The Rejected Jinx Is A Billionaire Heiress

Chloe POV:

"Get out, Chloe. The Tucker family is done keeping a jinx like you."

Brenda Tucker's voice was loud and sharp, cutting through the cold room like broken glass. "Eighteen years of charity! We fed you, we clothed you, and the second you finish college, your father loses millions in business?! You're nothing but a curse on this family!"

I stood in the center of the Tucker family's huge, expensive living room.

At my feet sat two cheap duffel bags, packed with the few clothes I owned.

Brenda stood in front of me with her arms crossed, covered in shiny diamonds. She looked at me like I was a piece of trash she couldn't wait to throw into the street.

I didn't say a word. My chest felt cold and empty.

Robert Tucker was losing money because he was an idiot who gambled on bad business deals. But in this house, nobody ever blamed themselves. It was always easier to blame the adopted orphan girl.

From behind Brenda's back, Jessica stepped out.

She was holding a dark blue leather folder in her manicured hands.

My heart twisted with anger the second I saw that folder.

That was my research. I had spent three months staying up all night, using everything my old mentor taught me to write that proposal: Advanced Neural Therapy for Sports Injuries. It was my dream project to help athletes recover from broken spines and damaged nerves.

On the cover, my name was gone.

In its place, stamped in gold letters, was: Jessica Tucker.

Jessica smiled at me, her eyes full of evil, mocking joy.

"Thank you so much for the folder, Chloe," Jessica said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "The manager of the New York Monarchs hockey team loved it. He promised to introduce me to Beckett Sinclair tonight because of it!"

Jessica flipped her blonde hair, looking down at me like a queen looking at a bug.

"Face it, Chloe-your research was completely wasted rotting in a drawer. A girl from an orphanage could never get within ten miles of Beckett Sinclair anyway. But in my hands? Tonight, it's going to make me his bride. You should be honored that your little paper was finally useful."

Brenda sneered, patting Jessica's shoulder with sickening affection.

"Don't waste your breath on her, Jessica," Brenda said, looking at me with pure disgust. "A man like Beckett was born for a true lady with your pedigree. A charity case like Chloe should be grateful her dirty name isn't on that folder-it would only embarrass the Sinclair family."

Then, Brenda pointed at my coat pocket. "Give me your purse."

I frowned, holding my jacket tight. "Why?"

Brenda didn't wait. She lunged forward, ripped my purse open, and snatched my little debit card out of my wallet.

As the purse fell to the floor, my phone screen lit up.

There were two missed calls from an unlisted number, and an automated email notification from the State Medical Licensing Board: [URGENT: Biological DNA Registry Match Confirmed - Representative Dispatched].

I had seen the notification earlier that afternoon, but with Robert screaming about his company and Brenda threatening me, I had assumed it was just a system error or spam.

"Hey! That's my card!" I shouted, reaching for my money.

"Yours?!" Brenda sneered, slapping my hand away with a cruel laugh. "You saved ten thousand dollars working night shifts at that diner while living under my roof! You ate our food! You used our electricity! Every single penny you made belongs to the Tuckers! Consider this your rent for the last four years!"

She slid my card right into her designer bag, not leaving me a single dollar to buy a bus ticket.

They stole my life's work.

They stole every dollar I had earned with my own sweat.

Robert Tucker stepped out of his study, his tie messy, his hands shaking as he checked his luxury watch. He looked weak, nervous, and refused to meet my eyes.

"Just let her go, Brenda," Robert muttered to the floor, his voice tense with stress. "Stop wasting time screaming. The styling team is waiting upstairs. Jessica still needs to get ready for the gala."

Not a single person in this house had a heart.

I took a deep breath, fighting back the rage in my chest. I bent down to pull the zipper on my bag.

As I pulled the zipper, my faded, patched cloth bear fell out of the pocket. It rolled across the floor and bumped against Jessica's silver high heels.

It was the only toy I had when I was left at the orphanage as a baby.

