The Fake Heiress Cancels Her Engagement

The harsh scent of rubbing alcohol burned the back of her throat.

Diana dragged her eyelids open. The harsh, sterile fluorescent lights above sent a violent stab of pain directly behind her eyes. Her vision swam. The room tilted.

A sharp, rhythmic throbbing hammered against the base of her skull. She sucked in a harsh breath, her lungs fighting against the sudden influx of cold air.

Beep.

The steady, mechanical sound of an intravenous drip pump echoed in the quiet room.

Diana forced her stiff neck to turn. The crisp Egyptian cotton sheets rustled against her skin. Her gaze swept past the silver medical trays and locked onto a leather medical chair less than three feet away.

A boy sat there.

He was painfully thin. His pale skin looked almost translucent under the harsh lights. Thick leather straps bound his wrists and ankles to the heavy chair.

A thick, large-gauge needle pierced the fragile skin of his inner elbow, buried deep into his vein.

Dark red blood pulsed through a clear plastic tube. It flowed rapidly, pooling into a sterile collection bag hanging below the armrest.

A man in a pristine white lab coat stood over him. Dr. Evans. He adjusted the flow valve with practiced, clinical precision, completely ignoring the human being attached to the machine.

The boy, Jorden, didn't flinch. His dark eyes were entirely hollow, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. His jaw was locked tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his ear, but he offered no other reaction to the needle invading his body.

Then, the memories hit her.

It wasn't a gentle realization. It was a physical blow to the head. Seventeen years of someone else's life crashed into her brain. The extravagant parties. The cruelty. The name of the book: The Rules of Fifth Avenue Socialites.

Her stomach violently heaved. Acid burned the back of her throat.

She was the fake heiress. The villain. The one who ended up dead in the gutter.

Her heart rate skyrocketed. The ECG monitor beside her bed immediately picked up the panic, emitting a rapid, piercing alarm that shattered the sterile silence.

Dr. Evans paused. He turned his head, his hands leaving the blood valve.

He looked at Diana and offered a polished, sickeningly professional smile.

"The biological asset is ready, Miss McConnell. Your exclusive blood supply is prepped for transfusion whenever you feel weak."

Diana stared at the blood bag. It was warm. It was full of a teenage boy's life.

A wave of intense, physiological nausea hit her so hard she gagged.

She didn't think. She just moved.

Diana ripped the cashmere blanket off her body. She ignored the IV needle taped to the back of her own hand and yanked it out. A hot trickle of her own blood ran down her knuckles.

Her bare feet hit the freezing Italian marble floor.

The cold shot up her legs. Her knees buckled under the sudden weight, her muscles trembling from the concussion and weakness. She stumbled forward, her shoulder slamming hard into the edge of a metal tray.

"Miss McConnell!" Dr. Evans gasped, dropping his clipboard. He rushed forward, reaching out to support her arms.

Diana shoved his hands away. Her palms slammed against his chest, pushing him back with every ounce of strength she had left.

She lunged toward the apheresis machine.

Her trembling fingers found the large, red emergency stop button on the control panel. She slammed her palm down on it.

The machine let out a long, high-pitched whine. The internal pumps ground to a halt. The dark blood in the clear tube stopped moving.

Dr. Evans stared at her, his eyes wide with shock.

"Miss McConnell, what are you doing? Why did you interrupt the procedure?"

Diana gripped the edge of the machine to keep herself standing. Her chest heaved. She dug her fingernails into her palms until the pain grounded her.

"Pull the needle out." Her voice was hoarse, raw, but laced with absolute authority.

Dr. Evans blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"

"Pull the damn needle out of his arm, Evans. Now."

For the first time since she woke up, the boy in the chair moved.

Jorden slowly lowered his head. The deadness in his eyes seemed to ripple with a faint trace of confusion, a subtle fracture in his hollow mask, as if he couldn't comprehend why the person who constantly tormented him was suddenly protecting him.

Before anyone could speak, the sharp, rapid clicking of high heels echoed from the marble hallway outside.

The sound was fast. Angry. Approaching the door.

The frosted glass door of the medical room was shoved open with violent force.

Eleanor McConnell stormed in. Her immaculate, custom-tailored Chanel suit didn't have a single wrinkle, but her face was tight with panic.

Her eyes immediately found Diana standing barefoot on the cold marble.

"Diana!" Eleanor gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her chest.

She crossed the room in three quick strides, the heels of her Louboutins clicking sharply. She grabbed Diana's arms, her grip tight and frantic, trying to pull her away from the machines and back toward the bed.

