The Genius Heiress Returns For Vengeance

The surgical blade sliced through her skin.

Blood spilled hot and fast over Annette's freezing fingers. Her muscles seized violently against the heavy iron chains binding her to the chair. The damp air in the basement smelled of rust and copper.

Gayla stood just out of reach. She held up a plastic blood bag, watching the dark red liquid fill the tube. A cold smile stretched across her flawless face.

"You are nothing but a mobile blood bank, Annette," Gayla said.

Annette stared at her. Her eyes burned red. Her chest tightened until her ribs ached, but she could not speak. The blood loss was draining the heat from her core.

Bryton took a step back. He covered his nose with a pristine white handkerchief. He looked at Annette with pure disgust.

"The smell is unbearable," Bryton muttered. "Hurry it up."

Annette looked at the man who was supposed to be her fiancé. Her stomach dropped. A hollow ache spread through her chest, replacing whatever foolish hope she once had.

Gayla leaned in close. Her expensive perfume mixed with the smell of blood.

"Did you know?" Gayla whispered. "Your mother didn't die of a heart attack. My father poisoned her. He watched her choke on her own foam."

Annette's heart slammed against her ribs. The monitor beside her spiked. Extreme fury flooded her veins. She thrashed against the metal chair. The iron chains tore into her wrists, peeling back skin, but the metal did not yield.

Her vision blurred at the edges. The room faded into gray. She swore to herself, feeling the last beat of her heart, that if she ever had another chance, she would tear them all apart.

The heart monitor emitted a long, piercing flatline.

Total darkness swallowed her.

A sharp, grating alarm clock rang out.

Annette gasped. Her eyes snapped open. She sat up so fast her head spun. Cold sweat dripped down her forehead, stinging her eyes.

She grabbed her left wrist. Her fingers rubbed frantically over the skin. It was smooth. There was no cut. No blood. No chains.

She froze. Her lungs pulled in air that smelled of moldy wallpaper and leaking pipes. She looked around. The cramped space, the peeling yellow paint, the tiny window overlooking a dirt lot.

This was the trailer in the Rust Belt. The place she lived when she was seventeen.

She stumbled out of the narrow bed and pushed open the bathroom door. She gripped the edges of the cracked sink and stared into the mirror. The face looking back was young, wild, and completely unscarred.

She turned on the faucet. Ice-cold water splashed over her face. The freezing temperature shocked her skin. It was real. She was back.

She looked at the calendar taped to the wall. It was three days before the Fernandez family would send a car to bring her back to their estate. Three days before her nightmare originally began.

The memory of her mother's murder burned in her throat. Annette pulled back her fist and slammed it into the mirror.

The glass shattered. Spiderweb cracks distorted her reflection. Her dark eyes stared back, completely devoid of warmth.

She spun around and walked to the small closet. She reached behind the bottom panel and pulled out a hidden stack of cash, a fake passport she had stashed away for emergencies, and a small, metal lockbox. Inside the lockbox was a heavy black metal key engraved with a silver iris flower-the key to her mother's safety deposit box. Next to it lay a battered laptop and a compact signal jammer she had built years ago. Her fingers brushed over the equipment. She had prepared for this day.

She stripped off her pajamas and pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. She gathered her long, dark hair and tied it into a tight, high ponytail. She shoved the cash, passport, and the lockbox into a worn canvas backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and walked out of the trailer.

The cold wind hit her face, carrying the smell of industrial exhaust. She locked the door and did not look back.

She walked two blocks to a rusted payphone. She dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed a long, encrypted number.

"Get me the fastest ticket to Manhattan," Annette said, her voice low and steady.

"Yes, Echo," a mechanical voice replied.

She hung up the phone. As she turned around, three men stepped out from the alley. They wore dirty hoodies and smelled of cheap beer.

"Where are you going, little girl?" the tallest one asked. He reached out to grab her shoulder.

Annette's eyes went cold. She did not step back. As his hand touched her jacket, she grabbed his wrist, twisted her hips, and snapped his arm downward.

A loud crack echoed in the street.

The man dropped to his knees, screaming. He clutched his broken arm. The other two men froze, their eyes wide with shock. They backed away, stumbling over their own feet.

