The Disposable Heiress

At three years old, I walked right up to a group of human traffickers and asked them to take me away.

Years later, a wealthy couple—the Watsons—showed up at my so-called adoptive parents' house in tears, claiming they'd come to reclaim their long-lost daughter.

I rushed forward, eager, hopeful—but my "parents" grabbed me, locked me up, and whipped me raw.

"Only our daughter deserves to be a Watson!" my adoptive mother, Anne, sneered. "Once Marie is living in luxury, do you really think we'll ever want for money again?"

And just like that, they handed their own flesh and blood—Marie—over to the Watsons, while I stayed behind, enduring their fists and curses.

But the windfall they dreamed of never came. Instead, Marie returned—bruised, broken, and dumped back in the mountains like discarded trash.

Anne panicked.

I laughed.

Now, it was my turn.

"Audrey, I'm warning you!" Anne snarled, her hand cracking against my cheek. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. "Marie will go back to the Watsons, and you will not ruin this for her!"

I was used to the beatings. Ever since the traffickers sold me to this wretched family, Anne had made my life hell.

Bad mood? Beat Audrey.

Good mood? Beat Audrey.

No reason at all? Starve Audrey, throw her in the river, see if she drowns. (I swam. Every time.)

She even tried to marry me off to a village brute who'd already killed two wives. Lucky for me, the law caught up with him before the wedding—so here I was, still breathing at eighteen.

All because, years ago, the Watsons heard rumors of an adopted child in this house. Anne and her husband spun a lie, shoved Marie into their limo, and spent the next decade waiting for their payout.

"My Marie will make us rich!" Anne cackled, over and over.

But Marie never sent a dime.

Until today.

Anne's wrinkled face split into a grin. "The Watsons called! They're bringing Marie back themselves—this must be our reward!"

I stayed silent, watching her. Her hand flew out again.

"What's that look for? Marie is the Watson heir. You? You're nothing but mountain trash. If you so much as breathe wrong in front of them, I'll kill you myself!"

She wasn't done. A kick to my ribs sent me sprawling, pain exploding through my side. I bit back a scream—experience had taught me that crying only made her hit harder.

Then, a child's voice cut through the chaos: "Aunt Anne! The car's here! A fancy one!"

Anne dropped me instantly, scrambling to light celebratory firecrackers as the sleek black limo rolled to a stop.

The doors opened. Out stepped Jacob and Celia Watson—impeccably dressed, faces tight with disdain.

Anne rushed forward, groveling. "Mr. and Mrs. Watson! I'm Anne Rose, the woman who raised your precious Marie!" She fake-sobbed. "Oh, when she first came to us, she begged for $14,000—and I gave it to her without a second thought!"