All Chapters of HEIRESS REBORN: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

POV: ALINA / KAIAIt starts with a knock. Not on my door, but on my mind. The kind that isn’t real at first. Just a pulse. A feeling. Like something has shifted.I am in my home office with the lights of and the blinds half-drawn, the glow of my laptop screen cutting across the dark like a scalpel. I haven’t slept in thirty hours. I haven’t blinked in five. I’m still rereading Margot’s message."He moved on Ruth."Ruth.Her sister Her family.I read it again. Out loud this time. But my voice sounds foreign. Fragile.The words blur, not from tears. From the pressure behind my eyes. Something in my chest twists and locks.Theo is across the room, arms crossed, quiet. He has been watching me. Not like a friend. Like a soldier waiting for the order to strike.I speak first."Tell me everything."He steps forward, but slowly. Like he knows I might shatter if he rushes it."It was quiet. Calculated. Rourke’s signature, mostly digital. They tripped one of our buried security protocols, an

POV: DAMIENDaylight strips the night clean, but it doesn’t erase what happened. It just forces everything into sharp relief. By seven a.m., I have already sent three messages to the clinic’s legal counsel, flagged the patient files tied to Margot’s sister, and ordered a quiet audit of any data access logs for the past forty-eight hours. Nothing’s popped yet. But I know how people like Nathaniel move.They don't just knock on your door. They slither under it.I’m not just a surgeon. People like to think that’s all I am — clean hands, steady cuts, god complex and guilt buried under white coats and sterile light. But they forget something.I used to run Voss Medical Security, back when my father was still alive. Four private clinics. Three in the U.S., one in Zurich. Elite medicine, off-grid records, and clients who didn’t want to be seen — politicians with relapses, CEOs with breakdowns, survivors in hiding. I learned how to scrub identities the same way I scrubbed blood from my glove

POV: SASHA • First-person, present tenseI don’t scream when I see it. That would give it power.Instead, I squat down, pick up the black envelope from the floor like it’s just mail, and carry it into the kitchen. No return address. No markings. Just my name scribbled in heavy black ink.The envelope is matte black. No markings. No handwriting. Just a clean slice of silence left under my door.My first instinct is to kick it across the room. Pretend I didn’t see it. But I don’t. I kneel. I pick it up.Inside, a flash drive. No label. No explanation. My chest tightens. The second I plug it into my laptop, I already know I’ll regret it.But I do it anyway.The video loads in seconds. It’s grainy, handheld. Surveillance-style. The timestamp reads three days ago. It’s me, leaving the private lounge at Mercer, heels clicking, phone to my ear. Behind me, about a car length back, is Rourke. Subtle. Calculated.My stomach turns.The footage keeps rolling. A different day. A different dress. I

SASHAHe thinks he has won.The absolute beast.I am still in his bed when the sun is halfway up.The sheets are tangled around my legs and my clothes are still on the floor from last night. His scent in my skin like a brand I can’t scrub off. My body aches in all the wrong ways. Not from passion. From pretending.From arching in fake passion, panting in anger disguised as pleasure.This was worse than sleeping with JaredNathaniel hums beside me, like he has had the best sleep of his life. Like he didn’t sic a man on me. Like he’s not a monster I just swore myself to again.“So?” He asks as he turns to look at me. “Have you thought about what I asked?”“Hmm,” I say, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Yes. I agree to your request. I will move back in,” I say. Voice low. Soft. Sweet.“Perfect!” He exclaims and I turn to see he has lit up like a boy handed a loaded gun. Because now he thinks I am his again. He thinks I will let him own me. Again.After he siked his dog, rourke on me. Oh, he

POV: ELENA CROSSAm used to silence rooms when I walked into them. Now, they whisper before I even enter.I can feel it in the way the assistant at the elevator won’t meet my eyes. The hesitation in her fingers as she pushes the button for the top floor, like my presence might stain her. I don’t need her pity. Or her judgment. But the weight of it scratches beneath my skin like a rash I can’t stop picking at.The Cross name used to carry weight. Power. Now it drips with scandal, like perfume gone sour.I step into my office and slam the door harder than I need to.Let them talk.Let them spin whatever headlines they want.It won’t stick. It never has.Until now.Until that footage.The headlines haven’t stopped. They crawl across my phone screen like ants on sugar."Former Senator Linked to Minor in Alleged Affair." "Cross Family Ties Under Scrutiny as New Allegations Surface." "Elena Cross: From Powerhouse to Problem."Bullshit. All of it. Conveniently timed and deliberately framed.