Annette stepped over the crying man. She adjusted her ponytail and kept walking toward the Greyhound bus station.

She bought a black coffee from a vending machine and sat in the back row of the waiting area. The bitter liquid burned her tongue, keeping her awake. She needed to plan.

James Fernandez wanted her mother's perfume patent. That was why he brought her back. She had to get to the bank vault before he even knew she was in New York.

The bus arrived. She handed her ticket to the driver and walked to the very back seat. She sat by the window and closed her eyes. The engine rumbled beneath her.

Hours passed. The broken roads of the Rust Belt turned into smooth highways.

When the bus finally pulled into the terminal, the morning sun was reflecting off the glass skyscrapers of Manhattan. The bright light stung her eyes.

Annette grabbed her bag and stepped off the bus. She looked up at the towering buildings. A cold, bloodthirsty smile touched her lips.

Annette walked through the crowded streets of Times Square. She dodged tourists and street vendors, her pace never slowing. She headed straight for the Manhattan Union Bank headquarters.

She pushed through the heavy revolving glass doors. The lobby was quiet, smelling of expensive floor wax and old money.

A bank manager in a tailored suit spotted her immediately. He looked at her worn leather jacket and faded jeans. His nose wrinkled. He walked over, blocking her path to the tellers.

"Excuse me," the manager said, his tone dripping with condescension. "This branch does not service the homeless. You need to leave."

Annette stopped. She looked at him with dead eyes. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy key. It was black metal, engraved with a silver iris flower. She slammed it onto the polished marble counter.

The manager looked down. The color drained from his face. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

"I apologize," he stammered, his hands shaking as he pointed toward the back. "Right this way, Miss. The VIP elevator is ready."

Annette took her key and followed him. The elevator doors closed, shutting out the lobby. The car dropped smoothly down to the fifth underground level.

The doors opened to a massive titanium vault. The metal gleamed under the harsh white lights.

Annette walked up to the retinal scanner. She typed in the complex passcode her mother had forced her to memorize years ago. She leaned into the scanner. A green light swept over her eye.

The heavy metal doors groaned and slowly slid apart.

She walked into the climate-controlled room. She found the safety deposit box under the name Juliet Faulkner. She inserted the black metal key and pulled the long metal drawer out.

Inside lay a yellowed folder and several small, unlabelled glass bottles.

She opened the folder. The chemical formulas and patent documents for the neuro-aromatic perfume were all there. This was the exact formula James Fernandez had killed for.

She folded the documents and shoved them deep into her jacket's inner pocket. She took one of the glass bottles and slipped it into her side pocket. She locked the box and walked out.

By the time she left the bank, the sun had set. The city lights flickered on. She needed to get to Long Island, but it was too far to walk. She headed toward the subway station to catch the train.

As she walked, she turned into a narrow, unlit alleyway to cut across the block. It was a shortcut to the subway entrance, not a route across the river.

Halfway down the alley, the sound of heavy boots echoed off the brick walls.

Four men stepped out from the shadows. They held switchblades that clicked open in the dark.

"Empty your pockets," the leader said. He stared at the bulge in her jacket.

Annette stopped. Her heart rate did not spike. She reached up and pulled her ponytail tighter. A mocking smile touched her lips.

The leader snarled. He lunged forward, thrusting the blade straight toward her stomach.

Annette twisted her torso. The blade sliced through the empty air. She brought her knee up, driving it directly into the side of his joint.

A sickening crunch echoed in the alley. The man screamed and collapsed.

The other three yelled and rushed her at once.

Annette ducked under a wild punch. She grabbed the attacker's extended arm, planted her feet, and threw him over her shoulder. He crashed into a metal dumpster. Garbage spilled out, filling the air with a sour stench.

Before she could turn, the third man wrapped his arm around her neck from behind. He squeezed, cutting off her air.

Annette did not panic. She drove her elbow backward, burying it deep into his ribs. The man gasped and loosened his grip.

She spun around and delivered a brutal roundhouse kick to his jaw. His head snapped back, and he hit the ground, completely unconscious.

The last man stood shaking. He looked at his friends on the ground, then at the girl standing among them.

