All Chapters of The Phoenix Heiress: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

I wait until Liam leaves.He always does after a tantrum—storms out like he’s the victim, slams the door like it’s punctuation. I count the seconds. Twenty-seven. Then silence.I clean the mess slowly, deliberately. Not because I care about the floor, but because it gives me time to think. Time to plan.The cut on my palm is shallow. I wrap it in a dish towel and press hard. The pain keeps me grounded.There’s a burner phone in the liquor cabinet. I saw him stash it last week, drunk and sloppy. He thinks I don’t notice things. He’s wrong.I move through the house like a ghost. No creaking floorboards. No sudden movements. I’ve learned how to disappear in plain sight.The cabinet is locked. Of course it is. But the key is in his jacket—always the left pocket. I know because I do his laundry. Because I fold his lies into neat little piles and pretend not to see the blood on his cuffs.I wait until nightfall.He’ll drink. He always does. Whiskey first, then something stronger. He’ll pass

I’m outside.Barefoot. Bat in hand. Blood on my sleeve.The wind bites, but I don’t feel it. Not really.The porch light flickers behind me. Liam’s body is still inside—breathing, barely. I didn’t kill him. Not yet.I should’ve.I stare at the door like it’s daring me. Like it knows I’m not done.He’ll wake up. He’ll crawl. He’ll call Boris.Unless I go back in and finish it.I tighten my grip on the bat. My fingers ache. My heart doesn’t.I could do it. I could end this. No more running. No more hiding.Headlights flash down the road. I freeze.A car pulls up—dark, quiet, deliberate. The driver steps out fast, no hesitation.Sarah.She’s dressed like someone who doesn’t want to be remembered. Hoodie. Gloves. Eyes sharp.She sees the bat. The blood. Me.“No,” she says, voice low but firm. “Not like this.”I don’t move.“He deserves it,” I whisper.“I know,” she says. “But Boris is on his way. You don’t have time.”I blink. “He knows?”She nods. “Liam called him before he passed out. S

I didn’t expect to feel safe here.Not after everything. Not after the way silence used to mean danger, and kindness came with strings. But Jasper’s quiet is different. It hums low, steady. Like the rumble of bikes in the distance or the soft laughter of women who’ve seen too much and still choose softness.Wolf’s mom—everyone calls her Mama Red—took one look at me and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like lavender and leather. I didn’t flinch. That surprised me more than anything.She doesn’t ask questions. None of them do. The ol’ ladies just let me sit with them, listen to their stories, pass me coffee without comment when my hands shake. They talk about grandbabies and garden soil and the best way to get blood out of denim. I laugh sometimes. Real laughs. Not the kind I used to fake to keep people comfortable.The guys don’t crowd me. They nod, offer food, like it’s nothing. I know they’re watching—especially Wolf. He’s always close. Not hovering. Just… there. Like a shadow that d

I didn’t mean to linger in the kitchen, but Mama Red’s pancakes smell like comfort and safety. I sit at the table, trying not to look like I’ve been up since dawn, heart tangled in knots.She slides a plate in front of me, eyes twinkling. “So… Wolf spent the night, huh?”I nearly drop my fork. “It wasn’t like that.”She laughs, soft and knowing. “Baby, I didn’t say it was. But I saw him sneaking out like a teenager caught past curfew.”I stare down at the syrup pooling on my plate. “I had a nightmare. He stayed. I didn’t ask him to, but… I didn’t want him to leave.”She sits across from me, her gaze gentle. “He’s got a way of showing up when you need him most.”I nod, throat tight. “I’m scared. I feel something for him, but I don’t know what it is. It’s not just gratitude. It’s deeper. But I don’t know how to explain it.”Mama Red reaches for my hand. “You don’t have to explain it. Just trust your heart. It knows the way, even when your head’s spinning.”I blink, trying to hold back t

Two weeks. That’s how long I’ve been here. Long enough to know the clubhouse doesn’t sleep, it just shifts. The morning crew rolls in with coffee and gravel-crunching boots, the night crew fades out with laughter and music that never quite dies. I’ve learned the rhythm. I’ve learned the faces. I haven’t learned how to relax.Mama Red says I’m adjusting. I say I’m surviving. She says, “Let’s aim higher.”She caught me in the hallway this morning, arms full of laundry, and said, “You need clothes.”I told her I was fine.She gave me that look—the one that says she sees through every layer I’ve got left.“Wolf can take you,” she said. “Joplin’s not far.”Wolf.I didn’t say no. I didn’t say yes, either. I just nodded and hoped the ground wouldn’t shift under me.The truck ride was quiet. Wolf didn’t talk much, which I appreciated. I wasn’t ready to fill the silence with small talk. I watched the trees blur past, fingers curled in my lap. He drove like he’d done it a thousand times—one han