When I was eighteen, the Blackwoods—the wealthiest family in the city—sent a black town car to our decaying mining town. They claimed my mother was the biological daughter of their patriarch, snatched from her cradle by a vengeful nanny thirty-eight years ago. A month later, they sent her back. But she didn’t come home in a town car. She came home in a pine box, a mangled corpse without a single inch of unbruised skin. I stared at the body, and a dark, electric shiver ran through me. I wasn't crying. I was vibrating with a sick sort of epiphany: JessieShe’s finally dead. There’s no one left to hold me back.Jessie My mother had given birth to me exactly seven months after marrying the town drunk, a man twice her age. Because of that timing, the town branded her a "fast woman," a pariah. To keep us fed and to keep me in school, she was forced into a life of quiet desperation, often pushed by that old drunk into the beds of men who viewed her as nothing more than a convenience. She poured every cent she had into my future, but I repaid her by becoming the very thing the town feared. I skipped school, I picked fights, and I grew teeth. When the neighbor’s kid threw a rock at me, I didn't cry; I broke his leg. When my cousin called me a mistake, I kicked him until he couldn't walk. When the old drunk tried to put his hands on me, I cracked his skull with a brick. Every time I drew blood, my mother would end up on her knees. I watched her press her forehead into the dirt, sobbing, begging the neighbors or the police for mercy, her own blood mixing with the dust. She would take the beatings meant for me, pulling me into her arms afterward, smelling of copper and cheap soap. "Jessie, please," she’d whisper, her voice trembling. "Stop fighting. I’m so scared there’s going to come a day when I can’t protect you anymore." I’d just roll my eyes, giving her a hollow promise I never intended to keep. … My mother’s body was wrapped in a cheap white sheet, dumped in the middle of our overgrown, gravel-pit yard. The blood on the fabric had turned a sickly, rusted black, making the jagged scars beneath look even more violent. The man who brought her back was the Blackwoods’ estate manager. He wore a suit that cost more than our house and held a silk handkerchief to his nose, squinting at the body with pure revulsion. Then he looked at me—from my dirt-caked boots to my tangled hair—as if I were a stain on a white rug. According to him, my mother was a thief. He claimed she had been consumed by jealousy, trying to steal the "rightful" daughter’s room and abusing the daughter’s child. He told me she’d shredded designer dresses, tried to poison her "sister," and eventually fell down a grand staircase while trying to push someone else. The Blackwoods were too "distinguished" to claim her. They wouldn't even let her rot in their family plot. But, out of the "goodness of their hearts," they were willing to take me—the "mistake"—back to the estate. I looked at the body. Her face was a ruin. A month ago, when they first took her, she had gripped my hands, tears of joy streaming down her face. She thought she’d finally found a way out for us. She told me she’d get me into a good university, watch me marry someone kind, and see me live the life she never had. Now, she was just cold meat. I didn't say a word. I grabbed a shovel, dug a hole behind our shack, and dragged her small, broken frame into the earth. I buried her like a stray dog. No casket. No prayer. As I climbed into the back of the town car, the manager sneered, his finger nearly poking my forehead. "You’re the spawn of a common criminal. Don't go dreaming of things that don't belong to you. Miss Camille is a saint for taking you in. You will bow, you will be grateful, and you will remember your place." I picked at my ear, bored. Then, with a sudden JessiecrackJessie, I snapped his pointing finger and followed it with a hook that sent two of his teeth flying onto the leather seats. I slammed my boot onto his face, my voice as cold as a mountain winter. "I don't care whose dog you are. In my world, I’m the one who bites. You’re just the one who bleeds." The moment I stepped into the Blackwood mansion—a cathedral of glass and gold—a crystal glass shattered at my feet. Scalding water splashed onto my ankles. "You animal! Get on your knees!" I looked up. The man screaming was Benedict Blackwood. Seventy years old, my mother’s biological father, and apparently a man who liked to bark. A middle-aged woman beside him began to fake a sob, dabbing at her eyes with a lace tissue. This was Camille—the woman who had lived my mother’s life for thirty-eight years. "Dad, please, don't be angry!" Camille cried. "I know her mother hated me for 'taking her place,' so she tried to kill me