The Heiress from the Mud

My mother was the daughter of the wealthiest man in the city. My father was a backwoods drunk. Giving birth to me wrecked her body. She could never carry another child.

For ten years, my father used her as his personal punching bag. Eventually, he dragged her out to the mud and padlocked her inside the pigpen. And me? I didn't fare much better.

Chapter 1 That night, the bastard turned his sick sights on me. My mother threw herself between us, taking his blows so I could slip out into the dark.

I dug my fingernails into my palms as I ran, the skin breaking. I swore to myself right then: I would drag everyone who hurt her straight to hell.

My grandfather, Winston, was the wealthiest man in the city. It was a secret my mother had whispered to me in the dark. I knew exactly what she meant.

She wanted his bloodline to be my shield. Half a month of walking left the soles of my shoes worn through by the time I finally reached his sprawling estate.

He had his security toss me out the front gates like garbage. He looked down at me from the steps. "I don't have a daughter.

Whether you live or die means nothing to me." The winter rain had turned the driveway to slush. I hit the ground hard, muddy water splashing up my bare legs.

He took a deliberate step back, his face twisting. "Trash really does belong in the gutter." He let out a dry, humorless breath. "What? Did her little fairytale romance go sour?

Sending a brat to my doorstep to beg." He turned on his heel. I lunged forward and grabbed his pant leg. Mud smeared across the immaculately tailored wool.

The fabric felt ridiculously soft beneath my grimecaked fingers—worth more than I had seen in my entire life. I opened my cracked lips to speak.

A heavy leather shoe slammed into my chest. The air left my lungs in a rush. I was thrown onto my back.

Winston stared at the mud on his slacks, his jaw tight. "Get your filthy hands off me.

You couldn't afford this suit if you sold your organs on the black market." He pointed a manicured finger at me. "You want my charity?

Tell your mother to crawl here and beg on her knees." I lay in the mud, watching the wroughtiron gates swing shut behind him. My mother's last desperate hope had just shattered.

He despised us. In all those thousands of square feet of marble and glass, there wasn't an inch of space for me. And I knew Roscoe.

With me gone, his favorite punching bag was the only one left to absorb his rage. She wasn't coming. I pushed myself up off the wet asphalt. I didn't look back. I just walked.

I dragged my feet for miles until the gated communities faded into the neon glare of downtown traffic.

The city sidewalks were packed with people wrapped in expensive coats and smelling of perfume.

I pulled down the frayed sleeves of my jacket, desperately trying to cover the web of purple and yellow bruises snaking up my arms.

Roscoe was a staggering drunk, but he was a surgeon with his fists. He always knew exactly where to hit so the marks stayed hidden under clothes. Funny how that worked.

A man in a rush clipped my shoulder. My knees gave out, and I slammed into the concrete. A small, perfectly manicured hand reached out to help me up.

My eyes locked onto the thick silver Cartier bracelet circling the woman's wrist. I had seen something like it in a magazine once.

My mother had traced the glossy page and whispered that a piece of metal like that could keep the lights on and feed us for six months.

I swallowed hard, my mouth tasting like copper. A little girl standing next to the woman held out a pink frosted cupcake. "You look hungry. You can have this." My stomach cramped.

For the past two weeks, I had survived on discarded halfeaten apples from trash cans and tap water from gas stations. I reached out, forcing a smile to my cracked lips.

Before my fingers could brush the wrapper, a hard shove sent me sprawling back onto the pavement.

The woman yanked the little girl behind her, treating me like I was radioactive. "Don't touch her," she snapped at the kid, dragging her down the block. "God knows what kind of diseases these street rats carry." Her disgusted voice faded into the city noise.

The concrete was freezing against my skin. My stomach gave another violent, hollow churn. I couldn't go back to the pigpen. Winston had made sure I couldn't stay here.

If I was going to survive, I was entirely on my own. Chapter 2 I dragged myself down the commercial district, hitting every storefront with a 'Help Wanted' sign.

