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I woke from a three-year coma to find my nanny wearing my crown, my husband calling her Queen, and my twin daughters locked in a tower they'd been told was their grave. The first thing I saw was fluorescent light. Then a nurse's face—young, startled, dropping a clipboard. "She's awake. Oh my God, she's awake! Someone call—" I grabbed her wrist. My fingers were skeletal. My voice was sand and rust. "My daughters. Where are my daughters?" The nurse stared at me like I was a ghost. And maybe I was. The last thing I remembered was the car accident—the bridge, the rain, the truck that came out of nowhere. I'd been driving home from the royal charity gala. Seven months pregnant with my third child. My hand went to my stomach. Flat. Empty. "The baby—" "Mrs.— Your Highness, please, you need to stay calm. Let me get the doctor—" "Where are my children?" She wouldn't look at me. That told me everything and nothing at the same time. I learned the rest in pieces over the next two hours. A traumatic brain injury. A coma that was supposed to last weeks but stretched into three years. My husband, Prince Alexander of Valdoria, had been told by his medical team that I would never wake up. So he'd moved on. With the nanny. Sophie Kincaid. The woman I had personally hired to care for my twin girls, Lily and Rose. The woman I had trusted with bedtime stories and school lunches and emergency contacts. The woman who had smiled at me every morning and said, "Don't worry, Your Highness, I've got the girls." She had the girls, alright. And now she had my husband, my title, and my palace. The doctor who finally came was old, cautious, and clearly terrified of the conversation he was about to have. "Your Highness, there's no easy way to say this. Prince Alexander remarried fourteen months ago. Sophie Kincaid is now Princess Consort. A formal declaration was issued stating you were in a permanent vegetative state with no hope of recovery." "Who signed that declaration?" He hesitated. "The royal physician. Dr. Hale." "On whose authority?" "Prince Alexander's." I stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent light buzzed like something alive. "And my daughters?" Another pause. Longer this time. "Your Highness, the twins... there were behavioral issues after your accident. They were moved to the north wing of the palace. It's quite comfortable, I'm told, but they don't attend public events. Princess Sophie felt it was best for their emotional development to keep them out of the spotlight." "The north wing." I knew the palace layout like I knew my own body. The north wing was the oldest section—stone walls, narrow windows, no central heating. It had been used as servant quarters two centuries ago. Before that, it was where disgraced royals were sent to be forgotten. "Has anyone visited them?" "I... I wouldn't know, Your Highness." "Has my husband visited them?" Silence. I pulled the IV from my arm. The nurse lunged forward. I held up my hand—a gesture so instinctively royal that she froze. "Bring me clothes. Bring me a phone. And bring me a car." "Your Highness, you've been in a coma for three years. You can barely walk. You need physical therapy, neurological assessments—" "I need my daughters." I stood. My legs buckled. I caught the bed rail and forced myself upright through sheer, blinding fury. Three years. They had written me off, stolen my life, and hidden my children in a stone tower like something out of a nightmare. I took one step. Then another. Pain screamed through every atrophied muscle. But I had survived a crash that should have killed me. I had clawed my way out of a coma that doctors said was permanent. I had woken up in a world that had erased me. Pain was nothing. Pain was just the door I had to walk through. And God help anyone standing on the other side. Chapter 2 The palace looked the same from the outside. Golden stone, iron gates, the Valdorian flag snapping in the October wind. I'd driven past it a thousand times as Queen and felt pride. Now I felt nothing but dread. The taxi driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I couldn't blame him. I was a skeleton in borrowed hospital scrubs, and I'd asked him to drive me to the royal palace. "Ma'am, are you sure about this? Security won't just let you—" "They'll let me in." He pulled up to the main gate. Two guards approached. Young. I didn't recognize them—new hires, probably Sophie's people. I rolled down the window. "I'm Queen Isabella Castille-Ashworth. Open the gate." The guard laughed. Actually laughed. "Sure you are. And I'm the Pope. Ma'am, I need you to—" I held up my left hand. The royal signet ring—the one they'd never removed from my comatose body, because removing it required an act of Parliament. The emerald caught the light. The guard's smile died. "Call your commander. Now." Three minutes later, the gate opened. I walked through the front entrance of my own home for the first time in three years. The foyer had been redecorated—Sophie's taste, all cold marble and modern art. My portraits were gone. The family photos that had lined the grand hallway—me holding the twins as newborns, our wedding, Christmas mornings—all replaced with Sophie's face. Sophie in a