the moment she arrived. But Jessie is her only daughter. She’s your blood. Even if she attacked your manager and threatened to kill us, I can’t blame her. If it makes her happy, my daughter and I will leave. We’ll just go." She made a move to leave, but Benedict caught her arm. "This switch wasn't your fault! A Blackwood heiress isn't just anyone we pull out of the gutter!" I watched them. Camille had the same hooded eyes as the nanny who had stolen my mother. Shifty. Predatory. She was right about one thing, though: I was definitely going to kill them. My eyes drifted to Camille’s hands—perfectly manicured, draped in diamonds. I counted them. One, two, three, ten fingers. All there. Unlike my mother’s hands. My mother, whose palms were thick with calluses from scrubbing floors. Whose knuckles were scarred from cigarette burns. My mother, who had three fingers chopped off her left hand and two on her right so mangled they could barely hold a fork. I licked my lips, wondering if Camille’s fingers would make a clearer JessiesnapJessie when I broke them. Camille leaned in close, her voice a poisonous whisper meant only for me. "Listen to me, you little brat. I don't care whose blood is in your veins. You’re just like that bitch mother of yours—trash. And trash stays under my boot." She reached out as if to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, but her long nails dug into my skin, drawing blood. I felt every cell in my body catch fire. I grabbed that white, soft hand and grinned at her. Before she could scream, I began to snap her fingers, one by one. I closed my eyes, savoring the sound. It was like a symphony, a beautiful, rhythmic percussion of justice. When all ten were broken, I tossed her aside like a wet rag. I pulled out my phone and hit play. Her own voice—the "trash" comment—echoed through the grand hall. I looked at a stunned Benedict. "So, old man. If I’m a 'little brat' because of your blood, what does that make you? The King of Brats?" I stepped on Camille’s mangled hand, leaning down. "And what does that make this woman? The daughter of a kidnapper who’s been playing dress-up in a stolen life?" Benedict’s face went from red to a ghostly purple. He clutched his chest, gasping for air as he collapsed onto a velvet sofa. He shouted for the guards, calling me a monster, an animal. A dozen security guards swarmed me. Just then, a fragile, high-pitched voice drifted from the stairs. A girl about my age, wearing a silk dress I’d only seen in magazines. She looked pale, sickly—like a Victorian ghost. This was Paige, Camille’s daughter. She was supporting an elderly woman who could only be my grandmother, Martha Blackwood. The resemblance to my mother was haunting. Martha’s eyes lit up when she saw me, then quickly dimmed into disappointment. My mother thought the Blackwoods came for her out of love. She was a fool. I wasn't. A family this rich has physicals every year. There is no way they didn't know for thirty-eight years that Camille wasn't theirs. They didn't look for my mother because they didn't want her. They only brought us here now because they needed something. I looked at Paige, the "sickly" one. JessieFound it.Jessie Paige rushed to Camille’s side, then dropped to her knees before Benedict, crying beautifully. "Grandpa, don't be mad! Jessie just lost her mother. She’s hurting. It’s only natural she’d take it out on us. It’s my fault—Mom and I are the ones in her house. Please, don't hurt her. If you have to hit someone, hit me!" She gave Camille’s sleeve a subtle tug. Camille took the hint and started wailing that the recording was a fake, a "deepfake" I’d used to frame her. Benedict, blinded by his own vanity, believed them instantly. He helped Paige up, his voice trembling with affection. "You’re too good, Paige. Helping a creature like her. You’re a true Blackwood. Your kidneys are failing—you should be resting, not dealing with this." JessieBingo. Failing kidneys.Jessie In an instant, the puzzle pieces clicked. My mother’s kidneys didn't match, so they let her die. Mine did. That’s the only reason I was in this house. Benedict waved his hand at the guards. "Hold her down! Make her apologize on her knees! Then throw her in the basement. No food until she learns her place!" The guards moved in. I cracked my neck, my blood singing. They didn't know my medical history. They didn't know about the diagnosed antisocial personality disorder or the violent impulses I’d spent years suppressing for a mother who was now in the dirt. Without her voice in my ear, I didn't have to be a "good girl" anymore. The room shifted from smug satisfaction to pure horror. Minutes later, the guards were a heap of broken limbs on the marble floor. I was bleeding from a cut on my lip, but I couldn't