Blood for Blood: Erasing the Billionaire

My nine-month pregnant belly pressed hard against the freezing yacht deck, amniotic fluid and blood staining the wood a sickening crimson.

The fianc who had pulled me from the mud when my reputation was in tatters was now using his Patek Philippe-adorned hands to ruthlessly tighten the coarse hemp rope around my wrists. He yanked the knot. "You killed Ophelia. A thousand cuts wouldn't be enough to atone for what you did."

I locked eyes with him, my nails digging into the splintered wood. He was never my salvation.

He was the executioner meticulously handpicked by the billionaire Pierce family!

The three of them lounged on the yacht's custom leather sofas, staring down at me with dead eyes as I writhed in agony.

All of this happened because of that "damsel in distress" who crashed at my place, playing the victim while dripping in haute couture Chanel. I bled myself dry taking care of her, and she repaid me by faking a diary to frame me as her vicious abuser!

A heavy boulder dragged my body over the edge.

I plunged into the dark depths. Suffocation crushed my lungs.

I gasped, snapping my eyes open. No abyss. No freezing river water.

I was back on the exact day I met Ophelia.

Chapter 1

I was back. In exactly ten minutes, that hypocritical broke loser, Brody, would force his way into my apartment with Ophelia. He would command me to give up my only bed for that precious little rich girl, acting like he was handing out charity to a homeless person.

I dropped to my knees and dragged a battered wooden crate out from under the bed. I ripped the lid off. Inside sat a rusted cookie tin. It held every cent I owned to my name.

In my past life, I had hidden it so carefully, yet somehow she still found out about it. Back then, she had picked up a sick Scottish Fold cat. The vet told us it was a genetic defect, incurable. If she really loved it, she needed to put it down to end its suffering.

But Ophelia cried, claiming the cat was just as pitiful as she was. She refused to give up. She had no money, so she begged Brody and me.

Brody was dead broke, rarely having ten bucks in his pocket. Yet, he miraculously pulled out two thousand dollars to pay for the cat's surgery. A week later, the cat died anyway.

Devastated, Ophelia ran off into the stormy night with its body. We spent half the night searching for her, eventually finding her passed out on the street in an upscale neighborhood.

After rushing her to the emergency room, I ran back to my apartment to grab cash. That was when I realized my college fund was gone. The money used for that pointless surgery was my life savings.

It was a solid two thousand dollars in cash. I had scrubbed toilets, waited tables, and endured harassment from disgusting customers, saving every single penny for my Ivy League application fees and dorm deposit.

Ophelia didn't steal it herself. She just pointed Brody to my hiding spot, and he took it.

A vicious fight exploded between us. I cut him out of my life. Ophelia moved into Brody's place.

She already had a heart condition. The cat's death sent her into a deep depression. She refused to leave the house, relying entirely on Brody to wait on her hand and foot.

Brody was genuinely obsessed with her. To give her a better life, he hustled. He delivered food, started live streaming, and clawed his way up.

But Ophelia still died, wasting away from her depression.

After that, Brody became a completely different person. He rode the wave of the influencer economy. With his good looks, he blew up online. When he hit ten million followers, he published Ophelia's diary to the world.

It went viral. The whole internet cried over Ophelia's purity and Brody's undying devotion. Meanwhile, I was painted as the evil villain.

The internet tore me apart. The cyberbullying escalated. They didn't just send death threats online; they doxxed me in real life.

When my family's dark past was maliciously leaked, masked thugs smashed through my window in the dead of night.

I grabbed a baseball bat and fought for my life to keep them from ruining me.

I found out later that Brody had paid top dollar for those thugs on the dark web. He even livestreamed the whole break-in on a pay-per-view channel.

He wanted to destroy me.

After five years of hell, he teamed up with Pierceand my own fiancto murder me!

Now, I was back. I would make every single one of them pay in blood.

I shoved the cash and an old newspaper from the bottom of the crate into a plastic ziplock bag. I tossed it into a canvas duffel along with a couple of shirts. I locked the apartment door behind me.

Just as I started down the stairs, I froze.

Brody and Ophelia were already standing at the bottom of the stairwell.

Chapter 2

The rundown apartment building only had one stairwell. If I went down, I'd definitely run into them. I hurried up a flight and hid in the shadows of the landing.

Ophelia looked exactly as she had in my past life. Sixteen years old, delicate and pure, like a lily about to bloom.

Brody never knew his father, and his mother disappeared years ago. We grew up together. Clich as it sounds, we were childhood friends, each other's only safety netuntil Ophelia showed up.

He groveled at the princess's feet, acting as if the proximity somehow elevated his own status. And honestly, he hadn't bet on the wrong horse.

