Reborn Heiress: The Vicious Comeback

The freezing sensation of lake water filling her lungs vanished, replaced by a violent gasp that tore through Carma's chest. She bolted upright on the velvet mattress. Her hands flew to her throat. Her fingers dug into the smooth, unbroken skin. There was no gaping wound. There was no warm blood spilling over her collarbones. Her chest heaved. She dragged oxygen into her burning lungs. Her vision blurred, then snapped into sharp focus on the nightstand. A Patek Philippe desk clock sat next to a glass of water. The date window displayed a day in 2023. She was back. Back in the VIP room of the St. Moritz Sanatorium in Geneva. Back to the exact morning before she was dragged onto a plane to Washington D. C. to be slaughtered by her own family. The sharp clack of high heels against hardwood echoed from the corridor. Carma dropped her hands. She closed her eyes. Her racing heart slammed against her ribs, but her mind turned into a block of ice. The heavy oak door was shoved open. Betty-Jo, her appointed guardian, walked in carrying a small plastic cup filled with capsules. Behind her, leaning casually against the doorframe, was Marge. Marge was Johnie's personal cleaner. She was already twirling an uncapped syringe of heavy sedatives between her thick fingers. Carma opened her eyes. The frantic, erratic energy that usually clouded her gaze was gone. Only a dead, flat stillness remained. Betty-Jo stopped halfway to the bed. A shiver visibly rolled down the woman's spine. She forced a stiff smile and pushed the water glass and the pills toward Carma. "Time for your medicine, sweetie." Carma did not scream. She did not slap the cup away. She sat up slowly, the silk nightgown slipping off her shoulder, and reached out. Betty-Jo's shoulders dropped an inch. A gleam of triumph flashed in her eyes. Carma brought the glass to her lips. She let out a low, breathy chuckle. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she hurled the water directly into Betty-Jo's eyes. "Ah!" Betty-Jo shrieked. She stumbled backward, her hands clawing at her face. Her hip clipped the heavy brass floor lamp. It crashed to the floor with a metallic thud. Marge stood up straight. The casual demeanor vanished. She gripped the syringe like a dagger and lunged forward. Carma didn't retreat. As Marge closed in, Carma's hip bumped the nightstand. Her hand brushed deliberately over the rim of Marge's abandoned plastic water cup on the tray. A microscopic smear of synthesized neurotoxin, scraped from the backing of a smuggled fentanyl patch she had hidden, transferred seamlessly to the plastic. She grabbed the heavy Patek Philippe clock from the nightstand. She twisted her torso and hurled the solid brass timepiece straight at the floor-to-ceiling window. The glass shattered with an explosive crash. Jagged shards rained down onto the balcony. The sudden drop in air pressure triggered the sanatorium's blaring fire alarm. Marge froze. Her boots crunched on the broken glass. She darted a panicked look toward the open door, realizing the noise would draw the entire staff. Carma stepped off the bed. Her bare feet pressed into the glass shards. Warm blood seeped into the white rug, but she didn't even flinch. She closed the distance between herself and Marge. "Apartment 4B," Carma whispered, her voice barely carrying over the screaming alarm. "Southeast D. C. That's where you hide your bastard son." Marge's pupils dilated. Her hand holding the syringe began to shake. She stared at the frail girl in front of her as if looking at a demon. "And the Cayman offshore account," Carma continued, stepping closer until she could smell the stale tobacco on Marge's breath. "Ending in 8804." Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Instantly, Carma collapsed against the wall. She pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her head and began to tremble violently. Three security guards burst into the room. They found a shattered window, Betty-Jo crying on the floor, and Marge standing over a bleeding, shivering patient with an uncapped needle in her hand. "They are trying to kill me!" Carma sobbed in flawless French, pointing a shaking finger at the two women. "They put something in my water!" Marge dropped the syringe. She raised her hands, stammering in broken French about severe schizophrenia. Carma ignored her. She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a satellite phone she had stolen from the nurse's station two days ago. She dialed a D. C. number and hit speaker. The line clicked. A stern, authoritative voice filled the chaotic room. "Office of the Senate Majority Leader." "They are trying to murder me!" Carma screamed into the phone, letting her voice crack perfectly. "My stepmother sent them to Europe to silence me!" The Chief of Staff's voice turned to steel. "We hear you, Miss Kirk. And the Majority Leader wants you to know that the asset you identified in the estate's domestic staff has been successfully flipped. You will have eyes on the inside." He paused, his tone shifting to absolute authority. "Put the head of security on the phone. Now. If a single hair on Carma Kirk's head is harmed, the United States Federal Government will press international kidnapping and attempted murder charges."