The Burned Wife Reborn For Spectacular Revenge

Ava pulled the heavy velvet blanket up to her chin. Her hands shook. Her brain throbbed with a sharp, piercing ache right behind her eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced her breathing to slow down. Inhale for four seconds. Exhale for four seconds. She made her body go limp, mimicking the deep unconsciousness of a fever-induced sleep. Outside the partially open mahogany door, low, harsh voices bled into the room. "The trust fund liquidity is drying up, Jocelyn." Ava recognized the voice instantly. It was her uncle, Warren Bridges. His tone was gravelly, laced with calculated impatience. A heavy thud echoed from the hallway. Warren had slammed a stack of documents onto the walnut console table. "You need to sign this," Warren said. "I need your signature on this consent form so I can present it to the board tomorrow. We can bypass the standard protocols, claim the main branch has approved the restructuring, and force the funds through before Ava comes of age to realize what happened." "I am not selling my daughter's future." Jocelyn's voice trembled, but the refusal was sharp. "I will not let you use Ava as a bargaining chip." Soft footsteps approached. "Jocelyn, please." Ava's stomach lurched. Bile rose in the back of her throat. It was Cristin Kerr. "Warren is just trying to save the family," Cristin said. Her voice was dripping with fake sympathy. "If you are stubborn about this, Ava is the one who will suffer. She won't survive outside this lifestyle. The marriage brings the capital we need to keep her safe." Under the velvet blanket, Ava's jaw locked. Her teeth ground together so hard her gums ached. She remembered this exact conversation. She remembered how Cristin's soft words had slowly chipped away at her mother's resolve, painting Warren as a savior and Jocelyn as a hysterical widow. "Stay out of Bridges family business, Cristin," Jocelyn snapped. "Fine," Warren said. His voice dropped the pretense of civility. "Don't sign it. But the medical bills for Conrad's sanatorium are due next week. If the accounts remain frozen, his life support gets unplugged." Silence fell over the hallway. The threat hit its mark. Ava could hear the subtle shift in her mother's breathing, the sound of defeat. A soft, breathy chuckle escaped Cristin's lips. Ava tightened her hands into fists under the covers. She dug her fingernails directly into the soft flesh of her palms. She pressed until the skin broke. Four sharp points of real, stinging pain flared in her hands. The pain cleared the last lingering fog from her brain. She was not dreaming. She was not dead. She was here, and she was fifteen, but her mind belonged to the woman who had burned the estate to the ground. She opened her eyes. The confusion was gone. Her pupils were dark, fixed, and cold. She threw the heavy velvet blanket off her body. The cold air of the room hit her sweat-dampened skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She looked down at her left hand. A plastic IV catheter was taped to the back of her hand, feeding clear fluid into her vein. She did not hesitate. She grabbed the plastic hub and ripped the needle out of her flesh in one violent motion. A few drops of dark red blood splattered onto the pristine white bedsheets. Ava pressed her thumb over the puncture wound. She smeared the blood across her skin. She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor. She stood up. She rolled her shoulders back, straightening her spine. She adjusted her posture, locking into the rigid, dominant stance she had perfected in boardrooms a decade in the future. She walked toward the door. She reached out and wrapped her hand around the cold brass doorknob.