The Disowned Daughter And Her Billionaire Comeback

The next day, Amie barricaded herself in the smallest attic room. The air was stuffy. Her old laptop whirred as she downloaded blueprints and zoning regulations, sketches littering the desk. The bruise on her cheekbone had dulled to purple. Every time she caught it in her screen's reflection, she remembered exactly what she was fighting for.

Downstairs, Iola complained from a plush velvet sofa. "Mother, is Dad really letting that adopted girl handle Sterling Point? What if she actually succeeds?"

Donna Mills took a measured sip of tea. "Darling. Do you really think your father would hand a multi-billion-dollar project to a girl whose only value is that we haven't thrown her out yet? He's buying time. Let him." She set her cup down. "As for her actually winning—we'll make sure she doesn't get that far."

From her Hermès bag, she produced a small, unmarked glass vial. "High-concentration sleeping aid. Colorless. Odorless. Tonight, you'll go check on your sister."

Iola's eyes lit up. "What about Pierce?"

"Already arranged. He'll be at the St. Regis." Donna smoothed the silk of her dress. "Amie has no birthright, no inheritance, no prospects. Pierce Grant may not be a prince, but he's a Grant. That's more than a girl like her could ever hope for on her own. Once she's settled, she'll understand. We all make sacrifices for family."

That night, after Iola went upstairs, Donna sat alone in the darkened living room. The vial was no longer in her bag. She didn't enjoy this. She hadn't enjoyed any of it. But Amie had left her no choice. The girl was about to destroy everything the family had built over a childish fantasy of independence. Sometimes clarity came in forms that looked, to the untrained eye, like cruelty.

She poured herself another cup of tea and waited.

That evening, Amie stared at a structural problem on her screen, head throbbing from exhaustion. The door creaked open.

Iola stepped inside and set a glass on the desk. "You've been at this all day. Drink something."

Amie was too drained to question the gesture. "Thank you, Iola."

She drank. Iola watched her, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, then left.

Thirty minutes later, dizziness crashed over her. The room tilted. She tried to stand—her legs buckled. She collapsed onto the rug. The last thing she saw was the door opening and two bodyguards lifting her from the floor.

When awareness surfaced, she was on an unfamiliar king-sized bed. The air reeked of cigars and cologne. Her limbs were useless, heavy as stone.

The bathroom door opened.

Pierce Grant walked out in a silk robe. He saw her stirring, and his smile spread like oil on water. "Little beauty. Your father gift-wrapped you for me." He untied his robe as he approached. "Stop struggling. Once I'm done, you'll be begging to marry me."

Amie's blood went cold. The milk. Iola. Donna. Her own family had drugged her and delivered her to a predator. The drug made it nearly impossible to move, but survival instinct screamed louder. Her eyes landed on a heavy brass lamp on the nightstand.

"Don't worry. I'll make you comfortable." Pierce moved closer.

"Water..." She forced the word out, slurred and small. "Please..."

Believing she'd surrendered, Pierce turned toward the minibar.

Amie lunged. She seized the lamp and swung with everything she had.

It connected with the back of his skull in a wet, sickening crack.

Pierce screamed—an inhuman shriek—and collapsed, blood welling black between his fingers.

Amie scrambled off the bed and ran.

She burst into the hallway. The drug dragged at her limbs, the corridor stretching and tilting. Behind her, muffled shouts. Bodyguards.

Ahead, a door sat slightly ajar, a blade of golden light cutting across the carpet. She threw herself through it, slammed it shut, and fumbled the deadbolt into place.

Her body gave out against the door.

In the dim light—a silhouette on a leather sofa. A single ember of a cigarette glowing and fading in the dark.

The man rose. His shadow swallowed her. He crouched down.

Amie looked up into a pair of eyes, deep and cold as a winter lake.

"Help... me..."

Then everything went black.