tiara. Sophie at a state dinner. Sophie holding a baby. I stopped. A baby. In the photograph, Sophie cradled an infant in christening robes. Alexander stood beside her, beaming. The plaque beneath read: "HRH Prince Oliver, born March 15." They had a child together. My stomach twisted, but I kept walking. I wasn't here for Alexander. I wasn't here for revenge. I was here for Lily and Rose. The north wing was exactly as I'd feared. Cold. Dim. The heating vents were sealed—intentionally, from the look of it. The hallway smelled of damp stone and neglect. A single guard sat outside a heavy wooden door, scrolling on his phone. He scrambled to his feet when he saw me, but before he could speak, I was already past him, pushing the door open. The room was small. Two narrow beds. No toys. No books. No color of any kind. A barred window let in a strip of gray light. And there, sitting on the floor in matching gray uniforms that looked like institutional clothing, were my daughters. They were five now. I'd last seen them at two—chubby, giggling, reaching for me as I left for the gala. Now they were thin. Their hair was lank and unwashed. Their eyes, when they looked up at me, were flat. Empty. The eyes of children who had stopped expecting anything good. They didn't recognize me. "Who are you?" Lily asked. Her voice was hoarse, barely used. Rose didn't speak at all. She pressed herself against the wall and stared at me with animal wariness. I knelt on the cold floor. My legs screamed. I didn't care. "Lily. Rose. It's Mama." Lily's brow furrowed. "Mama is dead. Sophie said Mama is dead and she's our new mama now." "Sophie lied. I'm alive. I'm right here." "Prove it." My heart cracked. My five-year-old daughter, demanding proof of my identity because the world had taught her that love was a trick. I reached for the lullaby—the one I'd sung every night since they were born. The one no one else knew, because I'd made it up, word by word, in the midnight hours of early motherhood. "Two little stars in the velvet sky, Mama will hold you, don't you cry. Lily is sunshine, Rose is rain, together forever, through joy and pain." Lily's face changed. Something cracked behind those flat eyes. Rose made a sound—a whimper, soft and broken, like a door opening after years of rust. "Mama?" Rose whispered. Her first word to me. "Is it really you?" "It's really me, baby." They hit me like a wave. Both of them, at once, their thin arms wrapping around me with desperate strength. Lily was sobbing. Rose was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. "Sophie said you were dead! She said dead people don't come back! She said if we cried about you she'd take away our food!" "Take away your—" I pulled back and looked at them. Really looked. The hollowed cheeks. The dark circles. The way their collarbones jutted like wings. "When did you last eat?" Lily thought about it. "Yesterday? The guard brings bread sometimes. But only if we're quiet." The world went red. Behind me, footsteps. The click of heels on stone. "Well," said a voice I recognized. Cool, amused, perfectly controlled. "This is awkward." I turned. Sophie Kincaid stood in the doorway, dressed in silk, a diamond tiara nestled in her golden hair. She looked at me the way one might look at a stain on an expensive rug. "You're supposed to be a vegetable, Isabella." I stood, my daughters behind me. "And you're supposed to be a nanny." Her smile didn't waver. "Things change. Alexander and I are married. I'm the Princess Consort. I have a son—an heir. You're a medical miracle, I'll grant you that, but legally? You're nobody. Alexander had you declared incapacitated. Your titles were stripped. Your marriage was annulled." "Annulled?" "On grounds of permanent incapacity. Signed by the King himself." She examined her nails. "You have no claim to the throne, no claim to the children, and no claim to this palace. So I suggest you go back to whatever hospital you crawled out of." My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Isabella, it's Alexander. Sophie told me you're awake. We need to talk. Please don't do anything rash." I looked at the text. At Sophie. At my starving daughters in their prison room. Then I smiled. Because Sophie didn't know what I'd been doing for the three years before my coma. She didn't know about the documents I'd hidden. The alliances I'd built. The secrets I'd uncovered about the royal family that could bring the entire monarchy to its knees. She thought I was a helpless queen who'd been asleep for three years. She had no idea I was the most dangerous woman in Valdoria. Chapter 3 I didn't leave the north wing. I sat on the cold floor with my daughters in my lap and refused to move. Sophie sent guards. I told them to touch me and find out what happens when a queen with nothing to lose meets a man following illegal orders. They didn't touch me. She sent Alexander next. He appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, and the sight of him nearly broke my resolve. He looked the same—tall, dark-haired, that aristocratic jawline that had made me fall in love with him at twenty-two. But his eyes were different. Harder. Guiltier. "Isabella." He said my name like an apology he didn't want to make. "You look..." "Like someone