The Wronged Heiress’ Revenge

Two years later…

A python coiled slow and tight around her neck, its forked tongue flickering in and out, squeezing harder with every little movement she made. Breathing got harder. Harder.

Zara Powell’s eyes flew open. Right in front of her, the snake’s head—big enough to cover an entire dinner plate—gaped open, sharp fangs bared, ready to sink into her throat.

"Ah!"

Zara screamed, jolting upright in bed, and stared as sunlight flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling window, spilling warm across the room. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t in that place.

A man in a white coat was on his feet immediately, stepping toward her, concern etched deep across his face. "You okay?" he asked.

Still dazed, Zara clutched her blanket so tight her knuckles whitened and scrambled back to the corner of the bed, terror plain on her face.

Dr. Simon Beck sighed, stepped back to give her space, and held out a warm mug of coffee from a respectful distance. "Here. Drink this. It’ll help you calm down."

Zara took the cup and sipped. It had been over a year since she escaped that place, but the memories wouldn’t let go. They clung to her like a second skin.

Clearing her fuzzy head, she apologized softly, "I’m sorry, Dr. Beck. Did I startle you?"

Dr. Beck smiled gently and sat down on the edge of her bed, his voice low and soothing. "No worries at all. And please—call me Simon. I’m not that old."

Zara pressed her lips together, looked down at her lap, and said nothing.

Simon went on, "I just finished your hypnosis session. You looked completely wiped out, so I let you sleep in a little. Feeling any better?"

Zara slipped out of bed, pulling on her gloves, her scarf, and her plain, round glasses, and answered quietly, "Much better. Thank you, Dr. Beck. I’ll be heading out now."

Simon stood to walk her to the door and advised gently, "Zara, you really should try to lose the scarf every once in a while, get more fresh air. Nervous breakdowns and depression don’t heal with treatment alone. You need to let go of the past, step out of your shell."

Zara hurried faster toward the door, and in her rush, she caught her foot on the threshold and stumbled forward.

Simon reached out to catch her, but she slapped his hand away hard, catching herself against the wall at the last second.

Her complexion was already pale—ashy white from exhaustion—but now fear leeched what little color she had left, leaving her face ghostly, bloodless.

She steadied herself, stammering apologetically, "Sorry… sorry."

Simon smoothly shifted the topic. "Your mom’s test results come out this afternoon. You’ll probably want to be there for that. It might not be good news, so brace yourself."

"Thank you," Zara replied quickly, and all but ran out of the room.

Outside the hospital, the bright midday sun was blinding. Zara shielded her eyes with a hand and pulled the hood of her white sweatshirt up higher, then climbed onto the 703 bus bound for Alpine Library.

This route took longer, but it was almost always less crowded. That was why she took it.

Settled into the very last row, she watched a young couple climb on, chattering and laughing as they made their way toward the back.

Zara coughed a couple of times and tugged her scarf tighter, tucking it up over the bottom of her face.

The girl’s laughter cut off. She glanced at Zara, all bundled up tight, and a frown of disgust tugged at her mouth. She whispered something to her boyfriend, and the pair moved all the way up to the front seats instead.

When the bus pulled up to Alpine Library, Zara got off and checked her watch. She had a little over ten minutes before her shift started, so she walked slow, dragging her feet.

A black sedan glided past her, and she automatically adjusted her hood, making sure it stayed pulled low over her face.

But when she glanced up, a cold chill raced straight up her spine.

The license plate matched that black Maybach she’d memorized, and it was parked right in front of the library entrance.

Her face went even paler under her mask, and she ducked behind a big old oak tree fast, her palms sweating even from this distance.

She’d helped Samir Powell swap that plate herself, two years ago. It was him. There was no mistaking it.

The library was out of the way, secluded. He never went places like this. How was she running into him now? After two whole years?

Working up every last bit of courage she had, she peeked cautiously out from behind the tree.

Two tall men got out of the car, drawing stares from everyone walking by.

Even after two years, Zara would know Samir anywhere. He was wearing a black button-down, leaning casual against the car door, talking to another guy in a white shirt. He watched the second man head into the library, then climbed back into his own car and drove off.

Zara felt like she’d just been thrown into an ice-cold lake in the middle of winter. She couldn’t stop trembling.

It wasn’t until her phone alarm blared—warning her she only had two minutes left before her shift started—that she snapped back to reality. She forced her panic down enough to hurry into the library.

Her coworker arched an eyebrow, glanced at her watch with a clear look of annoyance, then grabbed her bag and stormed out.

Zara slid into her spot at the front desk, relieved by the familiar quiet of the library. She pulled out sketch paper and a pencil and got to work.

This job had been Simon’s doing. It paid pretty well, the atmosphere was calm, and for some reason—probably Simon’s pulling strings—her supervisor let her work on personal stuff when it wasn’t busy.

Zara had majored in fine arts. She took occasional illustration commissions on the side to bring in extra cash, which her family desperately needed.

She finished a sketch, set it aside, and a second later, a stack of books was set gently down right in front of her.

She put her pencil down fast and stood to take the library card from the young man across the counter, ready to check his books out.

He picked up her sketch instead, and when Zara looked up with a frown, she was met with a charming, sharply polished face.

He looked to be in his late twenties, wore gold-rimmed glasses, a crisp white shirt, and a silver-grey tie, with sharp, regal features that looked like they’d been carved by a master.

He handed the sketch back, chuckling soft under his breath. "This is incredible work. You should be somewhere that actually appreciates your talent."

The second she saw his face, the first thing that popped into her head was Samir.

She handed back his card and the stamped books, her voice steady as she could make it, "Thank you. You’re too kind."

He took them, reached into his suit jacket pocket, and set a business card down on the desk between them.

"I don’t hand out compliments easily. I run a magazine that’s looking for new illustrators. Would you be interested?"

Zara hesitated to take it. Her hatred of being touched, of being close to people, had her shoulders tensing up tight.

"I’m sorry. I’m not interested. But thank you."

"Think about it. I can pay you $2,500 up front, and the same amount when you finish if it meets the brief."

His voice was gentle, insistent but not pushy—no pressure, just there.

Zara looked up again. With her mom’s medical bills piling up, an offer like that was impossible to ignore. It was tempting. So tempting.

While she was stuck hesitating, another patron stepped up with books to check out. The man slipped her sketch into his bag, saying, "I’ll show this to my editor. I’ll bring it back tomorrow. You can reach me anytime."

"Hey—" Zara called after him as he walked out, but she had to turn her attention back to the new customer waiting at the counter.

She sighed, tucked his business card into her pocket, and got back to work.

Meanwhile, the man holding her sketch left the library, a faint hint of satisfaction tugging at the corner of his mouth, and walked straight toward that black Maybach before climbing inside.