The Wronged Heiress’ Revenge

Inside the idling car, Samir Powell tapped impatiently at his laptop keyboard, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence.

When Jackson Holt slid into the backseat, he pulled off his gold-rimmed glasses and flopped back lazily into the leather seat. Samir’s voice came out clipped and cold: "Next time you need something, drive yourself. You’re wasting my time."

"Hey, c’mon—" Jackson protested, one eyebrow shooting up. He dragged his words out as he glanced at the stone-faced man beside him.

"Like your time is that goddamn precious. Walk around with that stick up your ass 24/7, you gonna end up a human popsicle one of these days, you know that?"

Samir didn’t bother answering. He just kept working, fingers flying over his keys.

Jackson shrugged it off and turned his attention back to the sketch paper in his lap. Then he looked up at Samir’s driver, Zach.

"Hey Zach, didn’t your family just launch that small publishing house? I dropped ten grand today on a set of illustrations and handed out your business card."

Zach jerked the steering wheel so hard the car swerved a little. He flicked a surprised glance up at the rearview mirror. "Ten grand for illustrations? Mr. Holt, our company mostly uses digital art—we’ve got in-house illustrators for that. And besides, ten grand is… that’s way too much…"

A full year’s salary for one of their artists didn’t even hit that number.

Jackson cut him off quickly: "Zach, you’re missing the whole point! Digital can’t hold a candle to hand-drawn, right? It’s done deal. If she calls you, just let me know and I’ll handle all the negotiations."

Zach still looked stressed, and he checked the rearview mirror again. "Mr. Holt, I get what you’re saying, but we’re just a tiny shop. Hand-drawn is great, don’t get me wrong, but ten grand a set is really more than we can afford."

"Relax, I’m covering the cost—all you have to do is get the art through your door and…"

"Her?"

Samir stopped typing mid-tap. He glanced sideways, cutting Jackson off cold.

Jackson froze for a split second, then slapped his knee triumphantly and slung an arm around Samir’s shoulders.

"See that, Zach? Your boss gets it!"

Zach was still confused, couldn’t keep up with what was happening.

Samir’s voice dropped into a sharp, icy edge: "Get your arm off me."

Jackson yanked it back fast, eyes bright with excitement. "Sam, trust me—my gut’s never wrong about this. I’ve been watching her for days. Her clothes are nothing special, her figure’s just average, she’s got her face hidden behind a mask and glasses… but there’s something magnetic about her. Something mysterious. I know she’s a total stunner under all that!"

Samir’s eyebrows pulled in just a little. His voice softened, almost too quiet to hear: "You already spent money on her?"

Jackson waved the sketch paper right in Samir’s face. "Hell no! She hasn’t taken a penny, hasn’t even said yes yet. And c’mon—look at this. Could a con artist pull off work this good?"

"Playing hard to get," Samir muttered, frowning as he shoved the paper away from his laptop.

Jackson pulled the sketch back, shaking his head with a dramatic sigh. "You just don’t get it."

He went back to studying the drawing carefully, and his gaze landed on the tiny initials scrawled at the bottom.

"Z. P. Is that an address? A name?"

Suddenly, the paper was ripped right out of his hand.

Jackson stared at Samir, irritated. "I thought you weren’t interested?"

"Turn the car around. Go back," Samir’s voice went cold as ice.

The driver wrenched the wheel to U-turn immediately.

Jackson blinked, caught off guard. "Go back where? Grandma’s waiting for us for dinner, remember?"

The car pulled to a stop outside the old library. Samir’s tone was icy: "Pull over. Drop Mr. Holt off first, and have Mr. King come pick me up."

Before anyone could react, he stepped out, slammed the door hard behind him, and marched straight toward the library’s entrance with his jaw set.

His eyes were cold, but a sharp, bitter little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Nice work, Zara Powell. Two years gone, and you’re still playing the same old games. Flirting with every guy that crosses your path.

Samir searched the library, floor by floor.

On the fourth floor, he spotted her at a distant desk, completely absorbed in her drawing. She was dressed exactly how Jackson had described.

Just like Jackson said—even in the sweltering summer heat, she was wearing gloves and a hat indoors.

For a split second, something weird twisted in Samir’s chest. Then it was gone, swallowed up by a surge of hot, unnameable anger.

He walked straight up to her and wrenched her away from her sketchbook.

Zara Powell was caught completely off guard. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself to stay silent.

She looked up at the man towering over her.

Memories of that year—every day of agony, every minute of slow, biting torment—came flooding back, crashing into her all at once.

Fear swam in her eyes. Her whole body trembled. Her pale lips moved, but no sound came out.

Samir’s gaze darkened, something wild and unhinged curling in his chest. How could this timid, lifeless ghost possibly be the sharp, fiery, eloquent Zara Powell he once knew?

He let go of her shoulder and ripped her mask and glasses off her face.

That face—thin almost to the point of distortion—but every line, every feature confirmed it: this was really the once proud eldest daughter of the Powell family.

Zara’s face went bone white. She fumbled for her phone with shaking hands and dialed, her voice barely a croak: "M-Mr. King… there’s someone causing trouble here."

Samir snatched the phone right out of her grip and dragged her out of the library by her arm.

By the time he pulled her through the doors, the manager was already hurrying over.

When he saw who it was, his face went white. He rushed straight toward them.

Zara clung to him like he was her last lifeline, her voice shaking so bad it barely came out: "Mr. King, I don’t know him, I swear… I really don’t know him."

Mr. King stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "Mr. Powell. What brings you here today?"

Samir glanced at him, cold and indifferent, and dragged Zara straight past him into the waiting elevator.

Zara scrabbled desperately to get free, but the elevator doors slid shut before she could escape.

Her hands and feet shook so bad she could barely fumble to put her mask and glasses back on. She kept muttering over and over: "I’m not her… you got the wrong person… I’m really not her…"

Samir reached out, knocked her mask clattering to the floor, and wrenched her closer before yanking her glove off her hand.

"You don’t know me? You really don’t know me? Then what’s this?"

Zara suddenly screamed: "NO!"

But it was too late. Her glove fell away, revealing a pale hand where the ring finger was gone.

For a moment, the whole world went dead silent. The elevator doors dinged open behind them, but neither of them moved.

It felt like an eternity before Samir’s trembling voice finally cut through the quiet: "Your finger. What happened?"

Zara scrambled back, terrified, until she hit the far corner of the elevator. She stared at him like he was a ghost come back to haunt her.

Samir forced his feet to move, then crouched down in front of her, his breath coming hard and fast: "Zara. Your finger. Where is it?"