feel it. I licked the copper taste, grabbed Camille by her hair and Paige by her throat, and kicked their legs out from under them. I slammed their heads into the floor, forcing them to bow to me. "Anyone who screams gets another tooth knocked out," I whispered. Benedict was having a full-blown heart attack. Martha was shrieking, swinging her cane at me. "Stop it! You’re just like your mother! Evil! Cruel! I’ll teach you some manners!" I caught the cane mid-air. Martha stumbled back, landing hard on her ass. I took the cane and swung it into Camille’s ribs with a sickening thud. The bruise it left was the exact shape of the one I’d seen on my mother’s corpse. I pressed the tip of the cane into Martha’s chest. "Hey, old lady. Is this how you 'taught' my mother? With this cane?" Martha froze, her eyes flickering with something like guilt. "Your mother was... she was unrefined. She tried to hurt Camille and Paige. I’m her mother. It was my right to discipline her!" I laughed. It was a jagged, ugly sound. "Discipline? You call torturing your biological daughter for a month until she died 'discipline'?" She turned white. "What? Tortured? She fell..." I smirked. She actually seemed like she didn't know the extent of it. Before she could ask more, Camille began wailing about Paige fainting. The house erupted into chaos. Ambulances arrived, hauling away a literal truckload of the "elite." My first day at the Blackwood estate: The manager had a broken hand. Twelve guards were in the ER. Camille had ten broken fingers. Paige’s "delicate" condition had worsened. Benedict was in cardiac care. Martha was sedated for high blood pressure. The family that plays together, stays together—in the hospital. I stayed behind in the silent mansion. A maid was trembling on the floor before me, sobbing for mercy. "Miss, I’ll tell you everything! Please! Look at the cameras!" She pointed to a small black dome on the ceiling. My rage reached a boiling point. They had cameras. They could have checked at any time and seen Camille’s lies. They just chose not to. The maid led me to the basement. It was a damp, windowless cell that smelled of mildew and old blood. In the corner lay a pile of heavy iron chains. On the floor were dark, oxidized stains. And there, hanging from a hook, was a leather whip crusted with my mother’s DNA. This was where she spent her "homecoming." Chained like a dog, whipped until her heart gave out. I went upstairs, walked into Camille’s master suite, and lay down on her silk sheets. My mother and I had never even touched fabric this soft. The next morning, Benedict and Martha burst in. Martha’s cane slammed against the floor. "Who gave you permission to be in here? You’re as greedy as your mother!" I sat up slowly. "Greedy? This belonged to my mother by birthright. Now, it’s mine." Benedict snapped, "Enough! Paige is in kidney failure because of your stunt. You’re going to the hospital right now to donate. It’s the least you can do for the family you’ve nearly destroyed." The sheer arrogance of it made me laugh. "You’re delusional. Why would I give a kidney to the daughter of the woman who murdered my mother?" Camille, her hands heavily bandaged, hovered at the door, weeping. "Jessie, please... she’s innocent. Save my baby." But her eyes were full of venom. Martha frowned. "Your mother was a troubled woman, Jessie. She fell. It was an accident." "An accident?" I walked toward her, closing the distance until she had to look up. "Tell me exactly how she was 'troubled.'" Martha’s lip curled. "She was jealous. She smashed a glass of boiling water Camille brought her, burning Camille’s hands. She was a monster." "Oh? Like this?" I grabbed Camille, sliced through her bandages with a paring knife, and took a cup of steaming tea from the maid. I shoved it into Camille’s hand. She screamed, dropping the cup, which splashed directly onto Benedict’s lap. Martha shrieked at me. "She’s injured! How could she hold that?" "My mother had three fingers missing and two paralyzed," I hissed. "And yet you expected her to hold the 'kind' gift Camille gave her?" Martha’s hand went to her mouth. "Missing fingers? Who... who did that?" I pointed at Camille. "Ask her biological mother. Your 'nanny.'" Martha’s knees buckled. "No... the nanny didn't know who she was... why would she..." I leaned in, my voice a cold rasp. "You want to know why I’m a match for Paige? Why the 'rural trash' is the only one who can save the 'golden girl'?" She blinked, confused. "Why?" Because some sins deserve to be screamed from the rooftops. "Because I am—" I was about to speak when Camille scrambled off the floor, screaming to drown me out.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "445306", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel