The Betrayed Heiress: Rising From Ashes

Charlene Gay folded the last plain white shirt.

She pressed her palms flat against the cheap cotton fabric. Her hands shook. They trembled so violently that her knuckles rattled against the thin mattress. It was the medication. The heavy, forced doses of antidepressants they pumped into her veins every morning in this Swiss private sanitarium.

She shoved the shirt into the faded canvas duffel bag.

Her fingers felt thick and clumsy. She grabbed the metal zipper and pulled. It stuck halfway. She gritted her teeth, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and yanked it closed.

The sound of hard heels clicked against the pristine linoleum floor in the hallway.

The footsteps stopped right outside her door.

Charlene froze. Her stomach dropped, twisting into a tight, painful knot.

Nurse Sharon Pinter leaned against the doorframe. She chewed a piece of gum, her eyes lazy and full of malice.

Sharon held a metal clipboard against her chest. She tapped her pen against the metal clip.

"Miss Gay, please hurry your packing," Sharon said. Her voice was dripping with a sickly sweet, professional politeness that poorly masked her utter contempt. "We have actual, paying patients who require our immediate attention." To punctuate her point, Sharon deliberately let the metal clipboard slip from her fingers. It clattered loudly onto the pristine floor, scattering the discharge papers right at Charlene's bare feet. "Oops. Pick those up, won't you?"

Charlene's spine snapped straight. The muscles in her back locked up.

She turned around slowly. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor.

She forced her facial muscles to go completely slack. No emotion. No reaction. That was the rule here. If you reacted, they strapped you down.

A sudden image flashed behind her eyes. Isabela. Standing in the middle of the New York penthouse, fake tears streaming down her perfect face.

Then came the memory of the security guards. Their heavy hands grabbing Charlene's arms, dragging her across the marble floor, throwing her out the front door like garbage.

Charlene inhaled a sharp breath. The air in the room smelled like bleach and rubbing alcohol. She swallowed hard, pushing the rising panic back down her throat.

She forced her heavy legs to move. One step. Then another.

She walked up to Sharon and slowly crouched down, her knees popping in the quiet room. She picked up the metal clipboard from the floor and reached out her pale, trembling hand.

Sharon held out the plastic pen.

Charlene grabbed it. Her sweaty fingers slipped against the smooth plastic.

She adjusted her grip. She squeezed the pen so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

She pressed the pen tip to the bottom line of the discharge papers. She signed her name. Her signature was shaky, barely legible.

She shoved the metal clipboard back into Sharon's chest.

Sharon rolled her eyes, her lips curling in disgust. She stepped sideways, leaving a narrow gap in the doorway.

Charlene turned back to the bed. She bent down and grabbed the handles of the heavy canvas bag.

She lifted it. The weight pulled at her weakened shoulder muscles.

She walked out of the room and stepped into the sterile white hallway.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed. It was a low, constant electric hum that made the inside of her skull itch.

From the far end of the long corridor, a new sound echoed.

The sharp, authoritative click of expensive leather dress shoes hitting the marble floor.

Charlene stopped walking. She slowly lifted her head.

Columbus Gay stood at the end of the hallway.

He wore a custom-tailored dark navy suit. The fabric fell perfectly over his broad shoulders.

He was looking down at his left wrist. He adjusted the band of his Patek Philippe watch.

Then, he looked up.

His dark eyes locked onto her face. His gaze was precise, calculating, and completely devoid of warmth.

A violent shiver ripped down Charlene's spine. The cold seeped into her bones. Her fingers tightened around the handles of her duffel bag until her nails dug painfully into her own palms.

Columbus dropped his arm to his side. He took a step forward.

His long legs closed the distance between them at a terrifyingly calm pace.

Charlene clamped her jaw shut. Her teeth ground together. She ordered her feet to stay planted. She refused to take a single step backward.

Columbus stopped exactly two feet in front of her.

He looked down. His eyes swept over the cheap canvas duffel bag in her hands. His upper lip twitched in pure disgust.

He turned his head slightly to the side.

"Take that garbage," Columbus ordered. His voice was flat and cold.

A burly assistant stepped out from behind him. The man reached out and grabbed the bag.

Charlene didn't let go immediately. The assistant yanked it hard, tearing the coarse canvas handles from her raw, blistered fingers.

Columbus didn't say another word. He turned his back on her and walked toward the automatic glass doors at the end of the hall.

Charlene stood frozen for a second. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She forced her legs to move, following his broad back.

The automatic doors slid open.

The brutal, freezing Swiss wind slammed into her face. It stung her cheeks like tiny needles.

A massive black Maybach sat idling by the curb.

A driver in white gloves stood by the rear door. He pulled it open and bowed his head.

Columbus stopped. He turned slightly and jerked his chin toward the dark interior of the car.

Charlene kept her eyes on the ground. She ducked her head and slid into the backseat.

The leather seats were soft, but the air inside was suffocating.

Columbus climbed in right after her. He sat down, his thigh almost brushing against hers.

