The Real Heiress's Hidden Identities

At the end of August, deep in the mountains along the French-German border, a girl in a dress stood beside a blank gravestone.

An elderly woman stood at her side.

The girl was Violet Moore.

She was the real heiress of the Hayes family in London, mistakenly swapped at birth seventeen years ago.

They had found her just a week earlier.

Today, they were taking her back to the city.

“Let’s head down. Members of the Hayes family will be here soon.” Mabel Foster’s gaze shifted from the tombstone to the girl. “Once you return to the city, you’ll be the Hayes heiress. Leave everything from before behind.”

“Okay, Grandma. You go first.” Violet’s lips moved slightly as she spoke. “I just want a moment alone.”

Mabel glanced at the stone again and let out a quiet sigh.

“Don’t lose track of time.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Violet was left alone to stare silently at the unmarked grave.

Suddenly, she lifted her eyes.

From the woods behind her came a faint rustling.

Something was moving through the trees.

It was fast, and heading straight toward her.

She spun around, alert.

Her long, curled lashes caught the sunlight.

They cast thin shadows that veiled her eyes and lent her expression a somber chill.

A tall figure in dark camouflage burst out of the trees.

A strong metallic scent clung to him.

Blood.

His face was smeared with water-based paint, making his features unrecognizable.

But Violet immediately noticed the national flag patch on his right arm.

Behind him, the rustling grew louder.

“Danger.” The man sounded startled to find anyone in such a remote place. “Run.”

His voice was low and strained, as if it cost him all he had left.

Mid-stride, his legs buckled.

He collapsed right in front of Violet.

He didn’t move again.

The crushed grass beneath him was already stained red.

Violet’s brows drew together.

From the strength of the blood scent, she judged that he had passed out from severe blood loss.

If she didn’t stop the bleeding soon, he wouldn’t survive.

Just then, two men in light camouflage rushed out of the trees.

“There’s actually a woman here,” the curly-haired one said in German.

“Then we take her too,” the buzz-cut man with thick lips replied, eyeing Violet.

Maybe it had been too long since he’d seen a woman.

The moment he spotted someone that pretty, his gaze turned filthy.

Violet’s heart pounded.

She had lived on this border for eleven years.

She knew the region was unstable, but she had never encountered anything like this.

Even in her fear, she silently thanked the heavens that she had asked her grandmother to go down the mountain first.

Her eyes flicked to the weapons in their hands.

She spoke in flawless German, deliberately sounding meek.

“Please don’t hurt me. I’m just an ordinary villager.”

The buzz-cut man, Damian, stepped closer.

He hooked the barrel of his gun under her chin.

Her small face was lovely and soft.

He could already imagine how she would feel under his hands.

He licked his thick lips and grinned.

“Sweetheart, your German is impressive. Stick with us, and I’ll take you everywhere to live the good life.”

Violet stared at the dark muzzle so close to her skin.

Her long lashes trembled.

She swallowed and whispered timidly.

“Okay, as long as you don’t kill me. I’ll do whatever you want. I can pack right now and go with you.”

Her weakness made Damian’s predatory thrill spike.

He gave a crude laugh.

“Then we start with you.”

The curly-haired man snickered, too.

Damian tossed his weapon aside and grabbed Violet’s right wrist.

With a rough yank, he pulled her into his arms.

But the moment her body hit his chest, Violet’s left hand slid swiftly along the side of her dress.

Her fingers spun with practiced ease.

A needle appeared between them.

A heartbeat later, she drove the needle straight into one of Damian’s acupoints.

Damian stiffened.

He lowered his head slowly and met a pair of cold, sharp eyes.

There was nothing left of the timid girl from moments ago.

Realizing things had gone wrong, the curly-haired man cursed.

He raised his gun, but he hesitated.

Damian was blocking his shot.

The barrel wavered between them.

Violet shoved the unconscious Damian aside.

She rolled across the ground with speed.

She reached the tombstone and plunged her hand into the bamboo basket.

She grabbed a handful of white powder and hurled it at the curly-haired man.

He chambered a round instantly, but it was too late.

The powder burst in the air.

When he inhaled it, his vision blurred.

His senses dulled.

His eyes rolled upward.

Then he collapsed.

It was a sedative powder she had made herself to ward off wild animals.

Without an antidote, he wouldn’t wake for at least an hour.

Violet pushed herself up.

When she glanced down, she saw the fresh dress her grandmother had made for her.

It was now smeared with dirt and torn by rocks.

Her delicate brows pinched together.

She allowed herself one second of heartache.