Jessica looked down. An ugly sneer twisted her face.

"Ew! What is that disgusting piece of junk?!"

Before I could reach for it, Jessica lifted her silver heel and stomped down hard right onto the bear's face.

She twisted her shoe, grinding the worn cloth into the dirty floorboards.

Crack.

"Oops," Jessica giggled with pure cruelty. "Trash belongs under my feet, just like you, Chloe."

A dark, dangerous fire exploded in my blood.

I stepped forward. The look in my eyes was so cold, so full of murder, that Jessica's smile froze. She took a step back in fear.

I knelt down and pushed her foot away.

I picked up the dirty cloth bear. My fingers pressed into its belly, feeling the hard metal inside.

The antique silver case was safe.

My mentor's six silver needles and secret medical notes were untouched.

I stood up straight, wiped the dirt off the bear with my sleeve, and slid the silver case deep into my coat pocket against my ribs.

Brenda pointed at the front door. "Now get out! If you ever tell anyone you know the Tuckers, we will call the police and tell them you stole from us!"

I looked at Brenda, then I looked dead into Jessica's eyes.

I didn't cry.

I didn't yell.

I let a cold, sharp smile spread across my lips. A smile that made both of them shiver.

"Keep the money, Brenda," my voice rang out, colder than ice. "Keep my research paper, Jessica. But remember this: everything you stole from me will turn into poison in your hands."

I grabbed my two heavy duffel bags.

"Have fun at the Sinclair Gala tonight, Jessica," I whispered softly. "I truly hope Beckett Sinclair gives you exactly what you deserve."

I turned on my heel, pushed through the heavy front doors, and walked out into the night.

I didn't look back.

Chloe POV:

The heavy front door had barely shut behind me when the sound of frantic, uneven footsteps slapped against the wet asphalt of the driveway.

"Chloe! Wait! Stop!"

I paused under the cold amber wash of the streetlamp, my hands resting on the handles of my duffel bags. I slowly turned.

Robert Tucker was jogging toward me, clutching his chest, his face pale and slick with sweat. For a fleeting, pathetic second, an echo of the little girl who once craved a father's approval wondered if he was coming to apologize.

He stopped two feet away, wheezing. "Chloe... the Sinclairs. You still have a way to contact Arthur Sinclair Sr., don't you?"

The last ember of hope in my chest turned to cold ash. Of course. It was never about me. It was only about his sinking ship.

"No," I said, my voice cutting through the damp night air like steel. "I don't."

Robert lunged forward, his eyes bloodshot with desperation. "Don't lie to me! Five years ago, at that charity gala, old man Sinclair personally spoke to you! He praised your composure! If you just call his private office, put in one good word for Tucker Logistics-"

"Five years ago, you made me wear a maid's uniform and serve champagne while Jessica played princess in the VIP lounge," I interrupted, my gaze pinning him to the spot. "I was seventeen. I spoke three polite sentences to an elderly man while refilling his water glass. I have no connection to the Sinclairs, Robert. And even if I did, why aren't you asking your precious jewel, Jessica? Isn't she the one destined to marry Beckett Sinclair tonight?"

Robert flinched, the color draining entirely from his cheeks.

Before he could speak, the shrill click of designer heels echoed down the stone steps. Brenda came marching down the driveway, clutching her fur wrap, her face twisted in rage.

"Robert! Have you lost your mind?" she shrieked, grabbing his sleeve. "Why are you begging this jinx? Stop embarrassing yourself in the street! With Jessica at the gala tonight, Beckett Sinclair will have our family backed by billions by sunrise!"

Right on cue, the sharp, harsh vibration of Robert's phone tore through the tension.

Robert reached into his pocket with a trembling hand, pressing the device to his ear. "Hello? Mr. Davis... yes, the collateral is-"

His jaw fell open. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.

"Davis? No, no, you can't liquidate us! Forty million by midnight?! Davis, please, give me until tomorrow-Davis! Don't hang up!"

