The Abandoned True Heiress's Lethal Comeback

The transition from a centuries-long slumber into a fragile, mortal body was agonizing. Consciousness slammed into Alondra's brain like a physical blow. Her lungs expanded violently. The air burning her throat tasted like synthetic sugar and heavy chemicals—a cheap, vulgar aphrodisiac that insulted her refined senses. Her central nervous system flared, screaming a high-pitched warning of immediate danger.

She forced her heavy eyelids open.

A massive, sweating man loomed over her. The stench of stale whiskey and sour body odor assaulted her nose. His thick, sausage-like fingers were already tearing at the hem of her thin dress.

The memories of the original owner of this body flooded her mind. The sheer humiliation and terror made her current physical form tremble uncontrollably. Her breath hitched, coming out in short, ragged gasps.

Vince Pollock felt the movement beneath him.

He let out a wet, guttural laugh that made Alondra's stomach churn. He lowered his massive head, his wet lips aiming for the sensitive skin of her neck.

The trembling stopped.

Alondra's eyes went dead. The lethal instincts of a centuries-old European medical assassin took full control of her muscles. She didn't think. She just acted. She drove her right knee upward with explosive force.

The impact was a sickening, hollow thud.

Her kneecap connected perfectly with Vince's groin. The blunt force trauma instantly paralyzed his nervous system. All of his forward momentum died.

Vince let out a high-pitched squeal that sounded like a slaughtered pig.

He clutched his crotch with both hands. His massive weight rolled off the mattress, hitting the thick bedroom carpet with a heavy thud.

Alondra swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

The residual drugs in her bloodstream made her knees buckle for a fraction of a second. She locked her joints, forcing her spine straight through sheer willpower.

Vince's face was a mottled, dark purple.

His facial features twisted in agony as he spat out vile curses. He reached out a trembling, sweaty hand, trying to grab Alondra's ankle.

Alondra let out a short, cold breath.

She lifted her right foot. The stiletto heel of her shoe came down with surgical precision, driving directly into the fragile bones of Vince's outstretched hand.

A sharp, dry crack echoed in the room.

Vince screamed again. Tears and snot mixed on his red face as he writhed on the floor.

Alondra bent at the waist.

Her fingers clamped around Vince's jawline like a steel vice. She squeezed, digging her nails into his pressure points, forcing his tear-filled eyes to look up at her.

"Enlarged prostate. Severe erectile dysfunction. Early-stage liver failure," Alondra stated. Her voice was a chilling, detached whisper that belonged to a medical examiner standing over a corpse. She diagnosed his hidden pathetic conditions flawlessly, stripping away his dignity.

Vince's pupils dilated in pure terror.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the shock of having his deepest, most shameful secrets exposed by the girl he thought was prey. He shook violently, unable to form a single word of mercy.

Alondra released his jaw in disgust, wiping her fingers on the bedsheet.

She grabbed a glass of ice water from the nightstand and threw the freezing liquid directly into her own face. The shock of the cold water cleared the last of the chemical fog from her brain.

The sharp click of high heels sounded in the hallway.

The brass doorknob turned. The heavy wooden door swung open.

Chloe Frank stepped into the room, wearing a custom Chanel dress. A malicious, expectant smirk was plastered across her perfectly made-up face.

Her eyes landed on Vince, who was sobbing on the floor, and then on Alondra, who was standing perfectly upright.

Chloe's smirk vanished. Her mouth dropped open in a silent gasp.

Alondra turned her head slowly.

She gave Chloe a slow, deliberate blink. Her gaze was as cold and empty as a morgue.

Chloe took a physical step back, intimidated by the sheer weight of that stare.

Her fear instantly morphed into defensive anger. Her shrill voice cracked as she screamed, demanding to know how Alondra dared to attack their VIP guest.

Alondra didn't speak.

She closed the distance between them in two long strides. She raised her right arm, the movement slicing through the air with terrifying speed.

The slap sounded like a gunshot in the confined room.

Chloe's head snapped to the side. Her left cheek instantly flared a bright, angry red. The force of the blow sent her stumbling backward until her shoulder slammed into the doorframe.

Chloe clutched her burning face.

She stared at Alondra with wide, disbelieving eyes. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

Alondra pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser on the dresser.

She slowly and methodically wiped her right hand, cleaning each finger as if she had just touched raw sewage.

"The dosage was wrong," Alondra said, her voice perfectly steady. "If you're going to use a synthetic neuro-inhibitor, you need to account for body mass. You used a baseline dose. It's amateurish and pathetic."

The absolute lack of emotion in Alondra's voice broke Chloe's mental defenses.

She opened her mouth and screamed for her mother, the sound echoing down the hallway.

Heavy, hurried footsteps rushed up the stairs.

Brenda Frank, the matriarch of the family, appeared in the doorway, flanked by two maids.

Brenda looked at the blood on Chloe's face, the groaning man on the floor, and the wet glass in Alondra's hand. Her face turned pale with rage. She pointed a manicured finger at Alondra and started screaming insults.

Alondra flicked her wrist.

The crumpled, dirty wet wipe flew through the air and landed exactly on the toe of Brenda's expensive leather pump. Brenda stopped mid-sentence, stepping back in disgust.

Alondra tilted her chin up.

"I am done with this boring circus," she announced.

She didn't wait for a response. She turned her back on the screaming women and walked out the door, heading straight for the main staircase.