The Jilted Heiress's Ruthless Return To Power

The metal teeth of the zipper scraped together. Dakota pulled it shut and slung the faded canvas backpack over her right shoulder. The coarse strap rubbed against her collarbone. She didn’t look back. Nothing left in this room belonged to her. The heavy carved door slammed open and hit the wall with a dull thud. Picture frames rattled in the hallway. Brande Walton stepped inside, her sharp heels stabbing into the hardwood floor. A thin woman with sharp cheekbones and a tight, painted mouth. Her eyes swept over the bare walls and the small backpack, her upper lip curling. Erling Walton followed close behind. A thick man with a red face and a stiff neck. He crossed his arms and tilted his chin up, staring down his nose at the girl they had raised for years. Cindy Walton peered around her father’s arm. A wide smile stretched her face. Blonde hair fell over the collar of her silk dress. Her eyes darted around the room, checking every corner. Making sure Dakota was actually leaving. “Get your things and get out,” Brande said. Flat. Cold. “This is no longer your home. You do not belong here.” Erling reached into his tailored jacket. He pulled out a crisp check and flicked his wrist. The paper landed on the edge of the stripped mattress. “Five hundred dollars,” Erling said, speaking slowly. “Enough for a bus ticket back to whatever slum your real parents live in. Do not contact us again.” Dakota looked at the check. Her chest did not tighten. Her breathing stayed even. She didn’t reach for it. “I don’t need your money,” she said. Her voice was steady. “I’m only taking what’s mine.” Cindy pushed past her mother. Her eyes locked on the bulging front pocket of Dakota’s backpack. Her fingers twitched. “Her bag is stuffed,” Cindy said, her voice pitching higher. “She definitely stole something. Probably my jewelry.” Brande’s face flushed. The veins in her neck stood out. “Open that bag right now,” Brande demanded. “Empty it on the floor. I want to see every single item.” Dakota shifted her weight. She turned her body, shielding the backpack behind her right shoulder. Her muscles coiled. Erling stepped forward, his face darkening. He pointed a thick finger at Dakota’s face. “If you don’t open it, I’ll call estate security,” he shouted. “They’ll rip it off you.” Dakota let out a short, breathy laugh. She pulled out her phone. “I can call the police for you,” she said. She raised her left hand and pointed toward the corner of the hallway ceiling. “There’s a security camera. It records audio. Let them see who’s trying to rob who.” Erling’s eyes snapped to the black dome. His jaw locked. He swallowed. Police at the Walton estate meant a scandal. Cindy saw her father hesitate. She let out an angry huff and lunged forward, her manicured nails aiming straight for the canvas strap. Dakota dropped her left shoulder and stepped back in one motion. Cindy’s hands grabbed air. Her momentum carried her forward. Her ankle twisted in her high heel. She yelped and crashed against the wooden bed frame. Dakota looked down at her, clutching her ankle. “Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you,” Dakota said. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Brande rushed forward, pulling Cindy upright. “You ungrateful little bitch,” Brande spat. Her chest heaved. “Your real parents are bottom-feeding trash. You deserve to rot in poverty with them.” Dakota’s eyes went completely dead. “People at the bottom at least know what shame is,” she said. Erling’s face twisted. He pointed at the open door. “Get out of my house,” he roared. “Get out.” Dakota shoved her hands into her washed-out jacket pockets. She kept her spine straight. She walked past them, her boots making soft, even sounds on the floorboards. The thick hallway carpet absorbed her footsteps. She didn’t walk faster. She didn’t look down. The three Waltons stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at her back like she was a disease leaving their home. Dakota reached the grand staircase. Several maids stopped dusting the banisters to stare. She ignored their wide eyes and walked across the marble foyer toward the massive front doors. A frantic clatter of footsteps echoed on the stairs behind her. Cindy ran down, her chest heaving, her face blotchy red. She sprinted across the foyer and planted herself directly in Dakota’s path. “Give me the bag,” Cindy panted. Her eyes were wild. “You’re not leaving with it.” Dakota stopped. She stared at the spoiled girl in front of her. Her jaw tightened. Cindy didn’t wait. She reached out with both hands, grabbing for the strap. Dakota’s left hand shot out and clamped down on Cindy’s right wrist like a steel vice. She twisted sharply. A sharp cry tore from Cindy’s throat. Pain shot up her arm and her fingers sprang open. Dakota didn’t let go. She pulled Cindy’s wrist downward, throwing her off balance. Then she raised her right hand high. The slap cracked across the foyer. Cindy’s head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed on her left cheek. She stumbled backward, hands flying to her face. Her eyes went wide with absolute shock. “You hit me,” Cindy screamed. Her voice cracked. “You worthless piece of trash. You actually hit me.” Dakota flexed her right hand, shaking off the sting. “That’s the penalty for putting your hands on me,” she said. Her voice was ice. Cindy’s face twisted with pure hatred. She dropped her hands. A vicious smile replaced the shock. “You think you’re so tough,” Cindy sneered. “Euless and I are getting engaged next month.” Dakota heard the name of her former fiancé. Her heart didn’t skip. Her breathing stayed the same. “He was sick of you,” Cindy bragged, stepping closer. “He said you were boring. He always wanted me.” Dakota looked at her triumphant face. She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Congratulations,” she said. “You picked up the garbage I threw away. Keep it.” The smug look vanished from Cindy’s face. Her cheeks turned purple. She screamed in rage and lunged again, her hands raised to scratch. Dakota didn’t step back. She just stared at her. A heavy, suffocating pressure rolled off her posture. Cindy hit that invisible wall of pressure. Her feet stopped. Her hands dropped. A sudden chill ran down her arms. “I hope you and that dog are very happy together,” Dakota said. She turned her back on Cindy and pushed open the heavy mahogany doors. Cold morning air hit her face, stinging her cheeks. She stepped onto the porch and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sharp scent of pine trees. Behind her, Cindy stood frozen in the foyer, her fists shaking. “You’re going to die in the gutter,” Cindy screamed at her back. Dakota walked down the long driveway of crushed white gravel. She reached the massive wrought-iron gates and stepped through the pedestrian opening. The heavy metal clanged shut, cutting off Cindy’s voice. She stood on the edge of the public road. She pulled out her phone and checked the transport company’s text. A terrible grinding noise shattered the quiet. Metal chewing on metal. A rusted Ford sedan chugged around the corner. The blue paint peeled off the hood. Thick black smoke poured from the tailpipe. The car jerked toward the curb. Brakes squealed as it stopped right in front of her boots. The passenger window rolled down with a painful screech. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a kind, tired face leaned over the center console. “Are you Miss Dakota?” he asked, wiping sweat from his forehead. Dakota stared at the rusted door panel. She raised an eyebrow. She reached out, grabbed the loose handle, and pulled it open.