The Jilted Heiress And Her Karmic Revenge

Thick black smoke billowed into the sky. Car alarms shrieked in a chaotic chorus. The pungent smell of burning rubber and gasoline seeped through the truck's vents.

Byron sat frozen in the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were bone-white. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head to look at the passenger seat. His Adam's apple bobbed hard.

Alice's expression hadn't changed. She calmly picked up the three ancient coins from her lap and slipped them back into her pocket, as if she had just finished a crossword puzzle.

Byron's brain short-circuited. He was a man of logic, of concrete and steel. He tried to rationalize it. A coincidence. A blind spot. A lucky guess.

But he remembered the absolute certainty in her eyes when she threw those coins. The foundation of his materialism cracked.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Within seconds, cruisers and fire trucks swarmed the intersection.

A traffic cop walked up to the truck and rapped his knuckles against Byron's window.

Byron flinched. He rolled down the window, his hands shaking slightly.

"If you're witnesses, pull over and wait for a statement. If not, back up and clear the lane," the cop barked over the noise.

"We're leaving," Byron said, his voice hoarse.

He threw the truck into reverse, navigated around the shattered glass on the road, and turned down a quiet detour route.

The silence in the cabin was suffocating. Byron kept stealing glances at Alice, his mouth opening and closing, unable to form words.

Alice stared out the window at the passing trees. "It's just basic fortune telling," she said, breaking the silence.

Byron let out a shaky breath. "Where... where did you learn parlor tricks like that?"

"I had a lot of free time locked in the Wallace's attic," Alice said smoothly. "I read some old books."

The word attic hit Byron like a physical blow. The shock of the crash vanished, replaced instantly by a burning, protective rage.

"Nobody is ever locking you up again," Byron ground out, his jaw tight. "I swear it."

The truck pulled into an upscale, heavily wooded neighborhood. It stopped in front of an old, red-brick mansion. Byron cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish as he killed the engine. "My older brother, Daryn, works as the live-in caretaker and property manager for this place. The owner is overseas for the year, so he lets us stay in the servant's quarters and use the main floor. Don't let the size intimidate you, we're just keeping the dust off." It looked unassuming, but Alice's trained eyes instantly spotted the military-grade security cameras hidden in the eaves. She noted the lie immediately-caretakers didn't usually have access to this level of security-but chose not to press him.

Byron grabbed her light canvas bag and pushed open the heavy oak front door.

The interior was classic, understated luxury. But the air inside was thick with tension.

An elderly man with sharp, intelligent eyes sat in a wheelchair near the fireplace. Horatio Morrow, the patriarch.

Beside him stood a tall man in a perfectly tailored bespoke suit. Daryn Morrow, her eldest uncle.

Daryn's eyes locked onto Alice. His brow furrowed into a deep, hostile knot. He didn't hide his disgust.

Horatio sighed heavily and struck the hardwood floor with his cane. "Bring her here, Byron."

Byron felt the hostility. He immediately stepped in front of Alice, shielding her. "What the hell is with that look, Daryn?"

Daryn sneered. He picked up a thick manila envelope from the coffee table and hurled it at Byron's chest.

The envelope burst open. Dozens of high-definition photographs scattered across the Persian rug.

The images were crystal clear. They showed Alice sitting in a dark room, viciously stabbing needles into voodoo dolls with the names of the Morrow family members written on them.

Byron stared at the photos. His pupils shrank. But he turned to look at Alice, his eyes still holding a desperate trust.

Daryn pointed a manicured finger at Alice. "She's a rabid dog raised by the Wallaces! She's been cursing her own blood!"

Alice looked down at the photos near her boots. The corners of her mouth twitched upward into a mocking smirk. A strange, unfamiliar word floated to the surface of her mind, pulled directly from the original Alice's fragmented memories of late-night internet scrolling. It took her a fraction of a second to grasp the concept, but it fit perfectly.

"Deepfake," she said softly.