The answer was a universal, flatout no. I was too young, too much of a liability.

I told them I didn't even want a paycheck—just a cot in the back and whatever scraps they were going to throw in the dumpster anyway. Still, no takers.

By the twentieth rejection, the neon signs started blurring together. My legs felt like lead.

I stumbled half a block before the pavement rushed up to meet me, and everything went pitch black.

I didn't know how much time had passed before the smell of cheap peppermint snapped me back. A hard candy was shoved past my chapped lips.

The sugar hit my bloodstream, dragging me back to consciousness.

An old woman loomed over me, her eyes doing a quick, calculating sweep of my body before softening into practiced concern. "Jesus, kid. What are you doing passed out on the street?

Where are your parents?" I kept my eyes glued to the pavement. I told her I didn't have any, muttered a thanks, and tried to stand.

A heavy hand locked around my bicep like a steel trap. A man stepped out from behind her, flashing a greasy smile. "You look like a tough little thing.

Our diner is drowning in the dinner rush. We can give you a hot meal and a bed in the back.

What do you say?" It sounded like an absolute miracle. "Really?" I nodded frantically, letting them steer me toward a battered white cargo van parked by the curb.

If I didn't eat soon, I was going to die on this street. I couldn't let my mother's sacrifice be for nothing.

My foot was literally on the bumper when a hand grabbed the back of my jacket, hoisting me into the air like a stray kitten.

Winston's voice cut through the street noise, dripping with authority. "You're trying to bag a kid with my blood in her veins.

Are you actively looking for a death wish?" Three men in tailored black suits materialized from the shadows.

They ripped the old woman and the driver out of the van, slamming them against the side panels. The two traffickers exchanged a wideeyed look of pure terror.

They had no idea the scrawny street rat they picked up was tied to the city's most ruthless billionaire. Winston didn't even blink at the takedown.

He looked down his nose at me. "Bought off with a cheap piece of candy. You really are worthless." He dropped me onto the sidewalk. "Call your parents.

Tell them to drag you back to whatever trailer park you crawled out of." A cold sweat broke across the back of my neck. My lungs seized.

If I went back, Roscoe would sell me to the highest bidder before the weekend. Panic overrode my brain. I fought wildly, kicking and thrashing against his grip.

He let out a sharp breath of disgust, dumped me onto the pavement, and backhanded me across the jaw. My ears rang with a highpitched whine.

The edges of my vision blackened, my starved body finally giving out. I hit the ground cold. When I pried my eyes open again, I wasn't on the street.

I was buried in highthreadcount Egyptian cotton. I took in the vaulted ceilings and the custom silk wallpaper. Winston had actually brought me to the estate.

But on the silver tray resting on the mahogany nightstand, sitting right next to the crystal water glass, were three rockhard, petrified dinner rolls.

A sharp stab of pain hit my right eye. I jerked my head back to see a little boy in a miniature tailored suit, his fingers hooked like claws, trying to gouge my eye out.

He pointed a chubby finger at me. "Get out, you filthy beggar! You don't get to sleep in Aunt Vivienne's room!" I stared at the spoiled brat.

Three times, I calmly told him to back off. He ignored me, lunging again. So, I planted my foot against his chest and kicked him straight off the mattress.

He hit the plush rug and immediately burst into tears. "Just you wait! I'm going to tell Grandpa to beat you to death!" I didn't even blink.

I grabbed one of the petrified dinner rolls from the silver tray and knocked it against the nightstand. Thwack.

I let out a dry laugh, sliding off the bed to follow the little terror out the door. Chapter 3 Inside the study, Winston was gently rubbing a faint red mark on Preston's forehead.

The moment I walked in, his entire demeanor flipped. He looked at me like I was a piece of trash stuck to the rug. "Laying hands on a child.

You have zero class," he scoffed. "You didn't pass out from hunger.