who's been in a coma for three years? Yes." He stepped into the room and stopped when he saw the twins clinging to me. Something crossed his face—shame, maybe. Or maybe I was projecting. "The girls are fine. Sophie has been—" "Your daughters are malnourished, unwashed, and locked in a room with no heat. They told me they get bread when they're quiet. They think I'm dead because your wife told them I was." "She's not—" He caught himself. "Isabella, it's complicated." "It's not complicated. You abandoned your children." "I didn't abandon them. I was told they were being cared for. Sophie handled the day-to-day—" "Sophie starved them." "That's an exaggeration." "Look at them, Alexander." He looked. Really looked, maybe for the first time in months. Lily stared back at him with an expression no five-year-old should be capable of—pure, cold contempt. "You never come to see us," she said. "You promised you'd come every day after Mama's accident. You came twice. Then you stopped." Alexander's jaw tightened. "Lily, that's not—" "Sophie said we remind you of Mama and that makes you sad. So you don't want us anymore." The silence that followed was deafening. I stood, lifting both girls. My muscles screamed, but adrenaline is a powerful drug. "I'm taking them." "You can't. The annulment—" "Was based on a medical declaration that I was permanently incapacitated. I'm standing in front of you, Alexander. I'm clearly not incapacitated. Which means the annulment is void, the title stripping is void, and every legal action taken on the basis of that declaration is subject to immediate judicial review." He blinked. "How do you know—" "I was a constitutional law student before I was your wife. Did you forget that? Or did Sophie convince you I was just a pretty face in a crown?" His silence answered for him. "I'm taking the girls to a hospital. They need medical evaluation and documentation of their condition. Then I'm contacting the Royal Council." "The Royal Council answers to the King. My father will never side with you over me." "Your father, King Frederick, who signed my incapacitation order without a single independent medical evaluation? Your father, who allowed his grandchildren to be locked in a tower? Your father, whose secret financial dealings with the Hargrove Group I documented extensively before my accident?" Alexander went white. "That's right," I said softly. "I know about the Hargrove deal. I know about the offshore accounts. I know about the arms contracts disguised as agricultural aid. I documented everything and placed it somewhere very safe—somewhere Sophie's redecorating didn't reach." "You're bluffing." "Test me." We stood there, my skeletal frame against his royal height, my borrowed scrubs against his tailored suit. And for the first time since I'd woken up, I saw fear in his eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of what I knew. "Isabella, let's discuss this privately. We can work something out. The girls can move back to the main wing. You can have your own quarters—" "I don't want quarters in your palace. I want my children, my title, and a full investigation into their treatment." "That would create a scandal." "You created the scandal. I'm just turning on the lights." Sophie's voice echoed from the hallway. "Alexander! What's taking so long? Just call security and have her removed!" He flinched at her voice. The crown prince of Valdoria, flinching at his nanny-turned-wife. I almost pitied him. Almost. "I'm walking out the front door with my daughters," I said. "You can let me go quietly, or you can have me dragged out on camera. Because I called the press before I called the taxi." His eyes darted to the window. Below, in the palace courtyard, I could see the first news vans arriving. "You didn't." "Three years in a coma gives you a lot of enemies who feel guilty. You'd be amazed how many journalists answer the phone when a dead queen calls." I carried my girls down the grand staircase. Past the portraits of Sophie. Past the servants who stared. Past the guards who parted like water. At the front door, I turned back. Alexander stood at the top of the stairs, Sophie gripping his arm, her face twisted with fury. "Isabella!" she screamed. "You walk out that door and I'll destroy you! I am the Princess! I am the mother of the heir!" I looked up at her, my starving daughters in my arms, cameras flashing behind me. "You're a nanny who forgot her place. And I'm the Queen who just woke up." I stepped into the light.

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During her search, she saved a powerful billionaire. When they met again, he pinned her against the wall. "Doctor Y," he said, "may I offer myself in exchange for another rescue?" ===== "Yelena, back so soon? Brett White may be older, but he's everything a woman could want--rich, influential, and dependable. You should be honored to have such a chance to be his wife." Sonya Roberts leaned against the doorframe, a smug smile painted on her lips. Yelena Roberts' expression hardened. "Why don't you take this 'chance' for yourself, Sonya?" Yelena's voice cut like a bl**e, her eyes narrowed with scorn. "You spiked my drink, didn't you?" Before Sonya could react, Yelena surged forward, her palm colliding sharply with Sonya's cheek. The crack of the sl*p rang through the room, slicing through Sonya's arrogance. Sonya clutched her stinging cheek, her confidence crumbling into a strangled gasp, as the fierce red imprint of Yelena's fingers seared into her skin. "Yelena! You insolent girl! Have you gone mad?" Tatiana Roberts stormed forward, her face twisted in rage and disbelief as she glared daggers at Yelena. "How dare you hit Sonya?" What an ungrateful wr**ch! After all, Yelena wasn't even a Roberts. Three months ago, a trip to the hospital changed everything. Yelena had been admitted for an injury, and what should have been a routine bl**d test cracked her world wide open. Her rare bl**d type didn't match Jonathan Roberts or his wife--her supposed parents. The revelation shattered the once happy family of three--Yelena wasn't their real daughter. Desperate to restore balance, the Roberts family launched an exhaustive search for their true daughter. They found her in Sonya, a woman who slid seamlessly into the life that had never been meant for Yelena. From that day on, Yelena became a ghost in her own home, a usurper unwittingly basking in luxuries meant for Sonya. What was once hers was now declared an injustice, an insult to Sonya's rightful claim. Jonathan and Tatiana needed to make amends with their newfound daughter. But simply cutting Yelena loose? That seemed wasteful. Brett White, a wealthy associate, had expressed a certain infatuation with Yelena. If they played their cards right, marrying her off would guarantee a five-million-dollar payoff. So, they hatched a sinister plan. A dr**ged drink. A room prepared for betrayal. They intended to hand her over like a pawn, signed and sealed. Yelena, however, had shattered their scheme, slipping away from their clutches in the nick of time. She turned to Tatiana, defiant and composed, her voice cutting through the room like a bl**e. "She dr**ged me, ridiculed me, and treated me like I was nothing. So tell me, don't you think that sl*p was well-deserved?" Sonya's face fell, her lips trembling before she plastered on a look of false hurt. "I was thinking of your future," she replied, her voice sickly sweet. "Mother told me your real family was from a poor village. Marrying Mr. White would elevate your entire existence. Surely, that's a blessing." Yet behind her feigned innocence, Sonya seethed. How dare Yelena strike her? Retribution would come. Soon. "If marrying into wealth is such a blessing, why not seize it yourself?" Yelena's voice dripped with ice as her narrowed eyes pierced straight through Sonya and Tatiana. "You ungrateful girl!" Tatiana's voice was a whip crack of fury, her eyes blazing. "How dare you even think to measure yourself against Sonya? She is leagues above you! Sonya is already engaged to Roger Ellis, heir to the prestigious Ellis family. A union that befits her status!" Sonya stepped forward, her smile syrupy sweet, but her eyes gleaming with triumph. "That's right, Yelena. Roger told me I'm his one true love, the only one he could ever imagine by his side." The reality of it all hung in the air like a suffocating fog. Yelena had been Roger's fiancee first, a plan set in motion long before Sonya's existence was uncovered. But the moment Yelena's parentage unraveled, so did her engagement. Sonya stepped into her place as effortlessly as one might slip on a perfectly tailored gown. Even Roger had seemed eager to make the swap, his affections pivoting to Sonya with startling ease. Sonya's gaze lingered on Yelena, scanning her like a predator assessing prey. The softness of her features, her luminous skin, the poised elegance that seemed intrinsic to her--Sonya hated it. Envy coiled in her chest, venomous and bitter, but she masked it behind her well-practiced smile. "Relax, Sonya. I wouldn't touch Roger with a ten-foot pole. You two are perfect for each other--a match so unfortunate it's almost poetic. Just be sure to keep your theatrics to yourselves. The rest of us don't need the headache." Yelena's lips curved into a slow, disdainful smirk. Jonathan, sensing the tension reaching a breaking point, finally stepped in. "Yelena, this is for your benefit. We found you a suitable match, someone who can secure your future. But if you insist on refusing, then so be it. Perhaps it's time you sought out your biological parents." Despite knowing the depths of Tatiana and Sonya's scheming, Jonathan didn't even try to stop them. He understood their actions were wrong, yet the undeniable truth of Yelena's origins left no room for her to remain with the Roberts family. With a resigned sigh, Jonathan pulled out an envelope containing ten thousand dollars and held it out to her. "Take this. It's the least we can do. We mistakenly brought you here from Phurg, and we believe your real parents are still there." Phurg--a desolate and impoverished region, surviving only on the charity of corporations--was a stark reminder of how far removed Yelena was from the life she had known. Tatiana scoffed, crossing her arms. "Jonathan, are you serious? We raised her for more than a decade. We owe her nothing. And now you're handing her money after she had the audacity to strike Sonya? She's nothing but an ungrateful little parasite." Ungrateful? Yelena