All Chapters of The Lost Heiress’s Glorious Return: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Damon’s POVAt night the city sounds sharpen into something almost precise, a hum you can follow like a scent. That hum led me to Kiara — not one lead, but a string of small things that, when tied together, made a rope I couldn’t ignore.Someone spotted her at a cash machine two blocks from her usual one. A bartender I owed told me she’d bought a ticket to nowhere, then vanished. My driver traced a rental she ditched in another neighborhood. Alone, they were scraps of noise; together, they sketched the map of a woman unraveling.Tracking her felt both filthy and necessary. I’d promised not to lean on certain contacts, but promises bend when the stakes are the woman you can’t stop thinking about. A tow-yard clerk, a night security guard, a record from a seedy motel she never stayed in — each thread smelled of panic and planning.When I found her, she was a shadow of the woman I once knew.The building was narrow and tired, its lobby a ghost of itself. The carpet on the third floor was

Uncle’s POV The past never stays buried. I’ve always known that. Ashes may smother for a time, concealing what they devoured, but one wind shift is enough to stir them alive again. That is what haunts me now—after all these years, after everything I secured with fire and silence, the wind has shifted.I thought the Abram line was erased. Believed my brother’s estate, with its manicured lawns and marble halls, would stand as nothing more than a mausoleum of failed ambition. But then she came back. Isabella. Marisol. Whatever name she clings to, she is the ember I failed to crush.And that failure gnaws at me more than anything else.I wasn’t born ruthless. I was forged in it—shaped by a father who never saw me and a brother who always stood in my place.I remember dinners at the long table, silver polished, candles lit. My father’s voice boomed with pride as he toasted his heir. Always my brother, never me. He got the first lessons in business, the best tutors, and the seat beside our

Isabella’s POVThe morning was too quiet.Not the soft, gentle kind of quiet that brings peace, but the taut, brittle silence that follows a storm—or warns of one still waiting to break. I sat at Mia’s kitchen table, elbows pressing into the worn wood, a half-empty mug of tea cooling between my hands. The window above the sink framed a sky still gray with dawn, clouds shifting slowly, heavy and unsettled.I had been awake all night.Sleep felt impossible, as if my body had forgotten how to surrender. My thoughts kept circling restlessly, replaying memories I barely trusted, questions with no answers, and the echo of Damon’s voice when he said I wasn’t safe. But underneath the fear, underneath the exhaustion, something sharp and startling had emerged. For the first time in years, my thoughts weren’t circling endlessly—they had narrowed into one unwavering line.I wasn’t the same woman who had crawled out of the fire nameless and broken. I wasn’t even the same woman who had signed divor

Kiara’s POVThe room was dark, heavy with silence.Only the weak orange glow from the streetlight filtered through the blinds, slicing across the walls like forgotten scars. My whiskey glass caught the light, half-empty on the nightstand. Or maybe half-full—depending on how much I wanted to lie to myself tonight.I’d been staring at my reflection for too long. The woman in the mirror wasn’t me—not really. Her mascara was smudged, her hair limp, her eyes hollow. The confident woman who once commanded rooms had faded into someone desperate, cracked open by her choices.Damon’s name pulsed at the edge of my thoughts, uninvited. I could almost picture him at his office—composed, unreachable, probably thinking of her. Always her. Isabella. The name burned like acid in my chest.I picked up my phone. I’d typed and erased the same message over and over: I’m sorry.Two small words that meant nothing now.Because sorry doesn’t undo destruction.I’d thought I was in control once. That if I coul

Damon’s POVThe morning light felt wrong, too sharp, too clean. The kind that pretends the world isn’t falling apart.I had just stepped out of the shower when my phone buzzed on the counter. Marcus’s name lit up. No greeting, just his voice—low and strained.“Damon, you need to get down to the old industrial road. Now.”I frowned. “Why? What happened?”A pause, then three words that froze me.“We found Kiara’s car.”My heart slammed once, hard. “Is she—?”“Not here,” he cut in quickly. “Nobody. But you’ll want to see it yourself.”The line went dead.I was dressed before the silence settled.The drive out of the city felt endless. Every red light mocked me. By the time I reached the outskirts—a stretch of abandoned warehouses and forgotten roads—smoke clung faintly to the air.Police tape fluttered in the wind. Officers paced around flashing lights, their voices low. The scene bled with red and blue, not warning, just aftermath.Marcus stood near the tape, his face grim. When he saw