Lahat ng Kabanata ng HEIRESS REBORN: Kabanata 41 - Kabanata 50

ELENA’S POV Everyone in this goddamn room wants to shake my hand and watch me fall at the same time.They smile too hard. Their eyes flick to their phones too often. The whispers don’t even stop when I pass by, just lower in pitch, like I can’t feel the heat of their breath on my back.I sit at the head of the long mahogany table, in the private lounge of one of the oldest, most exclusive country clubs in the city. This place has hosted presidents. My name is engraved on the honorary plaque in the lobby. These people know me. They owe me. And now they act like I’m contagious.The waiter pours the wine too slow. A little too close to my shoulder. I hate that.Councilman Griggs chuckles at something the woman beside him says, but it’s too loud. Fake. Off. And his eyes won’t meet mine for more than half a second.I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table even though I never do that. “Let’s not waste each other’s time,” I say, calm and easy. “If anyone at this table thinks I had any

POV: SASHA I’m brushing my teeth when the first ping hits.Then another. And another. My phone keeps lighting up like a Christmas tree. Group chats. Email alerts. Twitter notifications.I don’t think much of it at first. Maybe something stupid went viral again. Another PR stunt gone wrong. Maybe someone finally canceled that actress who stole my red dress idea last month.But then my publicist texts.“Call me. Now.”I freeze.There’s a hollow sort of silence that settles when you know something’s off before you even read the thing. I sit down on the edge of my bed, toothbrush still in hand, and pull up the link she sent.And there it is."The Saint with Blood on Her Hands: Sasha Moore’s Foundation Isn’t What It Seems."I click.The article is brutal. Not the usual gossip junk. This is researched. Lined with numbers, statements, anonymous sources. It talks about inconsistencies in my charity’s books, unexplained transactions, missing funds. My name is everywhere—fraud, misappropriati

POV: SASHAI can’t sleep.Haven’t for three nights now.I don't see how I can. I don't see how anyone can.Not with the agotload of storms we have been weathering since.It is unbelievable that we all got gist at the same time.Like someone is after us, coming for us. But who?The media storm from Elena’s mess is still spinning, and I am supposed to be in PR meetings, drafting statements, pretending to be unfazed, but I am not. I.am not unfazed. I’m fucking rattled. Fucking terrified.And one face, delete all this chaos keeps coming back to meOne face.Kaia's I keep playing that moment back. The way Kaia didn’t flinch when Elena walked by. The way she toyed with Nathaniel like a cat bored with a rat. She didn’t even pretend to be impressed by him. No one does that. People either want something from Nathaniel, or they want to destroy him.She didn’t look like she wanted anything.She looked like she already took it.I'm sitting in my office, ignoring the fifth call from a crisis man

SASHA'S POVI slam the car door so hard it rattles. My heart is in a panic racing as I storm up my apartment.“Useless!” I snarl. “Useless man! Rehab! Me?!!”This isn't what I should be worrying about now. I am in hot soup and I can't be bothered to worry about himI should have burned it all the moment the first email leaked.I walk into the apartment and everything feels off. It's quiet. Too quiet. Unnatural. Usually there’s music, or that low hum from the hallway cameras, or just the subtle sounds of a place being lived in. But now? Nothing. Just stillness. That kind that presses on your ears and makes your heart thud harder, because somewhere inside you already know something's wrong.And I am right, I turn on the lights and stop dead in my tracksThe place is trashed.Glass everywhere, my sofa cushions are slashed open. Papers scattered. And I know what this is before I even blink. This isn’t some robbery. This is a message. A warning.And it is for me.Damn it! I am running out

POV: ALINAI don’t go.Of course I don't. Why would I go just because he asked me. Summoned me like I am at his beck and call.Still, he is still waiting at some overpriced, dimly lit restaurant downtown,.the kind he always used to take me to after he made me cry. You know the kind. Crystal wine glasses. Chairs you sink into. Waiters trained to act like your silence is a status symbol, not a symptom of rot.He is probably checking his reflection in the cutlery, wondering if I will show up all excited. I won’t. I never intended to.I stay home.No, not even home. I am in Theo’s apartment. High floor, cold lighting, secure enough to hide the truth and wide enough for my guilt to pace.I sit on the couch, cross-legged, one of my Dad's old T-shirts clinging to me like memory. And I let Theo handle it.“He has been there forty-two minutes,” Theo says through the speaker. Calm. Dry. Amused, even. “Checked his phone seventeen times. Ordered whiskey, neat. Keeps straightening the cutlery like