Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO-Chapter 63: Grabbing Grace and Abducting Annabeth

GRACE WITHERSTONE

Grace Witherstone didn’t want to die on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were boring. Just another weekday filled with corporate drudgery, too much caffeine, takeout dinners, and watching TV until she fell asleep on the couch.

Dying on a Tuesday was stupid.

Yet here she was, on a freaking Tuesday, tied to a rusted metal chair in an abandoned warehouse. In her short silk nightgown. No slippers. Just cold concrete, damp air, and nerve-wracking terror.

Grace’s face ached from being slapped repeatedly, and she focused on that pain to keep her fear in check. She felt cold to the marrow of her bones, which was 20% rainy weather and 80% stomach-churning terror.

The rough rope chafed her skin, and her butt had gone numb from sitting on the unforgiving dented seat. Her toes curled against the freezing pavement. Man, she really regretted not wearing fuzzy socks. Then again, who planned for being yanked from a cozy bed, knocked out, and stuffed into the trunk of a sedan?

Robert "Asshole" Lemon, her ha-ha-I-don’t-love-you ex-fiance, offered her a shark’s smile—sharp and full of teeth. "Bethany is a rising star in the fashion scene. In fact, her unique style is very sought-after."

"You mean my unique style? The designs you stole from me? Bethany couldn’t design her way out of a paper bag. When I’m dead, you both are screwed."

"You stole my life!" Bethany slapped Grace again. "For twenty years, the Witherstones gave you everything that should be mine. You took my man, my career, and my entire life."

"I was adopted when I was two years old," said Grace. "I just learned to go to the potty by myself, but yeah ... I had the brains to trick your parents into taking me from the orphanage."

"Argh! Why are you such a smartass?" Bethany slapped Grace’s cheek so hard, she felt her teeth rattle. "You’re gonna die, bitch."

"So what? Even as a corpse, I’ll still be prettier than you."

Bethany curled her fingers into claws and aimed her pointy fake nails at Grace’s throat. Robby pulled Evil Barbie into his arms. "Don’t let her get to you. Nobody’s prettier than my baby." He smoothed her hair and then tapped her nose. Bethany giggled and mashed her lips against Robby’s. (Gross.)

Grace made vomiting noises. "Can you kill me already? Your kissy faces are making me nauseous."

Robby backhanded her, and she tasted copper as blood filled her mouth. She spit it out, splattering her ex-boyfriend’s Gucci loafers with bright red.

"These are new!" He withdrew a silk handkerchief from his jacket’s inner pocket and bent over to clean off the leather. When he straightened, he had a psychopathic grin on his stupid face. "Hey Gracie, you want to know a secret?"

"You have a teeny tiny weenie?" Grace asked. "That’s not a secret."

Robby grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Then he stuffed the dirty cloth into her mouth. "Ten years ago, I didn’t save you from the basement fire. Marcus Lu did."

Grace felt sick to her stomach. What? What!? Marcus Lu had been her savior? The King of Heaven in Ash City? The guy she’d accidentally insulted at the Belmont-Jang engagement party? THAT guy?

I suck, she thought miserably. I suck so much.

For a decade, she’d gladly devoted herself to a jerk who didn’t deserve it. Anything Robby asked for, she gave him because he had saved her life. That was a debt that could never be paid. A fact Robby often reminded her of when she chafed against the constraints of his control.

For the last ten years, she’d been repaying the wrong person. All the times Grace had ignored or insulted former friends, she’d done so to prove her love and loyalty to Robby. Her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes. It didn’t matter if her cruelty had been instigated by Robby. The true culprit of pain was Grace. Hot shame poured through her like molten lava. What have I done?

***|***|***|***|***

ANNABETH SAINT

Annabeth Saint is eight years old. The garden after dark was forbidden, but Mommy and Daddy are fighting again. As she walks toward the stone bench, she sees fireflies flitting among the moonlit plum blossoms.

She stops and stares.

A boy squats next to the tree. Shirt torn. Knuckles bloody.

"Go away," he snarls.

"This is my garden," she says. "Why should I leave?"

"You’re a brat." He moves as if to get up then hisses in pain. He collapses against the tree.

"Who hurt you?"

The boy laughs bitterly. "Who hasn’t?"

Annabeth crouches down. She digs into her pocket and pulls out a wrapped candy. "Here. It’s lychee-flavored. That’s my favorite."

He looks at the candy, and then at her. "Sweets are for children."

"Sweets are for everyone," she says, unwrapping the treat. She presses it against his lips until he opens his mouth and accepts the candy.

A firefly lands on his shoulder. He swats at it, but she catches his wrist. "Don’t! See how its tummy glows? Mommy says that’s how fireflies find their true loves."

"That’s not how it works with humans," the boy scoffs.

Annabeth giggles. "When we find true love, our tummies won’t glow." She leans over and whispers, "Our hearts will."

*** *** ***

She wakes up on the floor of an empty house. Head throbs. Jaw aches. Hands and feet tied with rough rope. Cold tile eating up the warmth of her body.

Sean Lee. Former fiance. Beside him is half-sister and lifelong tormentor, Giselle. The illegitimate Saint daughter, but favored. Pampered. Adored. The way his fingers curl around her waist—gentle, possessive—makes Annabeth nauseous. He never touched her like that. Kissed her. Held her hand. Said kind words.

