The Unwanted Heiress's Billionaire Return

Eliza POV:

A maid with a pinched, unhappy face grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the grand entrance, steering me toward a narrow path that wound around the side of the mansion. The stones were cold under my bare feet. She didn't speak to me, just tugged me along as if I were a disobedient animal.

We entered through a heavy steel door into a cavernous garage. The air smelled of oil and disinfectant. Before I could take in the fleet of gleaming cars, a low growl echoed from the corner.

A massive Doberman, its body a sleek black weapon, stalked toward me. Its teeth were bared, a menacing rumble vibrating in its chest. I froze, my blood turning to ice. The maid simply stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth, making no move to help.

The dog, Zeus, cornered me against a wall of tires, its hot breath washing over my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the bite.

"Zeus! Heel!"

The sharp command cut through the air. I opened my eyes to see Kylie, the girl in the pink dress, standing in the doorway that led into the house. She looked at me, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"He never does that," she said, her voice filled with accusation. "You must smell disgusting."

The maid rushed to her side. "Miss Kylie, are you alright? I don't know why he's acting this way."

Kylie petted the dog's head, which was now pressed adoringly against her leg. "He probably needs a bath now. Get him away from... her."

She said "her" like it was a dirty word.

The maid and a gardener dragged me over to a utility sink and hosed me down with cold water, scrubbing my skin raw with a stiff brush meant for cleaning floors. I shivered, clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering, my thin dress plastered to my body. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on me, suffocating me.

As they toweled me off with a rough rag, a memory surfaced, sharp and urgent. My mother. Peanuts. Burt had once, in a rare moment of what he called kindness, given her a piece of candy. Her throat had closed up. Her face had swollen. I remembered her gasping for air, her skin turning a blotchy red. Burt had laughed, but I had been terrified.

Severe peanut allergy.

The smell of food was wafting from the house. They would be making dinner for her. I had to warn them.

Ignoring the maid's sharp "Hey!", I bolted through the open door, into the main house. I ran through a pristine laundry room and into a gleaming, stainless-steel kitchen that was larger than our entire cabin.

Chefs in white hats bustled about, shouting orders. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and herbs. On a counter, a chef was grinding something in a bowl. Peanuts.

"Stop!" I cried, my voice thin and reedy. "You can't use those! My mommy... she can't eat them. She'll die!"

One of the chefs, a large man with a red face, turned on me. "What the hell? Get out of here, you little thief! Stealing food already?"

He didn't listen. He didn't care. He shoved me hard, and I stumbled backward, my head hitting the corner of a steel table. Pain exploded behind my eyes. As I slid to the floor, dazed, he kicked my side. "I said, get out!"

Just then, a man in a suit, the butler, walked in. "What is all this commotion?" he demanded. He saw me on the floor and sneered. "Remove this."

"She was trying to steal food, Mr. Abernathy," the chef said.

Mr. Abernathy then began to list off my mother's dietary needs to the head chef. "Mrs. Mccall has a list of severe allergies. No peanuts, no shellfish, no strawberries. Her meals must be prepared in a completely sterile environment. Use the designated cookware only. Mr. Mccall will not tolerate any mistakes."

My warning had been useless. They already knew. But the kick still throbbed in my side.

I was banished to a small patio outside the dining room. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, I watched them eat. The table was laden with food, sparkling with crystal and silver. They laughed and talked. Derek sat beside my mother, his hand covering hers on the table. He leaned in and pointed to a faint, silvery scar on her forearm. Her smile faltered. The whole family noticed. Dionne reached out and patted her other hand. Kylie leaned her head on her shoulder. Derek kissed her temple. They were a fortress of comfort, and I was on the outside, looking in.

A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on my cheek. I quickly wiped it away. My mother had never once touched my scars.

Later that night, the hunger became a gnawing beast in my belly. The kitchen was dark and empty. I crept back in, my bare feet silent on the cold tile. I found the trash can, my hands shaking as I pulled out the bag. Inside, there were half-eaten bread rolls, pieces of steak, and a spoonful of creamy mashed potatoes. It was more food than I had seen in days.

I ate it all, huddled in the darkness of the garage, shoveling the discarded feast into my mouth with my fingers. For the first time since leaving the compound, my stomach felt full. It was a strange, heavy sensation.

I woke up a few hours later to a violent cramping in my gut. A fire was raging inside me. I stumbled out of the garage, doubling over in pain, and was sick again, this time all over the pristine white stones of the patio. The sounds I made, wretched and guttural, echoed in the silent night.

Lights flashed on all over the mansion. Doors were thrown open.

Soon, a doctor was kneeling over me, his face a mixture of pity and professional concern.

"It's refeeding syndrome," he explained to Derek and a sleepy Dionne, who stood on the steps, clutching their silk robes. "Her system is severely malnourished. It can't process rich food like that. It's a shock to the system." He looked at me. "What did you eat, child?"

I couldn't speak, just pointed a trembling finger toward the kitchen trash.

From the hallway, where I was left on a cold bench, I heard my mother's broken sobs coming from upstairs.

"I can't do this, Derek!" she wept. "Every time I look at her... I see his eyes in her face! I can't forget! I can't breathe!"

A floorboard creaked above me. I looked up. Derek was standing at the top of the stairs, his face a mask of cold, controlled rage. His eyes found me, and the air in my lungs turned to ice.

"What did you hear?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.