Rising From The Deep: The Heiress's Wrath

Four Years Later.

The automatic doors of Cloud City International Airport slid open, and the world exploded into white light.

Flashes popped in rapid succession, a strobe-light assault that would have blinded a normal person. The paparazzi were swarming, shouting names, jostling for position. They were waiting for a pop star rumored to be landing today.

They weren't waiting for her. Not yet.

Ivy Hogan stepped out into the chaos.

She wore a camel-colored trench coat belted tightly at her waist, the collar popped to frame her face. Her eyes were hidden behind oversized black sunglasses. She didn't flinch at the noise. She didn't shrink away.

She paused, letting the crowd flow around her like water around a rock.

Four years ago, Ivy Hogan had been a trembling girl who begged for love. The woman standing on the curb now was forged from steel and ice.

A small hand tugged at the hem of her coat.

Ivy looked down. A little boy, around three years old, stood beside her. He wore a miniature navy suit and a white shirt, looking like a tiny corporate executive. He held a tablet in one hand, his thumb scrolling rapidly across the screen.

Albion Hogan. Her son. Her reason for breathing.

"The car is forty-five seconds away," Albion said, his voice calm, precise, and entirely devoid of childish wonder. He glanced at the screaming mob of photographers with mild annoyance. "Inefficient use of energy."

Ivy smirked. She reached down and smoothed his dark hair. "Be nice, Al. They're just doing their job."

A reporter near the front lowered his camera, squinting at them. "Who is that?" he whispered to his colleague. "She looks familiar. Is that... no, it can't be."

Ivy heard him. She turned her head slightly, lowering her sunglasses just an inch. Her eyes, cold and sharp as cut glass, locked onto the reporter.

He froze.

She pushed the glasses back up and raised a hand. It was a graceful, commanding gesture. A porter immediately rushed over with their luggage cart.

"Personal space," Ivy said softly as a particularly aggressive cameraman tried to shove his lens near Albion's face.

Her hand shot out, catching the lens hood. She didn't push; she just held it there, her grip iron-clad.

"Back up," she said. Her voice was velvet wrapped around a razor blade.

The cameraman stumbled back, looking startled. "Sorry, lady. Just trying to get a shot."

"Get a shot of something else," she advised.

A sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. The rear door opened, and a man in a sharp grey suit stepped out. Felix Vance. Her agent. Her partner in crime.

"Welcome back to hell, darling," Felix drawled, holding the door open.

Ivy ushered Albion inside, then slid in after him. The heavy door thudded shut, cutting off the noise of the airport instantly. The silence of the luxury car was a balm.

Felix handed her a thick file folder. "Everything is set. The apartment, the bank accounts, the new identity documents for the public."

Ivy took the file but didn't open it. Her gaze was fixed out the window.

The car merged onto the highway leading toward the skyline of Cloud City. It was a city of glass and steel, towering monuments to greed and power.

A massive digital billboard loomed over the highway.

It featured a woman with blonde hair and a beatific smile, holding a rescue puppy. The text read: Calla Mcgowan: Philanthropist of the Year. The Heart of the Randall Foundation.

Ivy's hand tightened on the leather armrest. Her knuckles turned white. Her breath hitched in her throat, a physical reaction to the visceral hatred that spiked in her blood.

"She looks happy," Ivy said, her voice flat.

"She is," Felix said, watching her carefully. "And rich. And engaged. The wedding to Braeden is set for next month."

Ivy laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Perfect timing."

Albion, who had been typing on his tablet, stopped. He reached over and placed his small hand on top of Ivy's clenched fist.

"Heart rate elevated," he noted. "Calm down, Mother. Anger compromises judgment."

Ivy looked at her son. His eyes-so much like his father's, whoever that was-were filled with a wisdom that didn't belong to a toddler.

She took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax. She flipped open a compact mirror and checked her reflection. Perfect red lips. Flawless skin. Not a trace of the girl who drowned.

"You're right, Al," she whispered, snapping the compact shut.

She looked back at the city approaching in the distance.

"Let the games begin."