The dead dial tone was loud enough for all of us to hear.

Robert's knees buckled. He looked like a corpse that had just been dragged out of a river. The house of cards was falling, not next week, not tomorrow, but tonight.

Brenda stared at him, her eyes wide with mounting hysteria. Then, like a rabid animal backed into a corner, she whipped her head toward me, pointing a manicured, shaking finger.

"It's her!" Brenda screamed, her voice bordering on madness. "The second she stepped out that door, the liquidation came! She brought this curse upon our house! You little devil-"

Brenda lunged at me, her hand raised to strike across my cheek.

I didn't cower. I didn't even flinch. As her hand came down, I simply stepped half an inch to the left.

Brenda swung at empty air. Her spiked heel caught in the gravel, and with an ungraceful, bone-jarring shriek, she crashed sideways into the manicured rhododendron bushes, her pearls snapping and scattering across the driveway like hail.

"Mom!" Jessica's panicked voice drifted from the front porch.

Robert dropped to his knees to pull Brenda out of the dirt, both of them screaming curses at the night sky.

I didn't waste another breath on them. I picked up my bags, turned on my heel, and walked briskly down the tree-lined street toward the public intersection.

The quiet suburban night swallowed their vulgar shouting.

My phone vibrated sharply in the palm of my hand.

I pulled it out. It was a text message from the same unlisted number that had called me earlier today:

Miss Chloe, your biological parents have searched for you for twenty-two years. We confirmed the DNA match from your medical licensing file this afternoon. I am holding your St. Jude infant intake record #0824. My name is Walter. I am waiting at the corner of the boulevard to bring you home. Please come to the north curb.

My breath caught in my throat.

St. Jude infant intake record #0824.

That was a private number only written on the yellowed card inside my baby blanket. No scammer could possibly know that number.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs.

Could it really be true? Did I actually have parents out there who were looking for me?

I squeezed my phone tightly, picked up my bags, and hurried toward the intersection as the evening mist gathered under the streetlamps.

When I reached the corner, a vehicle was parked beneath a flickering light.

It was an ancient, faded Ford pickup truck with rust creeping along the fenders and a cracked side mirror held together by black tape.

Leaning against the hood was an older man with silver hair and a deeply lined, tranquil face, wearing a plain, faded wool jacket.

When his eyes met mine, a look of profound, emotional warmth crossed his weathered face, and he slowly stood up straight.

Chloe POV:

"Miss Chloe?" the silver-haired man asked as I stopped in front of the truck. His voice was deep, steady, and filled with quiet, profound respect. "My name is Walter. Your parents sent me to bring you home."

"Home..." The word felt foreign on my tongue, my throat tightening with raw emotion.

Before I could say another word, the furious, uneven clatter of designer heels slammed onto the pavement behind me.

"Chloe! Stop right there, you little-"

Brenda's screeching voice suddenly cut off.

She and Jessica had sprinted all the way down the avenue, both of them gasping for breath, dirt and leaves still stuck in Brenda's ruined hair.

They had clearly run after me to shout more curses. But the second their eyes landed on the rusted Ford pickup and the plain old man in the faded jacket, the fury on their faces instantly transformed into pure, ugly amusement.

Brenda threw her head back and let out a loud, piercing laugh that echoed down the quiet suburban street.

"Oh, my God! Look at that piece of junk!" Brenda shrieked with glee, clapping her hands.

Jessica covered her mouth, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at the peeling paint on the truck's hood, tears of laughter welling in her eyes.

"Sister, is this your real family?" Jessica giggled, her voice full of pure mockery. "Did they pull this car straight out of a junkyard? It looks like it belongs in a landfill!"

"Look at it!" Brenda cackled, turning toward the dark street as if putting on a show for the neighbors. "A girl raised in the Tucker house for eighteen years, leaving in a scrap-metal truck! Chloe, you were born from trash, and you're going right back to the gutter where you belong!"