let out a bitter, mirthless laugh, her cold chuckle slicing through the air. Their eagerness to discard her so easily, as if she were an old trinket they no longer wanted, struck her deeper than she cared to admit. When she first found out that she wasn't their biological child, she had considered leaving them with a significant parting gift, a sum of money to ensure their security. But now? That notion felt laughable. Jonathan lacked the skills to manage a business, and Tatiana was little more than a glorified spender, bleeding their resources dry. If it weren't for Yelena's behind-the-scenes efforts, the Roberts Group would have collapsed long ago. Her eyes hardened as she straightened her posture. "Thank you for the gesture, Mr. Roberts, but that won't be necessary," she said, her voice calm and resolute. Without waiting for a response, Yelena turned on her heel and ascended the staircase to pack her belongings. Sonya hastily ran after Yelena. When Yelena returned downstairs, her figure was composed, carrying nothing but a worn black bag slung over her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable, but her posture radiated defiance. Sonya trailed after her, her face a mask of false concern. "Wait, Yelena! Don't be so hasty. These clothes are practically new--you really should take them. I mean, I heard your real family is... well, struggling," she said. With a calculated flourish, Sonya reached out and grabbed Yelena's bag. The loud clatter of its contents scattering onto the marble floor seized everyone's attention. Amid the mundane items lay a gleaming Chanel bracelet, its brilliance catching the light like a beacon. Sonya let out an exaggerated gasp, her hand flying to her chest. "This... this is the bracelet Dad gave me just last week! How could it end up in your bag?" Yelena's lips curled into a cold, mocking smile. So this was Sonya's plan--a final attempt to humiliate Yelena. She glanced at Sonya, her eyes sharp as d**gers. If Sonya wanted a show, she'd give her one. "How could you, Yelena?" Tatiana shrieked, her voice trembling with outrage. "Stealing from the very people who raised you? After everything we've done for you? No wonder you turned down the ten thousand dollars--you've already helped yourself to something far more valuable! A thief within the family is the ultimate disgrace!" Jonathan's frown deepened into a stormy scowl. He stepped forward, his voice low and foreboding. "Yelena, explain yourself. Why did the bracelet I gave to Sonya end up in your bag?" Chapter 2 A Wounded Man "Jonathan! She's nothing but a thief!" Tatiana's voice cracked with urgency, her frustration boiling over. "We should call the police immediately!" Sonya, ever the picture of contrived benevolence, stepped forward with a sigh. "Dad, Mom, let's not jump to conclusions. Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding. Maybe Yelena put the bracelet in her bag without even realizing it. I'm sure she didn't mean to." "What? She didn't meant to? Are you seriously trying to tell me that the bracelet just happened to fall into her bag? This isn't just some trinket--it's an original design by Yvonne, a true masterpiece. Irreplaceable. Yelena knew exactly what it was worth. Her greed is written all over her. It's exactly as I feared! No matter how long we raised her, we can't change her nature." Tatiana's words lashed out like a whip, dri*ping with contempt. "Mom, really, let it go," Sonya chimed in, her tone soft, almost pitying. She turned to Yelena with a sigh, her lips curving into a faintly sympathetic smile. "If she loves it so much, let her keep it. It's not like we'll see her again anyway. Though I can't deny, this bracelet has always been special to me. Yvonne is my idol, and her designs mean the world to me." Yelena watched their performance in silence, her expression unreadable. Each line, each gesture, was delivered with the precision of seasoned actors. If they ever decided to give up their privileged lives, they could make a fortune in the theater. The absurdity of it all almost made her laugh. Calmly, she bent down and picked up the bracelet, letting its brilliance glint in the light. Without a word, she approached Sonya, holding the clasp up to her face. "Take a good look," Yelena said, her voice cool and composed. "Read what's engraved here." Sonya's smile wavered, her confidence slipping as she hesitated. Narrowing her eyes, she leaned in, her gaze falling on the inscription. The elegant engraving stood out clearly--Y.R. "How... how could this be?" Sonya stammered, her voice faltering as her shock momentarily slipped through her polished exterior. "Aren't you a devoted fan of Yvonne's work, Sonya? Surely, you're aware that this series was designed with the option for custom engravings--each bracelet made unique to its owner. Not only that, but as a limited edition, every single piece is registered with an identification code. One-of-a-kind, impossible to duplicate." Yelena's lips curled into a wry smile. Her tone, calm yet laced with cutting mockery, was a bl**e honed to perfection. Before Sonya could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. A servant descended the staircase, clutching another bracelet in her hand. "Miss Roberts, is this the bracelet