"Sean?" she croaks. "Help me."

"I am helping you, Annabeth." He offers a shark’s smile—sharp and full of teeth. "I’m helping you die."

He kicks her hard in the temple.

Pain spears her neck.

Darkness.

*** *** ***

Annabeth is twelve years old. She sits on the hill above her family’s villa and watches wedding guests mingle, drink, laugh in the backyard. Music from the live band reverberates in jasmine-scented air.

Everyone is smiling, smiling, smiling.

She hates it.

Father’s mistress—no, his new wife—twirls on the dance floor. Her white silk dress shimmers in warm glow of string lights. Nearby, her so-called sister, wearing haute couture and Saint diamonds, giggles with her mean-girl entourage. Giselle. The bastard daughter, the one Daddy actually loves.

Annabeth digs her nails into her palms.

Mommy’s ashes aren’t even cold. Claire Saint died six months ago, but Annabeth is the only one who still mourns.

A suit jacket goes around her shoulders. It’s warm and smells like cedar and spice and rain. She turns. A teenaged boy is already halfway down the hill, his dark hair gleaming like a raven’s wing.

She slides her hands into the pockets. She pulls out a handkerchief of the finest ivory silk. On it, an embroidered firefly, its abdomen glowing brightly. Stitched beneath is 喜遮百忧. Yī xǐ zhē bǎi yōu.

One joy can cover a hundred worries.

*** *** ***

"This bitch is awake again," says Giselle. She stomps Annabeth’s hand and grinds her heel into her knuckles. Annabeth screams. A malicious smile curls Giselle’s lips, and she steps back. Pain throbs in Annabeth’s fingers.

"Why?" She asks as tears squeeze from her eyes. "Why?" From the day Sean plucked her from the basement fire, she followed him faithfully. No matter how often he displayed his cruelty or humiliated her, Annabeth tolerated it all because without him, she wouldn’t be alive. "You’re my savior."

"Actually, I’m not. But it’s a good thing you survived. After all, in last five years, you’ve designed some of the most popular and profitable jewelry for Rosefield’s."

Smirking, Giselle wraps her fingers around Sean’s arm. "Don’t worry, sister. We will take good care of your mommy’s jewelry empire."

"You’re just the mistress," wheezes Annabeth. "Like mother, like daughter."

Giselle screams and viciously kicks Annabeth in the stomach. Agony radiates in her body, and she feels nausea coil in her gut. She coughs blood, and sinks into unconsciousness.

*** *** ***

Annabeth is eighteen. It’s her birthday, but the party in progress is for Giselle. Daddy and Estelle always find ways to hurt her. Like insisting she get Giselle’s gifts from the basement. The door shuts behind her with a click.

She takes only a few steps. Stops. Hears the snap of flames.

Her breath hitches. The basement’s single bulb flickers, casting jagged shadows across stacks of old furniture draped in yellowed sheets. Something crackles. The scent of burning paper floods her nostrils.

Then fire roars forth, a ravenous beast that comes for her.

She throws herself to the ground, claws toward the door.

It’s locked.

Smoke thickens. She coughs. Her throat hurts. Her lungs seize.

The door opens.

Strong arms wrap around her waist. Pull her up. She’s weightless, then airborne. She hides her face against the neck of her rescuer and feels safe.

He smells like cedar and spice and rain.

Then ... she’s sprawled on cool grass beneath a night sky filled with diamond stars.

She struggles for breath as Sean’s crouched figure swims into focus. She reaches for him, grabs his sleeve. He looks down. "Annabeth?"

"You saved me," she wheezes.

Now she sees how his expression turns from surprise to calculating. He nods. Accepts credit. Turns lie into truth.

This is the mistake that costs her everything.

Someone stronger and taller and braver snatched her from death. Now she remembers his face, soot-stained and sweaty.

She handed over her heart to the wrong person.

The glory she gives to Sean belongs to his uncle.

The boy in the garden. On the hill. In the basement.

Her heart glows for Devon Thorne.

*** *** ***

It smells like gasoline. The fumes sting her eyes, scrape her throat.

Through her tear-filled gaze, she sees Sean and Giselle arm-in-arm, evil smiles on their faces, standing near the opened front door.

Sean flicks open the lighter.

A figure appears in the doorway and tackles Sean. The lighter skids across the tile.

They roll on the floor, trading punches, grunts of pain echoing in the fuel-soaked air. Sean pries himself free first.

Devon Thorne gets up and springs over the gas puddle. His face drips with sweat and blood. A bruise stains his cheek.

He unties Annabeth. Gathers her into his arms. "I’ll take you out of here, baby. Just hang on, okay? Hang on."

"Why?" Tears stream. Blood chokes. Heart pounds. "Why?"

"Idiot." He kisses her gently. "You’re my firefly."

Click.

Robert lifts the recovered lighter and shows off the tiny flame. He grins. "Go to hell."

He tosses the lighter onto the puddle.

The world erupts.

Devon’s body shields hers, but it’s too late. Too late.

Fire roars.

This time, the beast swallows them whole.

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