I didn't let their poison touch me. I looked at Walter.

Walter didn't even turn his head toward Brenda or Jessica. He treated them like invisible dirt on the road.

Instead, he looked at me, gently took the heavy duffel bags from my hands, and lifted them into the back of the truck with smooth, effortless strength.

"Please get inside, Miss Chloe," Walter said softly, his voice completely calm. "The night air is cold, and your family has waited a very long time."

"Make sure you get a tetanus shot before you sit down!" Brenda yelled from the sidewalk, her voice shrill and hideous. "Don't ever come crying back to our door when you're starving on the street!"

I pulled the passenger door open. It gave a loud, metallic creak.

I stepped inside, slammed the heavy door shut, and locked it.

Walter climbed into the driver's seat. He turned the key, shifted into gear, and stepped on the gas.

The old engine roared, and the truck pulled away from the curb.

In the cracked side mirror, I watched Brenda and Jessica standing under the streetlight, pointing, clapping, and laughing like hyenas until they vanished into the darkness behind us.

They truly believed I was being dragged into poverty.

We drove in silence for five minutes, leaving the quiet suburbs and crossing into a high-end commercial district in the city.

Walter turned the truck down a private ramp, stopping in front of the reinforced metal gates of a private underground parking facility.

A security scanner flashed green over the windshield, and the heavy metal gates rolled open without a sound.

Inside, the private garage was spotless, bright, and lined with luxury supercars.

Right in the center, parked under a bright spotlight, sat a brand-new, midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom. Its polished surface gleamed like black glass, and the custom platinum crest on its hood radiated pure, untouchable wealth.

Walter turned off the truck's engine. "We are switching cars, Miss Chloe."

I looked around the private vault, my heart pounding in confusion. "Why the old truck, Walter?"

Walter smiled gently, turning around to face me. "Your biological family is one of the most powerful dynasties in the country. There are paparazzi, corporate spies, and media vultures watching their every move. We used the old truck as a decoy so no one would track us when we brought you home."

Walter stepped out, moved my duffel bags into the carpeted trunk of the Rolls-Royce, and opened the heavy rear door of the limousine for me.

I slid into the butter-soft leather seat. The door closed with a heavy, soundproof thud, completely sealing me off from the outside world.

"Walter," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Who are my parents?"

Walter looked back at me through the rearview mirror. His eyes were dead serious, filled with immense pride and respect.

"Your father is Charles Kensington. Your mother is Eleanor Kensington. They run the Kensington Industrial Syndicate, and your father is the owner of the New York Monarchs hockey franchise."

The air completely left my lungs.

Charles Kensington.

The billionaire titan whose name was carved into skyscrapers and sports arenas across the country. Robert Tucker had spent five desperate years just trying to get a ten-minute meeting with his sponsorship team.

"Then... why was I in an orphanage?" I whispered, my fingers clutching the soft leather. "Did they... give me away?"

"Never think that, Miss Chloe," Walter said fiercely, a rare edge of protective anger cutting through his calm voice. "Twenty-two years ago, a corrupt nurse was bribed to steal you from the hospital nursery. But when federal investigators closed in within hours, the criminal panicked, crossed state lines, and dumped you on the steps of St. Jude's Orphanage under a false name."

Walter met my gaze in the mirror, his eyes softening with deep emotion.

"Your parents searched for you for twenty-two years, Miss Chloe. They spent hundreds of millions of dollars. They never gave up. Yesterday, our security team finally matched your DNA from your physical therapy licensing records. You are finally going home."

A hot, stinging tear broke free and rolled down my cheek.

I was never an unwanted jinx.

I was never a discarded orphan.

I was a daughter who had been loved, mourned, and fought for every single day of my life.

I wiped the tear from my cheek and looked up at the mirror, a new, unbreakable strength rising in my chest.

"Take me to them, Walter."

Walter bowed his head with a proud smile. "Right away, Miss Kensington."