From The Dead: A Billionaire's Revenge

For seventeen years, I was the pride of the Carlisle family, the perfect daughter destined to inherit an empire. But that life ended the moment a DNA report slid across my father’s mahogany desk. The paper proved I was a stranger. Vanessa, the girl sobbing in the corner, was the real biological daughter they had been searching for. "You need to leave. Tonight. Before the press gets wind of this. Before the stock prices dip." My father’s voice was as cold as flint. My mother wouldn't even look at me, staring out the window at the gardens as if I were already a ghost. Just like that, I was erased. I left behind the Birkin bags and the diamonds, throwing my Centurion Card into a crystal bowl with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot. I walked out into the cold night and climbed into a rusted Ford Taurus driven by a man I had never met—my biological father. I went from a mansion to a fourth-floor walk-up in Queens that smelled of laundry detergent and struggle. My new siblings looked at me with a mix of fear and disgust, waiting for the "fallen princess" to break. They expected me to beg for my old life back, to crumble without the luxury I’d known since birth. But they didn't know the truth. I had spent years training in a shark tank, honing survival skills they couldn't imagine. While Richard Carlisle froze my trust funds to starve me out, my net worth was climbing by millions on an encrypted trading app. They thought they were throwing me to the wolves. They didn't realize they were just letting me off my leash. As the Carlisles prepared to debut Vanessa at the Manhattan Arts Gala, I was already making my move. "Get dressed. We're going to a party."

My wedding to Ethan Reed was just weeks away. After seven years, I was certain of our perfect future. Then, Ethan claimed "selective amnesia" from a head injury, forgetting only me. I tried to make him remember, until I overheard his video call. "Total genius move," he boasted to friends. His amnesia was a fake "hall pass" to pursue influencer Chloe Vance before our wedding. Heartbroken, I feigned belief. I endured his open flirting with Chloe and their taunting selfies. He mocked my distress, prioritizing Chloe's fake emergency. After an accident he caused, he abandoned me, injured, choosing to send Chloe to the hospital first. He even tried to cut me off financially. How could my fiancé be this cruel, calculating monster? His betrayal poisoned every memory. I felt like a fool for trusting such boundless cruelty. His audacity left me reeling. But I wouldn’t be his victim. Instead of breaking, a cold plan formed. I would shed my identity, become Olivia Carter. I would disappear, leaving him, my past, and his engagement ring behind forever, claiming my freedom.

I thought I had the perfect marriage to Emerson Gonzales, the most powerful man in the music industry. When the doctor confirmed our baby had a strong, healthy heartbeat, I felt like the luckiest woman alive. That was before I discovered the truth. I wasn't his wife; I was a substitute. A perfect imitation of his cousin Gisele, who had been in a coma for three years. The baby wasn't meant to be mine, either. It was a "legacy" for Gisele, a gift for when she woke up. And when she did wake up, my life became a living hell. She shattered the last memento of my dead mother, and Emerson told me it was just a "cheap little figurine." He had me brutally beaten for her amusement, recording the whole thing as a tribute. But that wasn't the worst of it. Gisele attacked me, causing a violent miscarriage. Then, she threw the ashes of my mother and my unborn child on the floor and ground them into the dirt with her heel. My husband, my entire world-all of it was a calculated sham. I was just an incubator, and now, I was disposable. With nothing left to lose, I took my passport and fled to Paris. When he finally found me, begging me to come home for the sake of "our baby," I just showed him the medical report. "What baby are you talking about, Emerson?"

