The Wronged Heiress’ Revenge

Zara Powell stared blankly at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips while her eyes brimmed with tears. Not a single one fell.

Finally, she spoke softly, calm as still water. "I was just careless."

Samir Powell laid a trembling hand on her shoulder. "Tell me. Who did this to you?"

Zara shook her head. This man—once the object of her wildest love and deepest hatred—had left her with nothing but bone-deep fear and the urge to run, after two years apart.

She smiled again and repeated, "No one did this. It was just me."

Samir’s eyes flushed pink, his gaze pinning hers in place. After a long beat of silence, he stood, lifted her clean off her feet, and carried her out without another word.

Zara didn’t struggle. She just stared up at him, terror sharp and hot in her bones.

Her eyes screamed the plea clear as day: Samir, please. Let me go.

Even when he settled her into the car, she said nothing. She shook uncontrollably, but didn’t make a sound.

It was useless. If he wouldn’t let her go, she couldn’t run. Not now. Not ever.

Samir clamped a firm hand on her shoulder, forcing her to face him, and ground out through gritted teeth, "I asked you who did this."

Zara’s gaze went vacant as she answered, "I’m not lying to you. It was me."

Fury and frustration coiled tight in his chest, and he punched the passenger seat hard enough to rattle the frame. His heart was being ripped clean in two, but he still forced the harsh words out.

"Don’t think this little act is gonna make me pity you and let you walk away."

Zara said nothing. She just inched as far away from him as she could, pressing her back to the window, and fought to rein in her trembles and her fear—hide them from him, like she’d learned to do.

Samir glared daggers at her. "Why’d you provoke James?"

Zara turned to him slowly, pure confusion clouding her eyes. "I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that."

Her gaze stayed calm, dead still, completely empty of any emotion. She looked at him like he was just some random stranger—no hate, no resentment, no anger. Nothing at all.

To Samir, that blankness was more unsettling than any scream could have been.

"James Dawson. Stop playing dumb. You went to North Haven’s fancy elite library to meet a guy, didn’t you?"

He’d goaded her on purpose, suddenly desperate to see some kind of reaction out of her. Anything but this.

Zara thought for a second, then shook her head. "I don’t know who that is."

She was like a broken robot, spitting out mechanical answers one after another.

Irritation gnawed at him until he couldn’t take it anymore. He wrenched her close, leaning in, and crushed his mouth to hers rough and hard.

Zara turned her head a little, but when his lips pressed harder, she stopped fighting.

Her expression didn’t change. She just stared up at him, like she wasn’t even the one being kissed against her will.

Her lips were ice cold. Up this close, he could see how deathly pale her face was—like a doll carved to look human, nothing more.

Samir pulled away and breathed her name, uncertain, "Zara?"

When he called her, she just looked up, waiting for him to say more.

In that second, it hit him like a punch to the chest: the Zara he’d known two years ago was gone.

It was like something he’d held so easy in his palm had just slipped away, leaving him with a cold, unfamiliar fear he’d never felt before.

He looked forward to the driver, jaw tight. "Take us to the estate. Let’s see how long you can keep this act up."

Zara kept her head down, quiet as a shadow. She didn’t even react when they pulled up the long driveway to the house.

"Get out. Follow me inside," Samir ordered, voice ice cold.

The quiet woman lifted her head, glanced at the guards posted by the gate, and asked soft as a breath, "Can I… not go in?"

Samir laughed, sharp and mocking. Of course she wasn’t as numb as she was pretending to be.

He stepped out of the car, and left a cold line hanging in the air behind him: "You know better than that. When you’re in my hands, you don’t get a choice."

Zara followed him into the Powell family estate.

It was the matriarch’s birthday party, the house packed full of guests. That included Ailani Rivera and the rest of her family—Samir’s fiancée and her people.

With every step she took, the urge to turn and run got stronger. Memories of the last year of torment, all at this man’s hand, played vivid and sharp in her head.

She wanted to run, but she didn’t dare.

A few guests drifted over, cornering Samir for small talk.

Zara’s trembling hand slipped into her pocket, pulled out a face mask and sunglasses, and pulled them on.

Everyone else was dressed to the nines, decked out in elegant Victorian formal wear, and it felt like every eye in the room had locked onto her, watching her every move, curious and judgmental.

Zara ducked her head lower. She felt like a mouse dragged out of its hole and thrown into the middle of a room full of staring cats.

Yeah. A mouse. That’s what she was. A killer. Acquitted, but infamous all across North Haven.

A hand reached out and stopped her before she could adjust her mask. Samir’s voice was flat, unfeeling. "You can’t wear that."

Zara silently tucked the mask back into her pocket. When she crossed the threshold into the main hall, the noise swelled, and the ringing in her ears got louder, sharp enough to make her teeth ache.

It was a warning sign. Zara clasped her hands tight together, cold sweat beading at her hairline.

Months of severe nervous breakdown and depression had left her terrified of noise, terrified of crowds, even terrified of bright lights. She couldn’t handle any kind of stimulation anymore.

After she got out of the psych ward, she’d lived alone in the dark, never gone anywhere near an event this big, this loud.

Probably leaving her behind on purpose, Samir was quickly surrounded by a group of men talking business, and they headed deeper into the house.

Now the CEO of Powell Enterprises, holding the whole group in the palm of his hand, of course he was the center of attention at this big party.

Zara edged along the wall, head down. All she could see was pairs of shoes—oxford leather and stiletto heels—and the suffocating panic coiled tighter and tighter in her chest.

She sped up her steps, desperate to find a quiet corner where she could melt into the wall, unseen, unnoticed.

But a pair of champagne-colored high heels stopped dead right in front of her. She stepped quick to the side to get around them.

The heels moved with her, blocking her path again.

After the fourth time, Zara lifted her head, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

The woman blocking her way looked like she’d just won the lottery. Her voice went up sharp, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear: "Look, look! Isn’t this Zara Powell, North Haven’s very own? And what’s she wearing…"

She clicked her tongue all exaggerated, raising her voice even more to make sure no one missed it. "I heard Miss Powell went abroad to study for two years. Is this the latest fashion trend over there?"

Zara let out a ragged, wheezing sound of distress. When every eye in the room swung to her, her face went bone white, and big fat beads of sweat rolled down her neck.

The ringing in her ears turned piercing. Her brain felt like it was about to explode. She turned to run, but the woman stepped forward, her heel hooking the toe of Zara’s shoe.

Zara tripped, stumbling forward, and the woman faked a gasp of surprise, tossing the glass of mulled wine she was holding right all over Zara’s clothes.