Rejected Heiress: My Heartless Family's Regret

The passenger door of the Ford groaned as Aria pulled it open. The hinge was rusted, fighting her every inch of the way. Inside, the car smelled of stale coffee and old upholstery. Frank Miller scrambled to sweep a pile of fast-food wrappers off the seat, his movements jerky and frantic. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, shoving the trash into the center console. "It's a mess. I didn't have time to..." "It's fine," Aria said. She sat down. The seat was soft, the springs worn out, sinking under her weight. She reached for the seatbelt. The buckle was jammed, the plastic housing cracked. Without looking, her fingers found the release mechanism, manipulating the catch with a practiced dexterity until it clicked into place. Frank watched her, his eyes wide. He cleared his throat, a nervous, rattling sound. "Miss... Aria," he started, his voice cracking. Aria looked at him. He was wearing a flannel shirt that had been washed too many times, the collar frayed. He looked nothing like Richard Carlisle. He looked like a man who had been beaten down by life but was still standing. "Just Aria," she said softly. "Dad." The word hung in the air between them. Dad. Frank's hands jerked on the steering wheel. His lower lip trembled, and his eyes instantly filled with tears. He blinked them away rapidly, sniffing hard. "Right. Okay. Aria." He put the car in gear. It lurched forward, joining the stream of traffic leaving the Upper East Side. Frank drove with exaggerated caution, checking his mirrors constantly as if he expected a police escort to pull them over for ruining the aesthetic of the neighborhood. They crossed the Queensboro Bridge, the steel girders flashing by overhead. Behind them, the glittering skyline of Manhattan began to shrink, the lights of the skyscrapers blurring into streaks of gold and white. Frank kept glancing at her, then back at the road. "We... uh... we don't have an elevator," he said, apology woven into every syllable. "It's on the fourth floor. The walk-up." Aria nodded, her gaze fixed on the changing landscape outside. The luxury boutiques were replaced by bodegas with neon signs, laundromats, and rows of brick apartment buildings that leaned against each other for support. Frank slowed the car as they passed a high-end furniture store. He noticed Aria looking at the display window. He ducked his head, shame coloring his cheeks. "I know it's not what you're used to," he whispered. Aria wasn't looking at the furniture. She was watching the reflection in the glass, checking for the black SUV that had been tailing them for the last three blocks. It turned left. Gone. "It's fine," she said again. Frank pulled up to a curb in a crowded neighborhood. A group of young men sat on the stoop of the building, smoking and laughing. As the Ford sputtered to a halt, one of them whistled, eyeing the car with mockery. Frank hurried out, rushing around to the passenger side to grab her bag. "I've got it," Aria said, swinging the tactical pack over one shoulder before he could touch it. She stepped onto the sidewalk. The men on the stoop went quiet. Aria didn't look at them directly, but her gaze swept over them-cold, assessing, lethal. It was a look that said she knew exactly where to strike to incapacitate them in under three seconds. The laughter died in their throats. They shifted uncomfortably, looking away. Frank didn't notice. He was fumbling with his keys, ushering her into the dimly lit hallway. The air inside smelled of curry and damp wood. The stairs were narrow and steep. Frank was panting by the second floor, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. Aria climbed steadily, though she was careful to pace herself. The old injury in her lower back-a souvenir from a "skiing accident" that was actually a car bomb two years ago-flared with a dull ache, but she masked it with a neutral expression. As they reached the third-floor landing, voices drifted down from above. Loud voices. "We can't afford another mouth to feed, Frank!" It was a boy's voice, cracking with adolescent rage. "She's a Carlisle! She's probably used to eating gold flakes for breakfast!" Frank froze. His face went pale. He looked back at Aria, misery in his eyes. "That's... that's Leo," he whispered. "He doesn't mean it. He's just... protective." Aria heard the defensive tone in the boy's voice. It wasn't just anger; it was fear. Fear for his family. Fear of the unknown. She reached out and touched Frank's arm. Her grip was firm. "Open the door," she said. Frank's hand shook so badly he couldn't fit the key into the lock. Metal scratched against metal. Aria covered his hand with hers. Her skin was cool, his was clammy. She guided the key into the slot and turned it. The door swung open. The apartment was small. Claustrophobic. The living room and kitchen were one cramped space. A woman stood by the stove, wiping her hands on a stained apron. A teenage boy stood with his back to them, his shoulders hunched in aggression. A smaller child peeked out from behind a threadbare sofa. Susan Miller looked at Aria. Her eyes widened, taking in the tactical boots, the black jeans, the lack of diamonds. "Hi," Aria said. She stepped into the room, bringing with her a stillness that seemed to suck the chaotic energy out of the air. "I'm Aria."