The heavy car door slammed shut. The sound was a dull, final thud.

Instantly, the enclosed space filled with his scent. It was an aggressive, custom cedarwood cologne.

The smell hit the back of Charlene's throat.

Her lungs seized.

The scent was a physical blow. It ripped her out of the present and dragged her violently back to the charity gala.

She felt the room spinning. She tasted the bitter champagne on her tongue. The drug kicking in.

She remembered the pitch-black hotel room. The heavy weight of a man's body pressing her down into the mattress. The rough, animalistic sound of his breathing against her neck.

Charlene squeezed her eyes shut. She locked her hands together in her lap. She dug her fingernails so deeply into the back of her hand that the skin broke. She needed the physical pain to stay grounded.

But the memories wouldn't stop.

The dark room faded into the blinding white lights of the delivery room.

She felt the agonizing tearing in her body. She saw the doctor standing over her, shaking his head. His mouth moving, forming the words: Stillborn.

But she had heard it. Deep in her eardrums, she remembered the faint, weak cry of a baby.

Then came the face of Joshuah Rowe, her biological father. Standing over her hospital bed, his face red with rage, screaming insults at her while she bled.

And then, Columbus. Standing next to Joshuah, holding a thick stack of psychiatric evaluation papers. Handing them to the doctor with a cold, detached expression.

A single tear broke free. It slid down her left cheek, hot and humiliating.

She panicked. She raised the back of her trembling hand and scrubbed the tear away, rubbing her skin raw.

Columbus turned his head.

His dark eyes sliced into her. They were completely dead.

"Dry your face," Columbus said. His voice was a low, menacing whisper that sent a fresh wave of terror through her veins. "Keep the Gay family's dignity intact, or I will leave you here."

The Maybach's engine hummed as the driver applied the brakes. The car rolled to a smooth stop right next to the private airstrip.

The driver threw the car into park and jumped out. He pulled open the rear door of the Maybach.

Charlene's joints popped as she forced herself to move. She dragged her body out of the car.

Her feet hit the rough asphalt of the tarmac.

The wind out here was violent. It whipped her long, unbrushed hair across her face, stinging her eyes.

She walked toward the private Gulfstream jet. She climbed the metal stairs of the boarding ramp, her legs feeling like lead with every step.

She stepped inside the luxurious cabin. The air was warm and smelled of expensive leather and polished wood.

She ignored the plush sofas and walked straight to a single, isolated seat by the window. She collapsed into it.

She grabbed the heavy metal buckle of the seatbelt and shoved it into the slot. It clicked.

The engines roared to life. The plane began to taxi down the runway. Within seconds, the nose lifted, and the jet shot into the sky.

The cabin pressure shifted. Her ears popped.

Instantly, a brutal wave of vertigo slammed into the back of her skull. It was the lingering side effect of the Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation therapy they had forced on her.

Her vision blurred. The edges of the cabin warped and twisted.

Acid boiled in her stomach. The nausea rushed up her esophagus like a geyser.

She slammed her hand against the seatbelt release button.

She stumbled out of the chair. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on the edge of the armrest.

She sprinted down the narrow aisle toward the back of the plane.

She threw open the bathroom door, lunged inside, and slammed the lock shut behind her.

She dropped to her knees. The hard floor bruised her kneecaps.

She leaned over the stainless steel toilet and gagged.

Her stomach violently contracted. She threw up nothing but bitter, yellow bile. Her throat burned. She coughed, gasping for air, tears streaming down her face from the physical strain.

When her stomach was finally empty, she grabbed the edge of the sink and pulled herself up.

She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She cupped it in her hands, rinsing the foul taste from her mouth, and splashed it onto her pale face.

She looked up at the mirror.

The woman looking back at her was a ghost. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, dead skin.

She took a deep, rattling breath. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Columbus was standing right outside.

He didn't say a word. He just held out a perfectly folded, pure white square handkerchief.

Charlene stared at the fabric. A surge of pure, unadulterated hatred flared in her chest.

She raised her hand and slapped his arm away.

The handkerchief fluttered to the expensive wool carpet.

Columbus's jaw clenched tight. A muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes darkened with sudden, explosive rage.

His hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her thin wrist like an iron vice.

He squeezed. The bones in her wrist ground together.

"Do not test my patience, Charlene," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "You are walking on very thin ice."

Charlene didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She stared right back into his eyes. Her gaze was completely dead, devoid of any fear or light.

Columbus stared at her dead eyes. Something flickered in his expression. He scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound, and shoved her arm away.

He adjusted his suit cuffs, smoothing the fabric.

"Grandpa's heart condition has worsened," Columbus said, his voice dropping back to that cold, business-like tone. "His only wish is to see you."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Grandpa.

The rigid tension in Charlene's shoulders collapsed. The fight drained out of her body.

She closed her eyes. For the only man in the world who had ever truly loved her, she swallowed her pride. She turned around and walked silently back to her seat.