you've been searching for?" The room fell into stunned silence, all eyes locking onto the bracelet in the servant's hand. Sonya, recovering quickly, plastered on a strained smile and let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Oh, there it is! I can't believe it was here all along. How silly of me!" Her voice dripped with forced cheer, but her mind raced, panic bubbling just beneath the surface. What happened? She had been certain she'd slipped the bracelet into Yelena's bag. Yelena's icy gaze fixed on Sonya, the corners of her lips tugging into a cool, condescending smirk. "Well, Sonya, do you still think I stole your precious bracelet? Are you sure you want to get the police involved?" Sonya's composure wavered for a split second before she replied, "This bracelet is worth a small fortune. Tell me, Yelena, how could you possibly afford something like this? Unless..." She paused, her smile twisting into something uglier. "Unless you resorted to something less... honorable. After all, some girls these days will do anything for the right price." Yelena's smile sharpened into a blade, her eyes glinting with icy disdain. "You seem awfully knowledgeable about that line of work, Sonya. Tell me--was it firsthand experience that taught you how these trades operate? Did you sell yourself before rejoining the Roberts family? Is that why you're so well-versed in the details?" Sonya's face burned crimson, her mouth opening and closing in sputtering outrage. "You... you're making baseless accusations!" "Yelena, you insolent brat!" Tatiana roared, her face contorted in rage as she slammed her fist against the armrest. "How dare you speak to Sonya like that? Get out of this house! Out of this family! And don't ever come back!" Yelena's smile grew sharper, radiant with defiance. Her eyes glittered with icy resolve. "Beg me on your knees, and still, I wouldn't step foot in this place again," she said, her voice as smooth as steel. Turning on her heel, she slung her worn black bag over her shoulder and strode toward the door. She didn't hesitate, didn't look back. For her, the Roberts family and their hollow pretenses were already a closed chapter. She felt no sadness, only relief. The charade was over. "Good riddance!" Tatiana sneered behind her, venom dripping from her words. She slumped into her seat, exhaling deeply, her lips curling into a smile of satisfaction. In her mind, the family was finally rid of an unwelcome burden. Yelena walked out into the crisp evening air, the villa shrinking behind her. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she answered it without breaking stride. "Yelena, I heard that they kicked you out?" Brody Hewitt's voice was sharp, brimming with agitation. "They did," Yelena replied evenly, her tone calm but resolute. There was a pause, and then Brody's voice hardened. "Those people are absolutely sh**eless!" Brody's voice crackled through the phone, brimming with indignation. "They're the definition of fair-weather friends. Without you, Jonathan Roberts would still be floundering in obscurity. They don't even realize that you were the reason for their success..." "That's enough," Yelena cut in, her voice calm but firm. "Any updates on my biological parents?" Jonathan had claimed it was a mistake at the hospital, a mix-up rather than an intentional act of abandonment. That distinction lingered in Yelena's mind, fueling her determination to find her family. Brody exhaled audibly, reining in his frustration. "Yes, the search is in progress. We should have concrete results soon." "Good," Yelena replied crisply, ending the call without another word. As she approached the main road, a sharp, metallic scent drifted on the cold breeze, cutting through the night air. She stopped mid-step, her brows furrowing as unease prickled at the back of her neck. A figure emerged from the shadows, staggering toward her. His white shirt was soaked in bl**d, the crimson staining his chest and hands. Each step he took seemed heavier than the last, his strength visibly waning. "Stop running, coward! Accept your fate!" a menacing voice shouted from behind him. Yelena's gaze darted to the source of the commotion. A group of men, dressed in black, stalked after the injured man like predators closing in on their prey. Their movements were deliberate, their intent clear. The injured man--Austin Barton--paused, swaying but defiant. His face was pallid, his breaths shallow, yet his voice held steel. "Who are you working for?" "Sh*t it! We're done talking." The man then turned to his group. "Let's finish him off already." "Wait." Another man halted abruptly, his gaze shifting to the side. "There's someone else here." Yelena froze as all eyes turned to her. Her heart sank. Perfect. Just perfect. Today had been a series of escalating disasters, and now this. It was painfully clear these men had no intention of leaving witnesses behind. The cause of her predicament stood before her--the bl**died man staggering in her direction. The leader of the group, a hulking figure with a cruel smirk, stepped forward. His eyes roamed over her, lingering too long, and his lips curled into something predatory. The men around him chuckled darkly, their laughter carrying an undercurrent of vile intent. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart," one of the men sneered, his tone mocking as his gaze lingered on her. "Once we deal with this guy, we'll take real good care of you. Whatever your pretty little heart d**ires--it'll all be yours." Yelena didn't flinch. Her eyes, cold and unyielding, met his with an intensity that froze the air between them. She uttered a single word, her voice low and commanding, cutting through the tension like a bl**e. "Leave." The men exchanged amused glances, still jeering, but their laughter faltered when they caught a glint of silver in the dim light. In her hand, a set of long, sleek needles shimmered, their tips sharp and unyielding. Yelena's lips curled into a mocking smile, her gaze sharpening into something lethal. Before any of them could process the shift in her stance, she moved. With fluid precision, her arm arced through the air, the needles slicing through the darkness like streaks of light. Each one found its mark with unerring accuracy--throats, shoulders, legs--their targets incapacitated before a single cry could escape their lips. One by one, the men crumpled to the ground, their weapons slipping from their hands. Their jeering confidence dissolved into stunned silence as realization dawned far too late. Austin, still struggling to stay upright, stared at the scene in wide-eyed disbelief. Who was this woman? Her movements had been precise, calculated--far beyond anything he had ever witnessed. She wasn't just skilled. She was extraordinary! Chapter 3 Returned To Her Real Family Yelena cast a cursory glance at the men sprawled on the ground before shifting her gaze to the injured man. His sharp features were striking--eyes dark and cold, his expression distant and stoic, as if carved from stone. Despite his pallor and obvious pain, he exuded an air of quiet resilience. She had every intention of walking away, leaving this chaotic scene behind her. Yet something in her hesitated. One of her weaknesses--her soft-heartedness--held her back. With a resigned sigh, she knelt beside the man and examined his wounds. "Thank you," Austin said, his voice low but carrying a sincere note of gratitude. "It's nothing," she replied, her tone detached, though her actions suggested otherwise. As she checked his pulse, her brows knitted together. The bl**ding, while severe, wasn't the most pressing concern. His pulse was weak and erratic--a telltale sign of poison coursing through his v*ins. Yelena opened her bag and retrieved a small porcelain bottle. Uncorking it, she sprinkled a fine medicinal powder over his bl**ding wounds. Almost instantly, the bl**ding slowed, and a soothing coolness replaced the sting of pain. She then produced a small pill and handed it to him, her voice steady. "Take this. It will counteract the poison. Without timely treatment, you won't make it much longer," Yelena said, her tone cool and matter-of-fact. Austin hesitated, his sharp eyes studying her as if trying to gauge her intentions. Yelena continued her work, efficiently bandaging his wounds. Just as she finished, the sound of footsteps reached them. She turned her head to see another group of people approaching. "Mr. Barton..." "They're with me," Austin said, exhaling in relief. His shoulders relaxed slightly, his posture easing. Yelena stood up. "Since your men are here now, I'll be on my way," she said briskly, already turning to leave. "Miss," Austincalled after her, his tone softer now. "At least tell me your name, so I can repay your kindness." "That won't be necessary," Yelena replied curtly, her voice cool but final. Before he could utter another word, she was already gone. Trouble was a luxury she couldn't afford. After being saved, Austin's sharp gaze lingered on her retreating figure, a spark of intrigue lighting up his otherwise steely expression. How had she pinpointed the poison merely by taking his pulse? Her precision, her unshaken calm, and her evident expertise--it all defied belief. One thing was certain though--as long as she remained in Eighfast, he would find her again. Yelena walked away without a glance behind her, her focus already shifting to the next step in her journey. Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft hum of an approaching car. A sleek, custom-built extended Rolls-Royce rolled to a stop in front of her, its polished exterior gleaming even under the dim streetlights. Yelena froze momentarily, as she'd only ever seen such extravagance in magazines and on television. The door opened with precise smoothness, and a middle-aged man stepped out. His movements were deliberate, his posture immaculate, and his expression carried a quiet reverence. "Miss Harris, we've finally found you! I am Sebastian Holden, the Harris family's butler. At the request of Mr. and Mrs. Harris, I am here to escort you home." "Me? Miss Harris?" Yelena asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. What was he talking about? The Roberts family had mentioned her biological parents were impoverished villagers from the remote region of Phurg. Yet here stood a man whose demeanor and the car he emerged from spoke of nothing but wealth and privilege. "Yes, you!" Sebastian confirmed, his tone measured yet warm. "You are the eldest daughter of the Harris family. Your mother got emotional and almost fainted when she learned of your existence, and your father instructed me to personally ensure your safe return. Please, come with me." Sebastian, his expression composed yet filled with deference, stepped forward and held the car door open for her. Yelena's mind raced. Could the Roberts family's investigation have been wrong--or deliberately misleading? Her bewilderment gave way to resolve. She had always intended to find her biological parents. If someone had come to take her to them, why hesitate? Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the car. The door clicked shut with a reassuring softness, and the vehicle glided away from the curb... ...... Meanwhile, in a private hospital in Eighfast. Austin lay motionless against the stark white sheets of the hospital bed, his angular features etched with quiet intensity. Even in repose, there was an undeniable authority about him--an unyielding tension in his jaw and the unspoken command reflected in his gaze. "Sir, our team has conducted extensive searches in the surrounding areas," Domenic Murphy, Austin's ever-loyal assistant, reported. "But so far, we've been unable to locate the young woman you described." "I see. Continue the search." Austin's eyes remained fixed on the view outside, his voice steady and resolute. The woman had saved his life, pulling him back from the brink of death. But gratitude alone wasn't driving him. There were unanswered questions--puzzling and urgent--that demanded resolution. "Understood, sir! I've also deployed a team to investigate the men in black. Early findings suggest that your activities here in Eighfast were compromised. This led directly to the ambush. There is a possibility that your uncle..." Domenic stopped abruptly as Austin raised a hand, cutting him off with an imperious gesture. "I'm already aware," Austin said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "For now, prioritize locating Yancy. Time is of the essence." "Yes, sir. I will see to it that it gets done soon," Domenic replied, bowing slightly before exiting the room with silent efficiency. Austin's gaze remained on the horizon, his mind racing. As a son of the powerful Barton family in Kheley, he had ventured to Eighfast with a singular purpose: to find the mysterious doctor Yancy, the person central to his mission. Two years earlier, Austin had been stricken with a lethal poison, one so rare that even the most renowned medical experts were left confounded. Conventional treatments had failed him, and Austin had been left with a grim prognosis--his time was running out. Rumors swirled of an mysterious doctor named Yancy, reputed to hold the knowledge needed to counteract such toxins. With hope as his only guide, Austin had journeyed to Eighfast in pursuit of this elusive savior, but fate had intervened in a way he hadn't foreseen. An ambush nearly claimed his life, and his mission might have ended there had it not been for a young woman who appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Now, as the days slipped away, Austin's resolve hardened. The toxin lay dormant for now, but its threat loomed. At that moment, the door to his hospital room swung open, and Jarrod Robinson, Austin's attending physician, strode in. A set of medical reports rested in his hands, and a flicker of restrained excitement lit his face. "Mr. Barton, I have good news! The toxin levels in your system have markedly decreased since our last evaluation." Jarrod had been Austin's private physician since the onset of his illness, a prodigy in the medical field renowned for solving complex cases. Yet, even he had been powerless against the mystery of Austin's poisoning. Austin's eyes narrowed in disbelief as he sat up abruptly. "Are you certain?" "Absolutely!" Jarrod handed him the latest report, his tone barely containing his curiosity. "This is remarkable progress. Where were you treated? Could you share that information with me?" The sudden improvement in his condition was both baffling and thrilling. "I received no formal treatment," Austin said, his voice steady but charged with an undercurrent of urgency. "During the ambush, a young woman saved me. She then handed me a pill and claimed it would be of help." The memory was etched deeply in his mind. From the moment he had taken the pill, a remarkable warmth had spread through his body, reigniting his vitality in a way that defied explanation. He had no doubt--the pill had been the turning point in his survival, and the woman who provided it was the key. "Whoever she is, her knowledge goes beyond anything I've encountered--it could revolutionize treatment for cases like yours." Jarrod's eyes gleamed with curiosity. At the words, Austin's eyes flashed with a determination that was bound to find her... ...... ==== Yelena discovered that she wasn't her parents' biological child. After seeing through their ploy to trade her as a pawn in a business deal, she was sent away to her barren birthplace. There, she stumbled upon her true origins--a lineage of historic opulence. What happens next? What will her real family be like? What kind of sparks will she create with this mysterious man? 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