You faked the whole thing just to get your foot in the door." He leaned back in his leather chair. "You really are cut from the exact same cloth as Vivienne.

Coldblooded and ungrateful." I let out a dry, hollow laugh. "You old bastard, did you even bother asking what that little psycho tried to do to me?" A heavy leather Oxford slammed into my chest.

The air exploded from my lungs. I was thrown backward, hitting the hardwood floor hard. Before I could even gasp, the heel of Winston's shoe ground into my forearm.

The fresh scabs tore open.

Warm blood oozed through my frayed sleeves. "If Vivienne didn't teach you respect, I will." He pressed down harder. "Whatever Preston does to you, you keep your mouth shut and take it.

Your mother owes him." I curled into a tight ball, my fingernails digging into my palms so hard the skin almost broke. A layer of cold sweat coated my forehead.

My jaw locked tight to keep from screaming. Seeing my physical reaction, Winston subconsciously eased his weight off my arm.

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking everywhere but at me. "Once you've rested, you're going right back to your father.

Don't infect my house." He adjusted his cuffs. "She cut ties with this family for over a decade to elope with Troy, that broke loser.

Now she can't afford to feed her kid, so she dumps you on our doorstep? Delusional." The refusal clawed up my throat. I swallowed it down. I pushed myself up onto my knees. "Fine.

I'll go back. On one condition." I pointed a shaking finger straight at the silverhaired billionaire. "You come with me." Winston stared at me, his eyes narrowing.

He looked at me like a puzzle he didn't want to solve.

His guard went all the way up. "What exactly are you and Vivienne plotting against this family?" I met his stare, deadpan. "Think whatever you want.

If you don't agree, I'm not leaving." I tilted my head. "A massive billionaire family like yours must be terrified of bad PR.

Imagine the headlines. 'Ruthless Patriarch Throws Starving Granddaughter Onto the Street'." He let out a sharp, dismissive snort. "So manipulative at such a young age.

Vivienne trained you well." "If you're that terrified of a little trip, just bring your army of bodyguards." I forced a grin, flashing my teeth. "It's not like you can't afford them." Winston stared down at me in silence for a long moment.

Finally, he gave a curt nod. The sun dipped below the horizon, signaling dinner time. I sat alone on a stone bench in the courtyard. Nobody came to get me.

A sharp, sour ache tightened my chest, but I shoved it down. If they weren't going to invite me, I'd invite myself.

I pushed through the French doors and strutted straight into the dining room.

Ignoring the shocked stares of the seated family, I grabbed an empty chair, pulled a plate toward me, and started shoveling food into my mouth.

Winston's frown deepened into a heavy scowl as he watched me tear into a piece of meat like a starved animal. "Didn't we already feed you?

What the hell are you doing in here?" I stopped chewing. "Oh, you mean this?

You tell me if this is edible." I swallowed a massive bite of meat, reached into my pocket, and hurled one of the petrified dinner rolls across the table.

It nailed Winston dead center on his forehead. The rockhard bun bounced off his skin and landed on his custom china plate. Crack. The plate shattered perfectly in two.

Winston's face turned stormy, his expression freezing as he stared at the broken porcelain. The dining room went dead silent.

A heavily madeup woman sitting across the table let out a nasty sneer. "Why wouldn't that be enough food? Vivienne squeezed out a little country bastard.

This kind of trash is exactly what you deserve." She swirled her wine glass. "She crippled Ellis over a man, and now she sends this pest back to ruin our dinner." My hands slammed onto the table. "Shut up!

My mother isn't like that! She was tricked!" Chapter 4 My mother's eyes used to be exactly like Grandmother's—large, striking, and full of life.

But after she had me, she became Roscoe's daily punching bag. One particular "accident" left her beautiful left eye blind.

After that, no matter how hard I tried to make her smile, a permanent, glassy film of unshed tears clouded her remaining vision. My stomach pitched. The hunger vanished.

