Rising From Ashes: The Swapped Heiress

Haven gripped the edges of the wooden desk. The rough grain pressed into her palms, solid and real. Her chest heaved. A phantom cramp twisted violently in her abdomen, right where the blade had entered, sending a wave of cold sweat down her spine.

She blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights. This wasn't a dream. The air was too thick, the smell of teenage sweat and anxiety too sharp.

Chairs scraped loudly against the linoleum floor as students around her erupted from their seats, cheering that the final exam was over.

A heavy backpack slammed into Haven's shoulder.

"Move it, Watkins," a boy muttered, not even glancing back as he shoved past her toward the door.

In her past life, Haven would have shrunk back, mumbling an apology to the floor.

Now, she slowly turned her head. She locked eyes with him. Her gaze was dead, hollowed out by the memory of her own murder just minutes ago in her timeline.

The boy froze. The color drained from his face. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Uh, sorry," he mumbled, his voice cracking before he practically sprinted out of the classroom.

Haven looked down at her hands. No blood. Just the faint calluses from working in the dirt. She grabbed the clear plastic pencil case off the desk. She didn't look back as she walked out of the room, her boots hitting the hallway tiles with a steady, heavy rhythm.

She pushed through the heavy double doors of the school. The June heat hit her like a physical wall.

Her eyes scanned the chaotic sea of parents and cars crowding the street.

There.

Standing near the rusted iron gates was Brenda. She wore her faded blue work shirt, standing on her tiptoes, her weathered face strained with anxiety as she searched the crowd.

A hard lump formed in Haven's throat. Her vision blurred.

She broke into a run. She slammed into Brenda, the woman who had raised her for eighteen years, the only real mother she had ever known in her heart, wrapping her arms tightly around the older woman's waist, burying her face into the familiar scent of laundry soap and cheap vanilla.

Brenda let out a startled gasp, stumbling back a step before her arms came up to wrap around Haven's shoulders.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Brenda murmured, her rough hand stroking Haven's hair. "The test is over, sweetie. You did your best."

The screech of heavy tires against asphalt ripped through the tender moment.

A massive, jet-black Lincoln Navigator jerked to a halt right at the curb, inches from where they stood. The exhaust blew hot air against Haven's shins.

The heavy passenger door swung open.

Gloria stepped out. She wore a pristine white Chanel tweed jacket that cost more than Brenda made in a year. Three girls trailed behind her like obedient shadows.

Gloria stopped right in front of them. Her eyes slowly dragged up and down Brenda's faded clothes, her lips twisting into a smirk of pure, unfiltered disgust.

"How did the exam go, Haven?" Gloria asked. Her voice was loud, designed to carry over the noise of the crowd. "Not that it matters. We all know the state college doesn't care about scores as much as they care about pity quotas."

The girls behind Gloria erupted into sharp, mocking laughter.

Brenda's shoulders stiffened. She instinctively stepped sideways, trying to put her body between Haven and the cruel stares of the wealthy teenagers.

Haven reached out. She gently placed her hand over Brenda's, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

Then, Haven stepped out from behind her mother.

She didn't look at the ground. She tilted her chin up, meeting Gloria's eyes. A slow, chilling smile spread across Haven's face.

Gloria's smirk faltered. Her hand twitched, moving up to touch the teardrop diamond necklace resting against her collarbone-Haven's stolen necklace. The sight of the diamond, the very one her adoptive mother had saved a decade for, sent a fresh spike of venom through Haven's veins. But she didn't let the fury show on her face. She would get that necklace back, and everything else they took, in due time.

"K University only takes the best," Gloria sneered, trying to recover her dominance. "They don't hand out full rides to charity cases."

Haven took a slow step forward. She invaded Gloria's personal space, forcing the other girl to tilt her head back slightly.

Haven leaned in. Her lips hovered inches from Gloria's ear.

"Don't come crying," Haven whispered, her voice a low, raspy scrape, "when your parents ship you off to Europe to hide your embarrassing test scores."

Gloria's entire body went rigid. The blood vanished from her face, leaving her spray tan looking sickly and orange.

It was the exact fear Gloria had been hiding for months. The secret threat her father had made behind closed doors.

Gloria's eyes widened in sheer panic. Her chest he heave. Rage, hot and blinding, overtook her fear. She raised her hand, her palm aiming straight for Haven's face.

Haven didn't flinch.

Her hand shot up. Her fingers clamped down around Gloria's wrist like a steel vice.

Gloria gasped, a sharp sound of actual pain. Her perfectly manicured fingers curled inward as Haven's grip ground her bones together.

Haven held her there for one long, agonizing second. Then, she shoved Gloria's arm back at her.

Gloria stumbled backward, her high heels twisting on the uneven pavement. She flailed, her back hitting the side of the Lincoln with a loud thud.

Her followers gasped, freezing in place, too shocked to move.

Haven didn't say another word. She turned her back on them, linked her arm through Brenda's, and walked away toward the bus stop.

Gloria stood pinned against the SUV, her breathing ragged. Her wrist throbbed with a dull, hot ache. She stared at Haven's retreating back, her teeth grinding together so hard her jaw ached.

Her shaking hands dug into her designer purse. She pulled out her iPhone and hit the speed dial for her mother in Manhattan.