The Genius Heiress Plays The Fool

The morning sun beat down on the back of Georgiann's neck. She crouched in the dirt of the Moreno gardens, wearing a silk nightgown two sizes too big. She poked a dry twig at a line of black ants.

Tires screeched. A bright red Porsche slammed to a halt in the circular driveway, kicking up gravel.

Gillian Moreno marched across the manicured lawn. She was thin and angular, with bleached blonde hair pulled into a severe ponytail. Her sharp stiletto heels sank deep into the soil. Hailie Donaldson trailed right behind her, phone already out and recording.

Gillian stopped in front of Georgiann. She kicked a heavy clod of wet dirt. It splattered across the white silk of Georgiann's nightgown. "Look at it, practically drooling. Did they pull her out of an asylum?" Gillian sneered.

Georgiann slowly lifted her head. A smudge of mud streaked across her cheek. She let her jaw hang slack, her eyes completely empty.

Hailie laughed, the sound high and grating. She snapped a photo. "The group chat is going to love this."

Gillian stepped closer. Her hand shot out. Her manicured fingers twisted violently into Georgiann's hair. She yanked upward with brutal force. "Don't play dead with me! Say hello when you see me!"

A sharp, tearing pain exploded across Georgiann's scalp. Her eyes watered. The muscles in her legs coiled tight.

Then, she heard it. The faint, low whir of an electric wheelchair motor approaching from the stone pathway. Charlton.

Georgiann's teeth clamped together. She let out a terrified squeal, lunged forward, and sank her teeth directly into the fleshy part of Gillian's wrist.

"Ahhh!" Gillian shrieked. The pain shocked her. Her fingers released Georgiann's hair. She violently shook her arm.

Georgiann let herself be thrown backward. She stumbled, her shoulder slamming hard into a thick marble pillar.

Using the bounce, she spun around. Her right arm swung in a wide arc. Her open palm cracked against the left side of Gillian's face.

The slap echoed across the garden. Gillian's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed on her cheek.

Gillian clutched her face. Her eyes bulged. "You crazy bitch! You hit me?"

Before Gillian could take a breath, Georgiann's arm swung back the other way. The back of her hand smashed into Gillian's right cheek.

Gillian's knees buckled. She collapsed into the dirt, stunned.

Hailie dropped her phone. It hit the grass with a dull thud. She pointed a trembling finger at Georgiann, her mouth opening and closing with no sound.

The wheelchair rounded the corner. Charlton stopped on the path. Alistair stood silently behind him.

Charlton's dark eyes swept the scene. Gillian sitting in the mud, clutching her face. Hailie trembling. Then his gaze snapped to Georgiann.

Georgiann instantly shrank back. She pressed her body against the marble pillar, making herself as small as possible. She peeked out from behind the stone. She blew on her red, stinging palms and whimpered, "Bad people... hurts."

Charlton's eyes locked onto the deep bite marks on Gillian's wrist, then moved to the angry red welts on Georgiann's palms. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

He pushed the joystick forward. The wheelchair glided smoothly until he loomed over Gillian.

Gillian saw him and burst into loud, ugly sobs. She crawled toward his wheels. "Charlton! Did you see that? This psycho attacked me!"

Charlton looked down at her. His face was carved ice. "Who gave you the nerve to touch my wife?"

Gillian's sobs choked in her throat. She stared up at him, unable to process the words. "Your... wife?"

Charlton didn't look at her again. He turned his head slightly toward Alistair. "Throw these two pieces of trash out. If they step foot on this property again, break their legs."

Alistair stepped forward. He grabbed Gillian by the back of her designer jacket and hauled her to her feet. Hailie scrambled backward and ran for the Porsche.

Charlton turned his wheelchair. He stared at Georgiann, still hiding behind the pillar. His eyes were dark, heavy. The timing of those slaps. The perfect use of momentum. It was too clean.

You're hiding something, he thought, his pulse picking up a strange, heavy rhythm.