Semua Bab HEIRESS REBORN: Bab 101 - Bab 110

POV: ROURKEI should be pissed. I should be throwing chairs or breaking glasses or doing something stupid that gets blood on my hands, but instead... I just sit.It’s quiet.Too damn quiet for how loud my head is.Nathaniel has a dossier on me. That much I expected. That’s what people like him do. People like me? We always assume someone has dirt on us. Comes with the job. You operate in the shadows long enough, you either become a ghost or a target. Sometimes both.But what irritates me isn’t that he has the file. It’s that he was careless with it. Careless enough for Sasha to get her hands on it. Careless Sasha. The one who thinks she is smarter than she actually is.It pisses me off that she could wave it around like a leash. As a bargaining chip. Like I am some dog he can call when he wants something handled.I stare down at the drink in my hand. Scotch. Neat. From his cabinet, ironically."He thinks this is enough," I mutter.I think of Elena. Of Sasha. Of how they squirm when po

POV: ALINAI don’t even make it ten steps into the Cross Foundation gala before someone tries to rip the skin off my name.“You are Kaia, right? The one from Ashen?”I turn towards the voice and see it is a senator I.know about but have never met. Salt-and-pepper hair. Teeth like veneers. Eyes like he can't decide if hates me or if he wants me.I nod, slow. “That is right. How do you know about me?”He smirks. “Ruthless in heels. That.is what they are saying about you.”Oh. So that is how we.are playing tonight.“Then they should probably say it to my face,” I reply, matching his smile with one of my own. Sharper. Cleaner.He laughs, but it dies halfway out of his mouth as I move past him before he can say more.They.are all watching me. I feel it in the tilt of a shoulder, the hush of a conversation when I walk by. Elena’s whisper campaign is working overtime. I expected that. What I didn’t expect was how many of them would want it to be true. The vultures don't even know meThe soc

POV: ELENA CROSSI don’t look up right away when Rourke walks in. He knows better than to interrupt me when I’m in the middle of briefing notes—especially ones this sensitive. But he lingers. That always means something."Well?" I ask, finally, setting my glass down without taking a sip. "You didn’t come in here just to breathe in my air."He doesn’t answer. Just sets the envelope on the edge of the desk. Manila. Folded once, sharp corner slightly crushed. No label."What is it?""You should see it for yourself, ma’am."He only calls me ma’am when he’s nervous.I open it slowly, more out of habit than curiosity. I’ve seen a thousand of these in my lifetime. Dossiers, blackmail, threats, assets, affairs, leverage. Politics is built on manila envelopes. But this one… this one bites back.The first thing I see is a picture. Grainy. Dark lighting. A woman’s face, part of it swollen, features distorted, hair limp and damp around her cheek. She looks half-dead. Or maybe that’s the point.I

POV: NINA RHODESI know bullshit when I smell it. And Ashen? It stinks like a goddamn secret.Not just your typical, high-gloss corporate PR secret either. No, this is something older. Heavier. The kind of secret that gets whispered behind tinted glass in silent boardrooms. The kind that leaves traces only if you’re looking for ghosts.And I am.I’ve been circling Ashen for six months now.It started with curiosity — the kind that keeps me up at night, refreshing public filings and cross-checking surnames on LinkedIn. Vivian Hale shows up out of nowhere, wearing power like a second skin, speaking like she was born inside a war room, and boom, Ashen launches like it was waiting to happen.Except there’s no founder.No launch party.No story.No origin.Who the hell starts a billion-dollar company and doesn’t leave a fingerprint behind?That’s not how this works. That’s not how people work. People want to be seen, to be credited, to be known. Especially the rich ones. Especially the bro

POV: SASHAHe sold me out.I know the second I see the file.One look at the ledger, the statement headings, the routing numbers tied to the Cross Foundation accounts… and my name at the top, bold, unmissable.Primary beneficiary.Like I’m the fucking mastermind.Like I’m the one who came up with the idea to launder donations through shell orgs, reroute funds from Elena’s social initiative into Nathaniel’s campaign slush fund. Like I wasn’t just cleaning up their mess, doing what I was told, keeping their image polished while they burned everything behind them.But there it is. In a nice little bundle, “leaked” to a conservative blogger with a flair for public shaming and no taste in fonts.My name.Alone.No Nathaniel. No Elena. Just me.The expendable one.The second I see the financials, I know exactly what Nathaniel’s doing.He’s prepping to toss me overboard.I scroll through the files on my phone, my hand shaking. It’s not even subtle—my name’s everywhere. Elena’s foundation slu