The rich matriarch shoved her chair back.

A manicured hand connected with my cheek, sending me crashing to the dining room floor. "Tricked?" She looked down at me, her face pulled tight in a vicious sneer. "If she was really a helpless victim, how exactly did a rat like you manage to crawl all the way here?" The man in the wheelchair—my uncle, Ellis—who had been dead silent until now, finally cut through her venom. "Mom, drop it.

That's enough." He rolled himself over to my side and reached down to pull me up. The moment his fingers wrapped around my arm, his hand froze.

He stared at the sharp angles of my bones protruding through my thin skin, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows as he took in the skeletal frame of a teenager who should have been growing. "You…" He opened his mouth to ask the obvious.

I cut him off, my voice dead flat. "Just send me back." I knew exactly what he was going to say, and I didn't need a single drop of his pity.

For the last decade, hiding behind Vivienne's bruised back, I had managed to survive.

Whenever she had a spare moment, she did day labor in the fields, scraping together a few miserable bucks. But Roscoe always found out.

He would strip her pockets bare to feed his gambling addiction. The first time she tried to hide the cash, he shattered three of her ribs, leaving her bedridden for over a month.

After that, she got smarter. She started stashing crumpled bills in the floorboards to secretly buy me an egg or a piece of cheap candy.

I would always break the candy in half and offer it to her. She would just shake her head, the rims of her eyes turning a raw, violent red. "I'm so sorry, baby.

I was so selfish to keep you. I dragged you right into hell with me." I never blamed her. Not for a single second.

I knew the crushing weight she carried; without me, she would have checked out a long time ago. Dragging Winston back to that trailer park wasn't a sudden whim. It was calculated.

He had the money and the absolute power I desperately lacked.

I was going to use whatever microscopic shred of blood tie he still had with Vivienne to crush that abusive bastard into dust. I snapped back to the present.

Leaning back against the dining chair, I crossed my arms and waited for the billionaire's next move. Winston gave me a slow, sweeping look.

The disgust rolling off him was suffocating. My thin, yellowed jacket—the one I had slept in for weeks—was caked with a fermented crust of dried sweat, rainwater, and gutter mud.

I reeked. "How can a girl let herself get this filthy?

It's repulsive," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am not having you parade around dragging my family name through the dirt.

Clean yourself up before we go anywhere." He didn't wait for me to argue.

He dragged me down the hall by my collar and shoved me into a guest bathroom. "Wash." The door clicked shut. I stared at the complicated, multinozzle shower system.

Twisting a silver dial, I gritted my teeth as icy water shocked my system before turning scalding hot, viciously scrubbing the grime off my skin.

By the time I turned the dial off and pushed the glass door open, the room was empty, save for a pile of folded, pristine clothes sitting on the marble counter.

I shimmied into them, my knees instantly buckling. My skin felt like it was on fire. The edges of the bathroom mirror blurred as my eyelids grew impossibly heavy.

Downstairs, Winston's patience apparently ran out. Heavy footsteps echoed against the tiles before the bathroom door swung open. But I was already on the floor.

Through a hazy, feverish filter, I saw his leather oxfords stop dead in their tracks.

He was staring down at my exposed back, where the oversized shirt had slipped, revealing the dense, overlapping web of scars and fresh welts.

A low, barely audible exhale left his lips. The cold tile vanished.

A pair of arms scooped my burning body up, carrying me down the hall and dropping me into the center of a ridiculously soft mattress. "Secretary Xu," Winston's voice drifted through the haze, low and tight. "Cancel the flights.

Yes. We'll reschedule when I say so." The sharp, piercing sting of an argument dragged me back to consciousness. "Why is she still here?

Don't tell me you're actually feeling sorry for the little rat.

