Rising From Hell: The True Heiress's Revenge

Don't compete. Don't fight. To earn her place in the family she'd desperately craved, Chloe followed every rule. She deferred to Cassie in everything. Three years ago, she'd even made pastries by hand to win her sister's favor. Cassie had collapsed, foaming at the mouth, poison in her system. The kitchen had smelled of vanilla and almond that afternoon—Chloe still couldn't abide either scent without her stomach turning.

Her parents had been outraged. Five years in the gutter had rotted her from the inside, they said. She was unworthy of the Beaumont name. At Cassie's tearful urging, they'd planned to exile Chloe permanently—send her somewhere far from Greenwich, never to return. The discussion had lasted less than ten minutes. Ten minutes to condemn a daughter they'd never truly wanted.

Her brothers, who'd once shown her affection, turned on her completely. "Cassie may have enjoyed your birthright for over a decade, but she's innocent," Harrison had said. "How can you be so vicious just to compete for attention?" His voice had trembled with a fury that bordered on hatred. She'd searched his face for any trace of the brother who had once taught her to skip stones across the estate pond, and found a stranger.

"We don't have a sister as malicious as you," Carter had added, his words clipped and final as a judge's gavel.

No matter how Chloe protested her innocence, no one believed her. Not once. Cassie's tears were always proof enough. The evidence didn't matter. The missing bottle, the inconsistent timeline—none of it could compete with the sight of Cassie lying pale and fragile in a hospital bed.

Conrad had been the one to stop the exile, stepping between Chloe and her parents. But his solution wasn't freedom—it was Remington Disciplinary Academy. He'd decided hard labor and harsh discipline would teach her what she refused to learn. She just needs to suffer enough to understand. He'd announced this with the calm of someone ordering inventory, as if her life were just another business transaction.

Now, cold wind lifted Chloe's matted hair, revealing the hollow planes of her face. Conrad's jaw tightened. "Get up. We're going home."

Chloe obeyed, struggling to her feet, only to collapse as her ruined knees gave out. Conrad turned back, eyes flashing with something sharp and dangerous. "If you'd rather not come back, I can arrange your return to Remington."

"No—please." Chloe scrambled on hands and knees, dragging herself into the car with graceless desperation. Her legs wouldn't cooperate. The sight was pathetic, animalistic. Conrad turned away, refusing to watch. The leather seat was cool beneath her trembling fingers, the interior smelling of cologne and wealth. She curled into herself, making herself as small as possible.

If it weren't for that powerful figure's orders, he wouldn't be here at all. What puzzled him was why someone of that stature would care about Chloe Boyd. The command had come the moment the man returned to New York. Retrieve her. Such a terse order, yet it had carried the weight of an imperial decree. Conrad was not accustomed to being anyone's errand boy, but even he knew better than to ignore a summons from that quarter.

The convoy passed through Beaumont Estate's iconic wrought-iron gates. Conrad exited first, tossing instructions to the staff. "I have business at the office. Take her inside. And replace the seat cushions—I don't want them cleaned. I want them burned."

He thinks I'm dirty. The words hit Chloe like a physical blow. She sucked in a breath through her nose, the pain in her chest sharper than her ruined knees. Expression blank, she climbed out. She had no pride left to wound, and yet somehow, she kept discovering fresh reserves to injure.

In front of the white colonial mansion, a woman was already waiting. Griselda Montoya rushed forward, urgency in every step. Her first words: "My precious daughter. Three years. Do you know how wrong you were?" Her silk dress fluttered in the breeze, pearls clinking softly at her throat.

Chloe's response was mechanical. "I know. I was wrong."

She'd been wrong to hunger for their love. This time, she was coming back to sever every tie. But not yet. Grandmother's health was failing. She needed Chloe's medical expertise. After that, she'd walk away and never look back. The plan was the only thing holding her together, a fragile skeleton key that might unlock a door out of this mausoleum.

Griselda studied her daughter—skeletal, hollow-eyed, radiating a coldness that hadn't existed before. Three years had carved away everything soft. The sight wrenched something in her chest. Chloe was her flesh and blood, however terribly she'd erred. She'd been punished enough. Surely, she'd been punished enough. Griselda's hand fluttered to her heart, but whether the gesture was genuine or performative, even she wasn't certain.

"Good. As long as you understand. You must never be so willful again. Come, let me help you up." Griselda reached out.

Chloe jerked back, scrambling to her feet and retreating a step. Distance. She needed distance. Her eyes were full of wary distrust. They reflected nothing of the daughter who had once run to greet her with wildflowers clutched in grubby hands.

Griselda's heart clenched. "You blame me? Everything I did was for your own good, for your future. Is there any mother in this world who doesn't act out of love for her child?" Her eyes reddened, voice thick with unshed tears. "Don't resent me..."

The grievance in her expression was so convincing you'd think she was the one who'd spent three years being tortured. Chloe stood motionless, making no move to bridge the gap between them. The morning light fell cold and impartial on the manicured lawn.

A slender figure emerged from the mansion, moving gracefully to support Griselda. "Mother, Sister just came home. She needs time to adjust. Please don't blame her for being distant. Give her more time, won't you?" Cassie's voice was honey and sympathy, her slender arm slipping around Griselda's waist with practiced ease. Her gaze swept over Chloe's emaciated form with something that might have been satisfaction, quickly buried beneath an expression of tender concern.