Reborn Heiress: The Predator In Silk

Jane sat up on the silk sheets, her lungs seizing as if the air in the room had turned to concrete. Her hands flew to her throat. She clawed at skin that should have been bruised, expecting the rough burn of a rope, but her fingers met only smooth, sweat-slicked flesh. The phantom pain of strangulation pulsed in her neck, a rhythmic throb that matched the frantic hammering of her heart against her ribs. She scrambled backward, her spine hitting the headboard with a hollow thud. Her hand knocked over a lamp on the nightstand. It was an antique Tiffany lamp, heavy and expensive, the kind that cost more than her entire tuition. It didn't belong in her life, not the one she'd just been ripped from. But she recognized it. She was in a guest room at Blackwood Manor. Nothing here belonged to her. The bass of electronic dance music vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless thumping that clashed with the silence of the death she remembered. Jane grabbed the phone lying on the pillow. The screen lit up, blinding her in the semi-darkness. October 14, 2014. 11:15 PM. The numbers stared back at her, mocking and absolute. Her pupils contracted. The bile rose in her throat, acidic and sharp. This was the night of The Initiation. The night her life had turned from a struggle into a tragedy. She threw the covers off and sprinted barefoot into the bathroom. Her hands gripped the cold porcelain of the sink so hard her knuckles turned white. She stared into the mirror. The face looking back was twenty years old. The skin was tight and unblemished. There were no bags under the eyes from years of cheap whiskey and sleepless nights. There was no scar on her left cheekbone where a debt collector had struck her with a ring-clad fist. A heavy fist pounded on the bedroom door outside. Come out, Cinderella! The game is starting! The voice was slurred, entitled. It belonged to one of Kolby Norman's friends. Jane's shoulders hunched instinctively, a muscle memory of fear that had been beaten into her for a decade. She trembled. Then, the trembling stopped. Her eyes in the mirror changed. The panic receded, replaced by a flat, dead calm. It was the look of someone who had already died and found the afterlife wanting. She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She splashed it onto her face, scrubbing away the last remnants of the victim she used to be. The cold stung, grounding her. Images flashed behind her eyelids. Alejandra Norman laughing as she poured wine over Jane's only good dress. Kolby Norman forcing a funnel into her mouth. The trust fund documents she had signed without reading because she was desperate for approval. The memory of her mother, Susan, wasting away in a charity hospital while the Normans vacationed in Monaco. Jane reached for the small grooming kit on the marble counter. She took out a pair of tweezers, her fingers steady. The original plan had been so small, so pathetic-to look presentable, to try and win a crumb of their approval. A bead of bright red blood welled up from where she'd dug a nail into her palm. The sting was sharp, immediate, and real. Since I am back, she whispered to the empty room, looking at the blood. The audit begins tonight. She walked out of the bathroom. The pounding on the door had ceased. The drunk outside had likely wandered off to find easier prey. Jane went to the closet. A conservative, pastel dress hung there, the one she had bought at a thrift store to try and blend in. She ripped it off the hanger and shoved it into the trash can. She dug to the bottom of her suitcase. She pulled out a black tracksuit she used for jogging. It was cheap synthetic material, but it was silent. She dressed quickly. She checked the pockets, empty now. The desperate, foolish plans of a twenty-year-old girl were gone, replaced by the cold calculus of a woman who had lived and died with regret. She turned off the lights. The room plunged into darkness. She moved to the window and looked out. Blackwood Manor was lit up like a Christmas tree. The bass from the party by the pool thumped against the glass. Beyond the manicured gardens, the woods were a wall of black. In the distance, the hunting Lodge glowed-Kolby's sanctuary. Jane unlatched the window. She didn't look at the door. She climbed onto the sill and swung her legs out. She dropped into the flowerbed below. Her sneakers hit the mulch with a soft crunch. The scent of damp earth and expensive fertilizer filled her nose. She crouched low, moving behind the hedges. She knew where the security cameras were. She had reviewed the security footage of this night a thousand times in her past life, looking for evidence that didn't exist. Two floors above, on the expansive stone balcony, a man stood alone. Hudson Ellison leaned against the railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the night air. He was bored. The Norman family disgusted him, but business required his presence. He looked down at the garden, his eyes scanning the shadows out of habit. He saw movement. A figure in black darted from the guest wing, moving with a fluidity that didn't match the stumbling drunks by the pool. Hudson paused, the cigarette halfway to his mouth. He narrowed his eyes. He recognized the silhouette. It was the charity case. The girl they called the illegitimate daughter as a joke, the one they kept around for tax breaks. But she wasn't moving like a charity case. She was moving like a predator. Jane didn't look up. She crept along the perimeter of the house, her eyes locked on the pool area. Alejandra was there, holding court in a shimmering silver gown. She was pointing toward Jane's window, laughing, explaining the prank she had set up. Jane watched her. She felt nothing. No anger. No shame. Just the cold calculation of a butcher eyeing a side of beef. She checked her cheap digital watch. She knew Alejandra's schedule better than Alejandra did. The heiress would want to check her trap soon. Jane turned away from the light of the party and melted into the darkness of the path leading to the woods. The wind rustled the leaves, masking the sound of her footsteps. The hunt was on.