. Her sister was here. Corrie walked up to the shattered window. She didn't reach out. She just smiled. "Beauvais Fashion is gone, Brynn," Corrie said, her voice perfectly calm over the roaring rain. "Forced liquidation. Dad had a heart attack. He's in the ICU." Brynn's pupils dilated. Her chest he heave. She tried to speak, to call Corrie a liar, but another vicious cramp in her stomach stole her voice. The driver's door of the Maybach opened. Haden stepped out. He walked over and stood under Corrie's umbrella. He didn't look at Brynn's bleeding face. His eyes were dead. Brynn's brain short-circuited. The man she loved. The father of the baby inside her. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her sister. Haden pulled a folded document from his coat. He shoved it through the jagged gap in the window. Rain splattered against the paper. "Sign the equity transfer," Haden said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "And I'll call an ambulance." Brynn stared at the paper. She bit her lower lip until she tasted copper. The physical pain in her stomach was nothing compared to the violent ripping sensation in her chest. She gathered every ounce of strength left in her broken body. She grabbed the wet paper, ripped it in half, and threw it back at Haden's face. Corrie laughed. It was a high, grating sound. Corrie pulled a red emergency road flare from the Maybach's trunk. She struck the cap, the harsh crimson sparks hissing violently against the pouring rain. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the burning flare through the shattered window directly onto the gasoline-soaked leather seats of the Porsche. Corrie linked her arm through Haden's. They turned their backs and walked to the Maybach. The flames ignited with a loud whoosh. Brynn curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her stomach as the heat blistered her skin. The darkness pulled her under. Cold. Biting, sterile cold. Brynn woke up shivering. The smell of bleach burned her nostrils. She tried to move her arms, but thick leather straps dug into her wrists. She was strapped to a metal operating table in a windowless, concrete room. A doctor in a surgical mask stood over her. His eyes were blank. "You were brought in too late," he said flatly. "There is no heartbeat." Brynn thrashed against the restraints. "No!" she shrieked. She tried to curl her body to protect her stomach. Two heavy-set nurses stepped out of the shadows. They grabbed her legs and pinned them down. "Let me go!" Brynn screamed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. The cold metal instruments invaded her body. Tears of blood and water streamed down her temples. The pain was absolute. It carved Haden and Corrie's names into the deepest, darkest part of her soul. When it was over, they unbuckled her. She lay there like a discarded ragdoll. The heavy metal door opened. Corrie walked in. She handed the doctor a slip of paper. A check. The doctor nodded and left the room. Corrie walked to the table. She dropped a crisp white paper onto Brynn's chest. "Death certificate," Corrie whispered. "Brynn Vance doesn't exist anymore." Corrie turned to leave. As she passed a metal cart, she kicked a large bottle of rubbing alcohol onto the floor. She took a drag from a cigarette and flicked the cherry into the clear liquid. A wall of fire erupted instantly. Corrie walked out and slammed the heavy door shut. The lock clicked. Smoke filled the room in seconds. Brynn dragged her numb, bleeding body off the table. She crawled toward the door. A tall medical cabinet beside her groaned, then tipped over. The heavy steel crashed violently onto the floor, completely blocking her path to the door. She tried to climb over it, but the severe blood loss and thick, toxic smoke sapped every ounce of strength from her muscles. She collapsed against the cold metal, her vision swimming in dark spots. The flames licked at her skin. The heat was unbearable. But Brynn didn't cry. She stared into the fire, her eyes wide, swallowing every ounce of weakness she had left. Suddenly, the steel door buckled. It flew open with a deafening crash. A massive figure in a black trench coat charged through the flames. The smoke was too thick; she couldn't see his face. He didn't speak. He grabbed the heavy steel cabinet that blocked her path and shoved it aside like it weighed nothing. He threw a heavy fire blanket over her, wrapping her tight. He scooped her into his arms. As her head fell against his chest, a distinct scent filled her lungs. Cold cedar mixed with dark tobacco. Then, nothing. Five years later. Inside the first-class cabin of a Boeing 777 descending into New York. A woman folded the financial newspaper in her lap. She reached up and pulled off her dark sunglasses. Her face was flawless, sharp, and breathtakingly cold. It was a face built from ashes and scalpels. The flight attendant leaned in with a polite smile. "Can I get you anything else before we land, Miss...?" The woman looked out the window at the gray Manhattan skyline. "Sloane," she said. Her voice held zero warmth.