Annette took one step toward him. "Run," she said.

The man dropped his knife and sprinted out of the alley.

Annette brushed the dirt off her jacket. She turned to leave, but a new sound stopped her.

Heavy, erratic footsteps echoed from the far end of the alley.

A tall figure stumbled into the dim light. The man was massive, his broad shoulders filling the narrow space. He radiated a terrifying, violent energy.

He lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot and wild. He locked onto Annette.

Annette's muscles tightened. Every instinct in her body screamed that this man was a hundred times more dangerous than the thugs she just beat.

The man let out a low growl. He lunged at her like a starving animal.

Annette raised her arms to block. He crashed into her. The sheer force of his body threw her backward. Her spine slammed hard against the brick wall.

The impact knocked the breath from Annette's lungs. Pain shot down her spine. She gritted her teeth and drove her knee up, aiming for his stomach.

Beckham reacted with terrifying speed. He slammed his hand down, blocking her knee, while his other hand shot forward and locked around her throat.

His grip was like iron. Annette choked. She twisted her head to the side and chopped her hand hard against his carotid artery.

Beckham grunted, but he did not let go. He felt no pain. The manic episode had completely shut down his nervous system's warning signals. He pressed her harder against the rough bricks.

They fought in the tight space. Fists hit flesh. Boots scraped against the concrete.

Annette realized quickly that this man had elite military training. He was faster, stronger, and completely out of his mind. If she kept fighting force with force, he would kill her.

She reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers searching for the surgical needles she always carried.

Beckham saw the movement. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed.

The pressure was immense. Annette felt her bones grinding together. She gasped, trying to pull away.

Beckham's grip was immense, his massive frame crushing her against the rough brick wall. The pressure on her side pocket became unbearable. She heard a faint crack as the glass gave way under his raw strength. The bottle shattered.

Clear liquid splashed across her boots and the dirty ground. Instantly, a sharp, unique scent filled the air. It smelled of cold cedar and a rare, bitter herb.

The scent hit Beckham's face.

His bloodshot pupils contracted violently. His hand froze around her throat.

The heavy, ragged breathing slowing down. The rigid muscles in his arms twitched, then slowly began to relax.

Annette felt the pressure ease. She yanked her wrist free and raised her fist, ready to strike his temple.

But Beckham suddenly swayed. All the tension left his massive frame. He fell forward, his full weight crashing onto her shoulder.

Annette stumbled back, struggling to hold him up. She raised her hands to push him off.

Beckham buried his face in her neck. He let out a long, deep sigh. For the first time in three years, the violent storm in his brain stopped. The silence in his head was absolute.

Tires screeched at the end of the alley.

Two black, bulletproof Maybachs slammed to a halt. The doors flew open.

A man in a sharp suit ran into the alley, followed by four massive bodyguards. He held a syringe filled with a heavy sedative.

Walter stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped. He stared at his boss, the ruthless CEO of the Morris family, resting peacefully against the shoulder of a girl in a dirty leather jacket.

Annette glared at the men. She shoved Beckham hard toward Walter.

The moment Beckham was pushed away from her, he lost the center of the scent. His face contorted in pain.

His eyes snapped open. The madness was gone, but a cold, obsessive darkness remained. He reached out and grabbed Annette's wrist again.

"Let go of me," Annette said. Her voice was ice.

Beckham's voice was hoarse, rough from screaming earlier. He did not look at her. He looked at Walter.

"Put her in the car," Beckham ordered.

Walter blinked, then waved his hand. The four bodyguards instantly surrounded Annette. They blocked every exit.

Annette looked at the men. She looked at the guns bulging under their jackets. She knew she could not fight four armed professionals in an enclosed space.

She let out a cold laugh and stopped resisting.

The bodyguards escorted her to the Maybach. She climbed into the back seat. Beckham slid in beside her. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The air inside the car was still. The scent of the spilled perfume on Annette's boots quickly filled the small space.

Beckham leaned his head back against the leather headrest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The tight lines around his mouth vanished.

He slowly opened his eyes and turned his head. He stared at Annette, his gaze heavy and calculating, like a predator studying its prey.