Did you forget what Ellis went through?" Grandmother's voice was shrill, vibrating right through the bedroom door. "I haven't forgotten." Winston's tone was different now—soothing, almost placating. "But the kid is burning up with a fever, and she's covered in severe wounds.

If I put her on a flight right now, she won't make it off the tarmac alive." "I don't care. Get rid of her.

Just looking at her makes me sick." The sharp clackclack of expensive heels turned away, fading down the long corridor. Chapter 5 The door clicked open.

He met my bloodshot eyes, his jaw working for a second before he spoke. "The scars on your back…" The overlapping grid of old silver lines and angry red welts was the handiwork of broom handles and logging chains.

When I was first born, Roscoe was actually thrilled. He thought I was the anchor that would keep Vivienne from running.

But the moment he realized my birth had wrecked her uterus, his joy curdled into pure, venomous hatred.

He blamed me for robbing him of a son, for making him a laughingstock among the local drunks.

He would swing a thick wooden ax handle at me with everything he had, the sickening crack of my bones doing absolutely nothing to snap him out of his rage.

When a neighbor finally told him to keep the noise down, he switched to a heavy iron chain. It was precise work—aimed under the collarline, where no one would see.

And as I got older, his twisted desperation for a son made his eyes linger on me in a way that made my skin crawl.

I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes, forcing a dry, crooked smile. "It's nothing.

I took a bad fall." I wasn't about to rip my wounds open for an audience that looked at me like a parasite. "We leave tomorrow.

I'm not made of glass." I couldn't wait another second. All I wanted was to make Roscoe choke on his own blood for everything he had done.

Winston's face instantly darkened into a thundercloud. "If you're so damn resilient, why did you drop dead on the sidewalk?" He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "Did Vivienne orchestrate this?

Did she carve you up and teach you how to fake a fainting spell just to get a foot in my door?" My jaw clenched. Who the hell mutilates themselves for a stunt?

My mother had clung to the memory of her family like a lifeline.

She used to smile when she told me about them, painting a picture of warm, doting parents who treated her like royalty.

All I saw was pure, venomous ice. "Shut your mouth!" I shoved off the mattress, throwing my hands hard against his chest. "She is the only person in this world who actually gives a damn about me!" The back of his hand cracked against my cheekbone, sending me sprawling right back onto the sheets.

Winston loomed over me, his eyes lethal. "For your sake, it better be a lie. I'm warning you—you are staying in this room until those wounds heal.

God knows what Vivienne's endgame is." "Maybe she's praying you drop dead in my hallway so she can slap me with a massive lawsuit.

It wouldn't be the first time she pulled a stunt like this." He straightened his cuffs. "Don't come crying to me when she sells you down the river and you're the one counting her cash." I dragged myself upright, ignoring the ringing in my ear, and leveled a glare straight into his eyes. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?

When did she ever scam you?" My voice shook with rage. "She was the one who got tricked—" He didn't even let me finish.

He let out a sharp, disgusted breath, turned on his heel, and walked out. The heavy mahogany door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windowpanes.

I sank back against the headboard, my chest hollowed out like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my ribs. Not for me. For Vivienne.

I was the only person alive who actually knew the hell she endured. She didn't elope with Roscoe.

She was trafficked into that offthegrid nightmare, stripped of her phone, her cash, and her identity. But she was stubborn down to her marrow. She refused to roll over.

Even after multiple failed escapes left her with practically no unbroken skin, she kept fighting.

So, the last time Roscoe dragged her back by her hair, he tore her clothes off and threw her into the dirt of the front yard.

Vivienne was stunning, and every feral creep in the compound had always been obsessed with her. They swarmed her like vultures, their sick, jeering laughter echoing off the trees.

Roscoe just stood on the porch with a beer, watching every last ounce of her dignity get crushed into the mud.

The first time Roscoe shattered one of my bones, my fever spiked to dangerous levels.

Vivienne sat by my mat for two days straight, refusing to sleep, her tears soaking into my hair. "Briar, you have to fight this," she had choked out, her voice shredded. "If you leave me, I won't survive the night." When my fever finally broke, she collapsed.

