The Fake Heiress Who Stole Everything

The iron gates of the Blackwell estate opened. I stood there in my Goodwill jacket, the one with the broken zipper I'd fixed with a safety pin, watching those gates swing wide like they were welcoming royalty.

Except I wasn't royalty. I was just the kid they'd lost twenty-two years ago and somehow managed to find through a DNA database.

The intercom crackled. "The foster kid's here," someone said. Not "Aria's here" or "their daughter's here." The foster kid. Like that was my name now.

I'd told myself not to expect much. After fifteen foster homes, you learn that family is just a word people use before they disappoint you. But standing there, looking at the mansion rising behind those gates like something out of a movie, I felt that stupid flutter of hope I thought I'd killed years ago.

The walk up the driveway took forever.

A man in a suit stood on the front steps. Even from a distance, I recognized him from the photos the genetic testing company had sent. Richard Blackwell. My biological father. He didn't move toward me, just watched me approach like he was assessing a investment that might not pay off.

When I reached the steps, he extended his hand for a shake. Professional. Distant.

"Aria." He said my name carefully, testing it. "Welcome."

Behind him, a woman appeared. Catherine. My biological mother. She had tears in her eyes, and for a second, I thought she might actually hug me. She took a step forward, her arms lifting, but then she saw it. The tattoo creeping up my neck. The one I'd gotten at sixteen with fake ID, traded for fixing the tattoo artist's laptop. Her arms dropped.

"You must be tired from the journey," she said instead, her voice carefully neutral.

Before I could answer, a girl glided out of the house. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Chanel ad.

"Welcome home, sister." Elena. The girl they'd raised while I was getting bounced from home to home.

She looked me up and down, and I saw the calculation in her eyes. She was measuring the threat.

I almost laughed. If she only knew how little I wanted her perfect life.

"Nice place," I said, because what else do you say? "Beats the last fifteen places I lived."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Then footsteps, and a guy appeared with a German Shepherd on a leash. Dylan. My biological brother. Harvard Law ring on his finger catching the sunlight. The dog was beautiful, all sleek fur and intelligent eyes.

"This is Duchess," Dylan said. "Elena's dog. I just took her for a walk."

I've never been good with animals. They sense things about people, and what they sensed about me usually made them nervous. Duchess was no exception. She started barking the moment she saw me, straining against the leash.

"She's usually friendly," Elena said, but she was smiling. Like she knew something.

I stood still, remembering what I'd learned on the streets. Don't show fear. Don't back down. The dog kept barking, and I could feel everyone watching me, waiting to see how the foster kid would handle a simple dog.

"Make her stop," I said to Dylan.

He shrugged. "She'll calm down. Just give her a minute to get used to you."

But Duchess didn't calm down. If anything, she got more agitated. And then Dylan smiled at Elena, and he let go of the leash.

"Duchess, say hello," he said.

The dog launched at me. I'd been bitten before, by a pit bull in my third foster home. I knew that moment of clarity before the pain hits, when time slows down and you understand exactly what's about to happen. My hand went to my boot on instinct. The knife I always carried, the one that had saved my life more than once.

Duchess's teeth sank into my forearm. Hot pain shot up to my shoulder. Someone screamed. Probably Elena. But I was already moving. One hand grabbed the dog's collar. The other brought the knife up in a clean arc.

I counted in my head, just like Dylan had counted before letting her go. One. Two. Three.

The blade found the dog's throat. It was quick. Cleaner than it should have been. Blood sprayed across my jeans, hot and sticky. The dog made a sound, something between a whimper and a gurgle, and then she was down.

I stood up, knife still in my hand. No one moved. They just stared at the body, at me.

Elena was the first to break the silence. She dropped to her knees next to the dog, sobbing like someone had killed her child. "She was innocent! She was just a dog!"

"She was biting me," I said. My voice came out flat, emotionless. Years of practice.

"You monster!" Dylan's face had gone red. "You psychopath!"

Richard found his voice then. "What have you done? This is our home! We don't solve problems with violence!"

I held up my bleeding arm. "This is violence. What I did was self-defense."

Catherine was shaking, her hand over her mouth. She looked at me like she didn't know me. Which was fair. She didn't.

"We can't have this," Richard said, and he was talking to Catherine now, not me. "This is exactly what I was afraid of. She's been on the streets too long. She's—"

"Damaged goods?" I finished for him. "Yeah, I get it. I don't know which fork to use, I don't dress right, and I kill dogs when they try to rip my arm off. I'm not the daughter you wanted."

I wiped the knife on my jeans and pulled out my phone. My hands were steady, even though my heart was racing. I opened Instagram and started recording. The body. The blood. My bleeding arm.

"Stop that!" Richard lunged for my phone, but I was faster. Years of keeping my stuff safe from thieves had made me quick.

"I'm going live," I announced. "Everyone should see how the Blackwells welcome family."

"Turn it off!" Richard's voice had gone from angry to panicked. "You're destroying this family's reputation!"

"I'll make you a deal," I said, still recording. "I delete this, and you let me stay. Give me a real room, a bank card, and basic respect. Or I can keep filming and explain to everyone why your son let a dog attack me."

Dylan moved toward me, but Richard held up a hand.

"Inside," he said through gritted teeth. "Everyone inside. Now."

I stopped the recording but didn't delete it. Not yet. I followed them into the house, tracking blood across their expensive floors. Elena was still crying, being comforted by Catherine. No one offered to look at my arm.

In the living room, Richard made everyone sit.

"The charity gala is next week," he said. "For the family's image, Aria needs to attend. We need to show the public we're united."

Elena's tears stopped like someone had flipped a switch. She looked at me, then at Richard. "Of course, Daddy. I'll make sure Aria has everything she needs." That smile again. Calculating. "I'll even help her pick a dress."

I met her eyes and saw exactly what she was planning. But I smiled back, because I'd survived worse than a rich girl playing dress-up games.

"Looking forward to it," I said.

As everyone filed out, Catherine hesitated by my chair. She looked at the blood on my arm, the blood on my clothes. For a moment, I thought she might say something. Apologize. Acknowledge what had just happened.

Instead, she followed Elena upstairs, her arm around the girl who wasn't her daughter.

I sat alone in their perfect living room, bleeding on their perfect couch, and understood exactly where I stood. But that was okay. I'd been alone before. And I'd learned a long time ago that being alone meant you only had yourself to let down.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Next week will be interesting. —E"

I looked at the blood drying on my hands.

Yeah. Next week was going to be very interesting.