Scars Of Betrayal: The Heiress's Revenge

The iron gates of Stafford Manor swung open, revealing the long, winding driveway lined with perfectly manicured hedges. Everything looked exactly the same. The fountain, the white stone façade, the sprawling lawn.

It was a picture of perfection, a stark contrast to the chaos inside her.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance. Benito didn't get out. He didn't even look up from his phone.

"Go inside and get cleaned up," he said, his thumbs flying across the screen. "There's a Gala tonight. Try not to embarrass us."

She opened the door herself. The heavy thud of it closing behind her felt final.

She walked up the steps, carrying her plastic bag. The front door opened before she reached it. Martha, the head housekeeper, stood there. Her face was pinched, her eyes darting nervously past her to the car.

"Miss Alice," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She didn't hug her. Martha, who had practically raised her, kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron.

"Hello, Martha," she said. "I'm just going to my room."

Martha flinched. "About that... Miss Estelle... she turned your suite into her music room. The acoustics were better."

Alice stopped. Her room. Her sanctuary.

"Where am I staying?"

Martha looked down at her shoes. "The Madam said the guest room at the end of the east hall would be suitable."

The east hall. That was where the seasonal staff used to stay. The rooms were small, drafty, and dark.

"Fine," she said. Her voice was hollow. "I know the way."

She walked past Martha, up the grand staircase, her sneakers squeaking on the marble. The house was silent, but it felt like the walls were watching her.

The guest room smelled of dust and damp. The furniture was covered in sheets. She didn't care. She went straight to the small bathroom attached to it.

She stripped off the gray sweatpants and the sweatshirt. She stood in front of the mirror. Her ribs were visible. Her skin was sallow. Her eyes looked huge and haunted.

She turned on the shower. The water took a long time to warm up. When it did, she stepped in, grabbing a bar of harsh soap. She scrubbed. She scrubbed until her skin turned angry red. She wanted to wash off the prison. She wanted to wash off the smell of Benito's car. She wanted to wash off the last three years.

The steam filled the small room. She turned her back to the spray, letting the hot water run over the scar that ran diagonally across her shoulder blade. A souvenir from a "fight" in the laundry room during her second month. A fight Estelle had paid for.

Suddenly, the creak of the main guest room door, which she'd noted earlier had a broken lock, was followed by heavy footsteps. Before she could even process the intrusion, the bathroom door flew open.

She gasped, spinning around, clutching a thin towel to her chest.

Benito stood in the doorway. He hadn't knocked. The lock on the door was broken-she had noticed it but hadn't thought anyone would come here.

He froze. He wasn't looking at her face. He was staring at her exposed shoulder, at the jagged, purple keloid scar.

His face contorted. Not with pity. With revulsion.

"Jesus," he breathed, taking a step back. "Your back... it's disgusting."

The air left the room.

"Get out!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Get out, Benito!"

He didn't leave. He regained his composure, his lip curling into a sneer. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't want to see anything. I just came to tell you to keep your mouth shut tonight."

He gestured vaguely at her body. "That... mark. It's exactly what you deserve. In a place like that, only the loose women get into trouble like that."

Her blood ran cold. "Loose?" Her voice shook. "I was attacked. I was defending myself."

"Defending yourself?" He scoffed. "Or were you trying to please some 'big shot' in there for protection?"

Something inside her snapped. The sheer injustice, the vile accusation, it was too much.

She grabbed the heavy ceramic soap dish from the sink and hurled it at him.

It missed his head by an inch, shattering against the doorframe with a loud crack. Shards of ceramic rained down on the floor.

Benito flinched, his eyes widening. "You're crazy! You're a complete savage!"

He grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. The force of it shook the wall, sending a sprinkle of plaster dust down from the ceiling.

She slid down the cold tiles, the towel slipping from her grip. She pulled her knees to her chest.

He thought she was a monster. He thought she was a whore.

She looked at the scar in the mirror again. It was ugly. It was jagged.

But as she stared at it, the tears she expected didn't come. Instead, a cold, hard resolve settled in her chest.

If they wanted a monster, she would give them one.

She stood up and turned the water back on. Cold, this time. To wake her up.