A mother like that wouldn't sell me out for all the money in the world. Without her throwing herself in front of his fists, I never would have made it out alive.

Chapter 6 During those few days resting at the estate, I jolted awake almost every single night.

The same nightmare played on an endless loop: Vivienne collapsed on the dirt floor, using her own battered body to deadbolt the door.

A tiny hand lightly patted my back. "Don't be scared. The pain is flying away." A bizarre sensation crawled up my spine. I forced my eyes open, blinking against the morning light.

I found myself staring straight into a pair of wide, clear eyes. Preston. "What the hell do you want now?" I shot up, pulling the duvet to my chest, scanning him for a weapon.

The little brat flashed a massive, gummy smile. "Dad said you're Aunt Vivienne's daughter. He told me to play nice." He tilted his head. "You were having a nightmare.

Whenever I get scared in my sleep, Grandma pats my back just like that." "I don't need your help." The sudden, unexpected scrap of kindness threw me off guard, making my defense mechanism snap back into place.

Grandmother stepped through the doorway, her heels clicking aggressively on the hardwood.

She shot me a look so full of contempt it could peel paint. "Don't waste your breath on an ungrateful stray. Come on, Preston.

Let's go build your Lego set." "I didn't…" The words died on my lips. She had already scooped the kid up and turned her back to me.

Watching her hold him so securely, a tight, burning sensation clawed up my throat. My vision blurred. If Vivienne were here, she would have held me exactly like that.

Once they found out what Roscoe actually put her through, they were going to choke on their own regret. I dragged my knuckles across my eyes, wiping the moisture away.

Dead or alive, I was dragging Vivienne out of that hellhole. The next morning, I stood in the private terminal of the airport, a cheap backpack slung over my shoulder.

Winston stood next to me, flanked by a wall of massive men in tailored suits. Aside from a few sets of clean clothes, the backpack held an old, beatenup smartphone.

I had cornered Ellis for it, claiming I needed a way to call for help if I got lost. He originally wanted to order a brandnew one, but Grandmother shut that down immediately.

He ended up digging an outdated model out of a drawer for me. I couldn't care less about the cracked screen. As long as it could make a call, it was exactly what I needed.

Before we boarded, Winston kept drilling me, asking if my wounds were actually closed up.

After giving him the exact same answer three times, I lost my patience and grabbed the hem of my shirt, ready to flash him the scabs.

He practically lunged forward, clamping a heavy hand over my wrist to stop me. His jaw locked tight, and he marched up the airstairs without another word.

The private jet sliced through the clouds, reducing the sprawling city below to tiny, glittering specks.

I ignored the view, my forehead pressed against the cold acrylic window as I stared blankly at the sky.

Winston caught me staring and let out a dry scoff. "Never seen the inside of a plane before. Pathetic." I didn't have the energy for a screaming match.

I just clamped my eyes shut and faked sleep for the rest of the flight. By the time I opened my eyes, the jet was touching down on the regional tarmac.

The second we stepped out of the arrival gates, two people holding massive cameras and a microphone rushed straight toward us. "Mr.

Winston!" the reporter shoved the mic forward, a hungry look in her eyes. "We received a tip that you've finally located your estranged daughter after over a decade!

Your granddaughter invited our network to document this emotional reunion. Are we ready to head to the location?" Winston froze. His eyes snapped toward me.

He was floored that I had just backed him into a corner on live television.

I didn't know the first thing about navigating this billionaire family, but I was going to make Roscoe bleed. The only play I had was shoving Winston onto a massive public pedestal.

With the cameras rolling, he couldn't back out even if he wanted to. He let out a low, furious breath.

His jaw ticked, but he didn't say a single word as he ducked into the waiting SUV.

I flashed the news crew a bright, innocent smile and climbed in after him, motioning for their van to follow.

