ทะลุมิติมาเป็น หญิงบ้า ณ ทุ่งแดง

Chapter 1 – The Return

“Mommy, are we there yet?” Zariah Fontanelle smoothed a stray curl from her son’s forehead. Michael's brown eyes blinked up at her.

“Almost, baby. Just a few more minutes,” she whispered, and smiled as if the past six years she had spent out of NewYork hadn’t been built on guilt and fire.

The plane stopped, and everyone busied themselves with their bags in the overhead bins. Zariah rose, her six-inch heels biting into her feet as she and Michael left the airplane. The silk of her gown clung to her olive-toned skin, her long dark hair falling in glossy waves that framed a face no one at Ridgewood High would have recognized.

Once upon a time, she had been the plain girl with cheap glasses and secondhand clothes. The girl who smelled like diner grease from her shifts after school. The ugly girl.

Not anymore.

Zariah stepped into JFK and smiled as Michael darted ahead. They had flown first class, and the departures ahead were free of people. She helped Michael into a waiting SUV and went in after him. As they drove out to the busier parts of the airport. 

Some people saw her, and then raised their phones for a picture, and she smiled at them, and wound up her window. Thankfully, Michael was asleep on her lap, and they couldn’t see him.

Zariah's laughter turned into a snort. “Yes, baby. Much bigger.”

He leaned against her side as if the world made sense just because she was there. At six, Michael was her greatest creation; he was her pride, her joy, her reason. And her secret.

The condo door swung open, spilling warm light onto cool floors. Michael bolted down the hall shouting, “Home! This is home!”

Zariah slipped off her heels and flexed her sore toes, walking to the glass wall that framed the Manhattan skyline. She hated how much she’d missed this city. But she wasn’t here just for fashion week, or for the launch of her new line. She was also here for revenge. And what better time than now?

Her phone buzzed and she fished it out of her bag, shaking her head when she saw the caller ID was her P.A.’s.

“How was your flight? The invitation to the Blackwell charity dinner is on your table in your hotel room. Your name made it to the invitation list.”

Iris smiled into the phone as she wandered over to the table and picked up the burgundy invitation, and flipped it open. “Thank you, Lucy. Take care of the other fashion designs that we need to send to LaRogue in France next week.” She paused. “And send me something to wear for this evening’s ball.” She ended the call, running a finger over the name on the invitation.

Leonard Blackwell.

*****

Iris remembered six years ago like it were yesterday. It was their graduation from college party, and she’d been cajoled to go by her roommates.

She was twenty-one again, standing in a crowded hall in her cheap satin dress. It clung too tightly, but she’d told herself she looked fine. She’d been sketching on the back of a napkin, hiding from the party, when he found her.

Leonard Blackwell. The tall, arrogant golden boy. 

“What’s this?” he asked, plucking the sketch from her fingers. “Drawing prom dresses no one will wear?”

Her cheeks burned, and she pushed her round glasses up her nose, and she smiled at him with her scattered teeth. “It’s just a design.”

He should have probably walked away or muttered something incoherent about how unattractive she was when she smiled, showing her scattered teeth. But Leonard didn’t. Instead, he rubbed the back of his head and said to her. “I think it’s a cool design.’ And then he asked her to dance with him.

That night had been like fireworks to her, but she should have known that it was just another mistake for him. They’d had sex that night, and Iris fell for him. How could she not?

But then, the morning after, she had heard him calling her ugly to his friends and that she was a one-night stand. He’d disgraced and humiliated her. The memory ripped through her like glass.

Zariah’s eyes snapped open. She stood in her sleek condo, not in that crowded hall. She wasn’t that girl anymore.

Michael came running back, clutching a toy car. “Mommy, can we eat pizza tonight?”

Her lips softened. She kissed his head. “Of course, baby. The biggest one.”

He cheered, racing down the hall, blissfully unaware of the man whose blood ran in his veins.

He didn't know she was back for revenge and he didn’t know that she had a son for him. She pressed the invitation flat on the glass desk, her reflection staring back at her.

“This time, Leonard,” she whispered, “you won’t laugh.”

Behind her, Michael’s voice rang out, “Mommy?”

But she didn’t move. Her eyes stayed locked on Leonard Blackwell’s name, her heart pounding toward the night she had both dreaded and craved for six long years.