"What are you doing out of bed? You have a concussion! That's reckless."

Dr. Evans immediately stepped forward, his posture rigid.

"Mrs. McConnell, the young miss seems to be suffering from post-traumatic confusion. She forcefully terminated the blood extraction protocol."

Eleanor stopped pulling. She turned her head slowly. Her perfectly arched eyebrows drew together in a sharp, dangerous line. She glared at the doctor.

Then, her gaze shifted to Jorden still strapped to the chair.

The look on Eleanor's face wasn't just anger. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. She looked at the boy the way one might look at a rat in a Michelin-star kitchen.

"If he is upsetting my daughter, remove him," Eleanor ordered, her voice like cracking ice. "Take this useless thing back to the basement. Now."

Two massive security guards in dark suits immediately pushed their way through the open doorway.

They didn't hesitate. They marched straight to the medical chair. One of them roughly unbuckled the thick leather straps binding Jorden's wrists.

The sudden release of pressure left a raw, angry red welt across the boy's pale skin. Jorden didn't make a sound. His jaw remained locked tight.

The guards grabbed Jorden by the upper arms. They hauled him up from the chair like a sack of dead weight. Jorden's legs, weak from the blood loss, dragged against the floor.

Diana's brain spun.

The novel. The basement. If they locked Jorden in that dark, freezing room now, his hatred would solidify. He would become the monster that eventually tore this family apart and left her bleeding out in an alley.

She couldn't let them take him.

Diana reached out. Her hand clamped down hard on Eleanor's wrist, right over the cold metal of her Cartier diamond watch.

"Mom."

Diana forced her voice to tremble. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, letting the sharp pain force hot tears into her eyes.

"Mom, please. Don't put him in the basement."

Eleanor froze. She stared down at her adopted daughter, completely stunned. Diana was always the one demanding harsher punishments for the servants.

Diana let out a broken, ragged breath. She made her knees buckle slightly, forcing Eleanor to support her weight.

"The blood..." Diana whimpered, her fingers digging into Eleanor's expensive sleeve. "There was so much blood in the tube. I woke up and it was right there. It made me so dizzy. Dr. Evans wouldn't stop when I asked him to. He scared me."

She pointed a trembling finger at the doctor.

Dr. Evans's face drained of color. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"Mrs. McConnell, I assure you, it was standard procedure-"

Eleanor didn't let him finish. She spun on the doctor, her maternal panic instantly morphing into vicious rage.

"You terrified her!" Eleanor screamed, her voice echoing off the tile walls. "She just fell down a flight of stairs, and you subject her to a slaughterhouse display? Are you completely incompetent?"

Dr. Evans took a step back, raising his hands in defense. "Ma'am, the medical proxy states-"

"I don't care what the proxy states!" Eleanor snapped, smoothing the edge of her Chanel jacket with shaking hands.

Diana didn't give the doctor a chance to recover. She looked at Jorden, who was still suspended between the two massive guards.

"Let him go to the guest room on the south wing," Diana whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I don't want to see anyone else get hurt today. Please, Mom. It will just give me nightmares."

The guards stopped moving. They looked at Eleanor, waiting for the final command.

Eleanor frowned. The south wing guest rooms were for actual humans, not biological assets. But she looked down at Diana's pale, tear-stained face and the bandage on her head.

Eleanor sighed, waving her hand dismissively at the guards. "Fine. Put him in the guest room. Just get him out of her sight."

The guards immediately let go.

Without their support, Jorden collapsed. His shoulder slammed hard against the metal doorframe with a sickening thud.

He slumped to the floor. His head bowed, his dark hair falling over his eyes.

But in that split second before he looked down, he quickly ducked his head, hiding his face behind his dark, unruly bangs and completely shielding whatever emotions flickered in his eyes.

When he slowly raised his head again, any hint of reaction was completely buried. He looked at Diana with the familiar, pathetic, trembling gaze of a broken victim, offering nothing but hollow submission.

Before Diana could process the shift, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway.

The head butler appeared in the doorway, his usual composed face slick with sweat.

"Madam," the butler gasped, out of breath. "The police are downstairs in the lobby. And they brought agents from Child Protective Services."

Two NYPD detectives and a woman wearing a CPS badge stepped onto the thick Persian rug of the living room.

Eleanor stood in the center of the room. She had already adjusted her posture, slipping into the impenetrable, arrogant armor of a New York socialite.

"I don't care who called you," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with condescension. "You do not enter my home without my legal counsel present. My husband's lawyers are already on their way."

The lead detective, a heavy-set man in a cheap suit, didn't flinch.

"Mrs. McConnell, we received an anonymous tip regarding the intentional assault of a minor on these premises. We don't need your lawyers to ask a few preliminary questions."

The butler walked into the room, leading a girl behind him.

Harriet.

She wore an oversized, faded gray hoodie and cheap denim jeans. She stood near the edge of the room, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. Her face was completely blank. She looked at the police, then at Eleanor, with the detached boredom of someone watching a bad play.

A man stepped out from the shadows of the hallway corridor. Alistair Finch. He wore a tailored suit and gold-rimmed glasses, looking every bit the high-end private physician.

Alistair pushed his glasses up his nose and looked directly at the detectives.

"Officers," Alistair said smoothly. "As the family's attending physician, I can confirm Miss Diana suffered a severe concussion from a fall. And she..." He pointed a manicured finger at Harriet. "...was the only one standing at the top of the stairs with her."

Eleanor's head snapped toward Harriet. Her eyes widened with pure, unfiltered hatred.

"You," Eleanor hissed, taking a step toward her biological daughter. "You dragged your filthy, barbaric habits straight from that Ohio trailer park into my home. You tried to kill my daughter!"

The detective pulled out a small notepad and clicked his pen. He turned to Harriet.

"Miss, we need you to answer some questions about the incident."

Harriet didn't defend herself. She didn't even look at the detective. Her dark, penetrating eyes simply shifted, glancing up toward the second-floor staircase landing.

Diana stood there.

She gripped the polished mahogany railing. She wore a white silk robe, the white gauze bandage stark against her forehead.

The entire room went dead silent. Every eye turned to her.

Alistair immediately walked toward the base of the stairs, holding out a hand.

"Miss Diana, please, you shouldn't be out of bed. Tell the officers what happened. Tell them how she pushed you."

Diana ignored his hand. She walked down the remaining steps, her bare feet making no sound on the wood. She walked straight past Alistair and stopped right in front of the two detectives.

She took a deep breath. She dug her nails into her palms.

"There was no assault," Diana said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the tension in the room.

The air in the living room froze.

"Diana, what are you saying?" Eleanor gasped, rushing forward to grab her arm. "Don't be afraid of her! Tell them the truth!"

Diana turned to Eleanor. She let her shoulders drop, softening her expression into one of deep guilt.

"Mom, I can't lie to the police," Diana said softly. She looked back at the detectives. "I was wearing new heels. I misjudged the distance and slipped on the marble edge. It was entirely my fault."

Alistair's face tightened. The smooth, confident mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a flash of intense irritation. His trap was perfectly set, and the victim had just dismantled it herself.

Diana continued, her voice steady. "Harriet was at least five feet away from me. She didn't touch me. She couldn't have."

Harriet finally moved. She tilted her head slightly. For the first time, a flicker of genuine curiosity broke through the cold indifference in her eyes as she stared at Diana.

The detective stopped writing. He looked at Diana, then at Harriet, and finally snapped his notepad shut.

"Well," the detective grumbled. "If the victim states it was an accident, there's no crime here."

The CPS worker stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "What about the boy? The tip mentioned a minor being subjected to unauthorized medical procedures."

Diana didn't miss a beat. She looked at the butler. "Show them the medical proxy."

The butler quickly retrieved a thick leather binder from the side table and handed it to the CPS worker.

"As you can see right there in the highlighted clauses," the butler stated smoothly, picking up the slack as Diana leaned back against the banister, feigning exhaustion. "Jorden Watson is under a legally binding medical guardianship. All procedures are meticulously overseen by licensed professionals. Furthermore, per page four, his independent trust fund receives a monthly compensation of twenty thousand dollars for his... donations. It is an entirely legal, mutually beneficial arrangement."

The CPS worker scanned the documents. Her lips thinned in disgust, but she handed the binder back. In New York, money and ironclad contracts beat morality every time.

"We're done here," the detective muttered.

The moment the heavy front doors clicked shut behind the police, Eleanor exploded.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Eleanor screamed, grabbing Diana by the shoulders. "Why did you protect that little savage? We could have sent her to juvenile detention!"

Diana didn't answer Eleanor.

She gently pulled out of her mother's grip. She turned around and faced Harriet.

The two girls looked at each other across the expanse of the Persian rug.

"I'm sorry," Diana said quietly.