For five years, my husband Gabriel was the perfect man. He was a doting, gentle producer who saw the magic in me, the quiet songwriter behind the scenes. Everyone said the way he looked at me was pure adoration. I believed them. But his love wasn't for me. It was a shield to protect his real project: my younger sister, the pop star Aria. He was stealing my songs and my art, gifting my soul to her so she could shine while I remained in the shadows. The final proof came at a party celebrating her latest stolen triumph. When Aria faked a fall, the sound of my husband screaming her name was filled with a raw, desperate love I had never heard in our entire marriage. It was a love reserved only for her. He then turned to me, his eyes cold, and hissed, "What did you do?" In that single moment, the woman who loved him died. My entire world, built on his beautiful lies, shattered completely. I wasn't his wife; I was just the golden goose, and my heart was simply collateral damage. So when he asked what I wanted for my thirtieth birthday, I gave him a small, empty smile. "I want to go out on the yacht. Just the two of us. We can watch the sunrise." He thought it was a romantic escape. He had no idea it was the stage for my disappearance and the beginning of his ruin.

It was my son Ethan' s fifth birthday, a day meant for celebration. His small hand clutched mine, his eyes wide with the innocent wish to visit the city aquarium. But then, my husband David, a man as imposing as the military jacket he wore, declared his plans had changed, dismissing our son' s hopes with chilling indifference. "The aquarium is for common people." he sneered, his true priority a mistress, Lisa Johnson, and their sordid affair. When I begged for just a few hours, David' s face hardened into a mask of cruel indifference. Ethan, sensing the tension, began to cry softly. "Crying? Over something so trivial?" he scoffed, before scooping Ethan into his arms. My son' s cries turned to shrieks as David strode towards our private lake. "I' m teaching him a lesson," he calmly stated. Before I could react, he tossed our five-year-old son into the dark, cold water. The splash was horribly loud, and Ethan' s small body disappeared, then reappeared, flailing, gasping for air. David stood motionless, watching him drown, "If he' s my son, he' ll survive." I screamed, fighting to reach Ethan, but David' s steel grip held me back, forcing me to watch as my son' s struggles grew weaker, his head bobbing, his small hands slapping the water with less and less force. His eyes, wide with terror, locked on me, a desperate, silent plea. Then his head went under. It didn' t come back up. "He failed," David stated, as I collapsed onto the ground, my life shattered. I returned home to find Ethan' s room being dismantled, his world erased, replaced by a nursery for Lisa' s unborn child. They stood there, smiling, planning their future on the ashes of my son' s life. "Ethan doesn' t need a room anymore, Sarah," David said, his voice laced with that same chilling indifference. "He' s dead!" I shrieked, "You killed him!" His response was a dismissive sigh, and Lisa, cunningly feigning distress for her baby, manipulated David into striking me. His slap echoed in the empty room, stinging my cheek, and in that horrifying moment, I saw the monster he truly was. This wasn' t just indifference; it was pure evil. With his father' s help, I held a small memorial for Ethan, a vigil that David and Lisa callously ignored, even sharing a triumphant kiss in front of our son' s symbolic casket. My heart turned to ice. Then David, in a fit of rage, smashed Ethan' s last photograph and burned his beloved teddy bear, extinguishing the last tangible pieces of my son, and with them, any lingering attachment I had to him. Later, I discovered David was sterile, meaning Lisa' s baby wasn' t his. This wasn' t just betrayal; it was a calculated scheme. Clutching the charred remains of Ethan' s teddy bear' s eye, a searing physical anchor to my unimaginable loss, I walked out of that house and that life with a quiet, resolute dignity. I was done.

The sterile hospital room hummed with the slow, dying breath of my daughter, Gabrielle. My rare family gift, usually a beacon of fortune, felt utterly useless as I watched her slip away. My husband, Andrew, stood cold and calculating, not grieving, but orchestrating a political damage control campaign, sacrificing Gabrielle' s reputation for his ambition. Then, the true horror unfolded: he confessed his affair, then mocked my ancestral remedy-the very cure that saved his life once-before pouring the last precious vial onto a sick dog, letting our daughter die. How could a man be so heartless, so utterly devoid of humanity, to choose ambition and a dog' s comfort over his own child' s life? But as I buried Gabrielle in the sacred Appalachian soil of our ancestors, a chilling realization ignited within me: the pact was broken, and now, my gift would no longer protect them; it would exact a vengeful fate.