Two hours later, the motorcade navigated the final stretch of shattered asphalt and slammed to a halt right in front of the trailer.

Chapter 7 The blood on the front door had been scrubbed away. But dark, rustcolored stains still clung to the cracks between the brickwork. I shoved the door open.

Roscoe was passed out on the mattress, snoring loudly with a halfempty liquor bottle hugged to his chest.

The two reporters scanned the rotting, moldstained walls, their camera lenses zooming in on the squalor.

They couldn't compute how a billionaire's daughter could end up in a dump like this. Vivienne wasn't there. Panic spiked in my chest.

I launched myself into the cramped bedroom and started hammering my fists against his chest. "Where the hell did you hide my mother?" Roscoe let out a painful grunt, his bloodshot eyes blinking open through a drunken haze.

When his gaze finally locked onto me, his expression shifted. His eyes did a slow, sickening crawl up and down my body. "You put on some weight, girl.

Looking a lot better than before," he slurred, reaching out a filthy hand. "Come here. Let your daddy show you some love." Winston's jaw clenched.

He reached out and yanked me backward by my collar, placing me firmly behind him. Roscoe grabbed empty air.

That's when his bleary eyes finally registered the wall of tailored suits and the two massive camera lenses pointed straight at his face.

A stiff, greasy smile stretched across his mouth. "Kid, why'd you bring all these folks home? This place is a little too tight for a house party…" Winston ignored him.

He pointed a rigid finger at the drunk on the bed. "This is your father?" "Yes." I gripped Winston's sleeve. "He destroyed my mother.

You have to help me." Winston stared at Roscoe's weathered, grotesque face. The billionaire's expression darkened into thunder. "Vivienne eloped with Troy.

How the hell did she end up with an old creep like this?" He glared down at me, his voice pure ice. "You're unbelievable.

You played all of us." There was zero chance his pampered, elite daughter would ever look twice at a swamp rat like Roscoe. "I didn't!

Troy was the one who sold her— Mmph!" Roscoe's eyes flared with panic.

He lunged forward, his rough, calloused hand clamping hard over my mouth. "Sorry about this, folks," he stammered, forcing a nervous laugh. "I picked this stray up a while back.

She's got a screw loose—always fantasizing about being some rich kid. Sorry for the trouble." I thrashed violently, shaking my head.

My lungs burned as I tried to rip his hand away, but his grip was irontight. Winston gave me one last look of sheer disgust.

He turned on his heel and marched toward the door, the wall of bodyguards parting for him. Roscoe pressed his face close to my ear.

His breath smelled like rotting meat and cheap liquor. A vile grin stretched across his face. "You can't beat me, you little bitch.

Be a good girl and give me a son, and maybe I'll go easy on your mother." Go easy on your mother. The words slammed into my brain. She was alive. Adrenaline flooded my veins.

I sank my teeth straight into the webbing of Roscoe's hand, biting down until I tasted hot copper. He let out a howl and threw me off.

My back slammed into the cheap wooden wardrobe. The impact sent a numb, electric shock through my limbs. I didn't even wait to catch my breath.

I scrambled to my feet and threw myself out the front door, throwing my arms out to block Winston's path to the SUVs. "I am not lying!

Vivienne is my mother!" I screamed, my chest heaving. "She has a burn scar right over her collarbone! It happened when she was eight!

Your adopted son, Ellis, spilled boiling water on her!" Winston's heavy footsteps didn't even stutter. He kept walking.

The two reporters exchanged an awkward look, lowering their cameras with a wince of pity. Roscoe stepped out onto the porch behind me, his eyes dripping with smug mockery.

Right at that exact second, a woman's muffled, panicked scream tore through the air from the backyard.

Then, heavy, guttural male grunts echoed out, mixed with the sharp, frantic squealing of pigs. The blood drained from my face. It was Vivienne's voice. The backyard. The pigpen