In my past life, he rode Ophelia's coattails straight to the top, boarding the Pierce family's massive corporate ship and skyrocketing out of the slums. Right now, he was dead broke, but undeniable eye candy. Tall, lean, and athletic.

He walked ahead, shrugging carelessly. "Juniper's dad is a violent felon currently rotting in a prison cell, but don't worry, she's home alone. She's just some bottom-feeder who comes when I call."

"In a minute, I'll just throw her crap out into the hallway and make her sleep on the floor. The bed is yours."

Ophelia spoke in that frail, wispy voice of hers. "Is that really okay? Does she only have one bed?"

Brody smirked. "She's dirt poor. One room, one bed, and she scavenged that out of a dumpster."

I actually only lived on the second floor, but even that was too much for Ophelia's fragile constitution. She walked agonizingly slow. Brody catered to her every step, taking a solid three or four minutes just to reach my door.

Instead of me, they were greeted by cold, hard metal. Yeah, it was 2015, and my apartment was still secured with a heavy iron chain and a rusty padlock.

He kicked the door hard and cursed. "Damn it! Why the hell isn't Juniper home during summer break? She actually thinks she's going to get into an Ivy League and climb out of the gutter. What a joke!"

He was right. I was obsessed with getting into a top-tier university to change my destiny. That was why I hustled so hard to save every dime, only for them to steal it.

In my past life, I worked delivery gigs like a maniac for two straight months just to scrape together tuition. I finally graduated, landed a job I loved, only to be hit by a hurricane. Pierce had me blacklisted from the entire industry.

The poor claw their way out of hell with everything they have, and the rich just give a gentle push to send us tumbling back to square oneor into an even deeper abyss.

But they were about to find out exactly why hell was empty.

It was noon in July. The temperature was pushing over a hundred degrees. A healthy person couldn't stand being outside for long, let alone Ophelia.

Seeing her face drain of color, Brody had no choice but to drag her back to his own place. His apartment was also a single room on the ground floor. It was a sketchy daily rental right across from the complex's dumpsters, permanently engulfed in a cloud of stench.

I sure hoped Ophelia would enjoy her stay.

The second they left, I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and headed downstairs. Passing the alleyway leading to Brody's unit, I hid in the shadows. I watched as Brody practically carried Ophelia into the damp, dark corridor.

Inside his so-called rental, eight shirtless guys were sprawled out across rusty bunk beds. The sour stench of weed, cheap tequila, and vomit hung thick in the air. There were even a few used syringes scattered across the grimy sofa.

"This here" Ophelia's pupils dilated in horror, her delicate fingers gripping her Chanel skirt until her knuckles turned white.

A bald guy nearest the door flashed a grin, revealing a mouth full of rotting yellow teeth. "Well look at that. Brody brought a little piece of meat home."

"Shut the hell up!" Brody kicked a dirty bucket across the floor. "Put some damn clothes on, all of you!"

But it was too late.

Ophelia's piercing scream shattered the suffocating afternoon heat. Over by the window, a guy with a full-back tattoo was casually changing his underwear right in front of her.

"Oh, drop the innocent act," the tattooed guy sneered. "Wow, look at her wearing Chanel. A real little princess, aren't we?"

Chapter 3

Brody grabbed a rusty stool and hurled it at the guy's head. The room instantly erupted into a chaotic brawl.

Amidst the flying fists, Ophelia stumbled back toward the rear exit. Her heel caught on the uneven threshold. Her limited-edition handbag flew from her grasp, splashing straight into the foul gutter outside.

She scrambled to grab it, but her flailing arms knocked into a massive stack of empty beer bottles piled against the wall. Glass shattered. Flying shards sliced across her calves. She burst into violent sobs.

An avalanche of bottles collapsed. Some rolled into the murky water, others shot right back into the room. Pools of stale, heat-fermented beer spilled across the floor. The stench hit like a biological weapon.

The thugs inside gagged, dropping their fists. They bolted out the front door to escape the overwhelming reek.

Ophelia curled into a tight ball against the filthy wall, her hands clamped over her ears as she shrieked. Brody tried to rush to her, but the carpet of broken glass and rolling bottles blocked his path.

"Ophelia, don't panic! It's just glass!"

I picked up a splintered baseball bat from the alley floor. I swung it at the dumpsters, flushing a massive, mutated sewer rat straight toward her.

"Ahhh!" Ophelia let out a blood-curdling shriek. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed into Brody's waiting arms.

He completely lost his mind, screaming until his vocal cords tore. "Call 911!"

It looked like a scene straight out of a cheap soap opera. But here in the slums, not a single soul spared him a glance.

Panicking, he dragged Ophelia's limp body back inside and dumped her onto someone's crusty, flea-ridden mattress. He aggressively started chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth, his frantic, uncoordinated hands practically feeling her up in the process.

It took him a solid minute before he finally remembered to pull out his phone and dial 911.

I hugged the shadows along the wall, slipping past the mess of broken glass. I snatched Ophelia's abandoned handbag from the gutter and sprinted blocks away to a deserted alleyway before ripping it open.

A thick stack of hundred-dollar billseasily three grand in cash. Two heavy gold chains. A diamond-encrusted Cartier bracelet that caught the harsh sunlight.

The fragile "damsel in distress" who had bled me dry in my previous life was casually carrying fifty grand worth of assets. No wonder she could always maintain that serene, above-it-all elegance, making my desperate hustle for rent money look pathetic and greedy in comparison.

I snapped her SIM card in half and tossed it down a storm drain. Then, I grabbed a brick and smashed her latest iPhone into a web of useless shards.

Deep in the bag's lining sat an unlimited black Amex card. I left it right where it was. I tossed the empty bag back into the raw sewage flooding the gutter.

I raised my foot, driving the heel of my shoe down hard, twisting and grinding the flashy designer logo into the filth until it was completely unrecognizable.

I couldn't wait to see if our precious princess could still play the elegant saint without her daddy's money cushioning her fall.

I hit up a sketchy electronics pawn shop first, dropping eighty bucks on a burner phone and a prepaid SIM. Then, I headed straight to Chase Bank and deposited every cent of my hard-earned college fund.

Standing in front of the blinding white doors of a cosmetic surgery clinic, my fingers subconsciously drifted to my own cheek.

I actually had good features. I just went out of my way to avoid attention, hiding behind heavy, choppy bangs and massive, thick-rimmed glasses that swallowed half my face. If I ever pinned my hair back and took those frames off, not a single person in this city would recognize me.

But in my past life, this face still ended up dragging me straight to hell.

It was mid-summer. A massive Student Summer Special banner hung over the clinic entrance, glaring under the scorching sun.

"You have very striking eyes," the surgeon noted, adjusting his glasses. "Classic monolid shape. Are you absolutely certain you want the double-eyelid procedure?"

"Do it."

The surgery normally ran two grand, but the student discount dropped it to a thousand flat. I slapped Ophelia's crisp hundred-dollar bills onto the counter to cover it.

I spun a sob story about being from out of state and terrified of post-op infection in my dorm. I asked to stay in their recovery ward until the stitches came out. The clinic agreed, tacking on a meager fifty bucks for the bed.

The procedure was seamless.

On the day the stitches were removed, my eyelids were still angry and swollen. The girl staring back at me in the mirror was both a stranger and a ghost.

My most distinct, recognizable featurethose sharp monolidswas completely gone. In its place sat a pair of manufactured, deep double eyelids, effectively erasing the physical identity of the girl I used to be.

Chapter 4

I let my bangs fall back over my forehead and shoved those massive, clumsy dark glasses onto my face. Once again, I looked completely invisible.

Sitting on the sweltering public bus back to my apartment, I pulled that crumpled, decade-old newspaper from my bag.

Tucked away in the corner of the local news section was a tiny, easily missed report: A sudden fire broke out in a shopping mall's indoor playground. Thankfully, it hadn't opened for the day yet, resulting in zero casualties.

But flipping to the front page revealed the real headline of that day: Tragic Car Crash Claims Lives of Pierce Family Heirs, Leaving Behind Two Young Children.

"Heh."

I let out a cold, cynical laugh and pulled out my burner phone to search for Pierce Corporation.

Cornelius Pierce, the current patriarch, was 76 years old but still possessed an iron grip over the empire. He had four sons: The eldest, born to his legal wife, were the victims of that tragic crash. The other three were bastards born from various mistresses, who had now sprouted their own sprawling branches on the family tree.

What the public rarely paid attention to were the three Pierce daughters. They were given generous allowances to go shopping, but they weren't allowed anywhere near the company shares.

In the Pierce family, daughters were worthless.

Ophelia's dramatic runway stunt was nothing but an absolute jokebecause Pierce faced opposition from the board when he tried to join the company, he needed a strategic marriage. So, this frail, pathetic green tea bitch manipulated the situation, playing the victim. She staged a tragic play where she felt like a burden to her brother and ran away.

Was that the logic of a normal human being?

Hell no. She was a masochistic psycho obsessed with playing the eternal, pure white swan in everyone's eyes.

But in my past life, she succeeded. With just a few scribbled diary entries, she completely obliterated my life.

In this life, crushing her would be as easy as flipping my hand.

Killing her and Brody would be simple. But destroying Pierce? That was a different game. He was the future billionaire heir of the city. Then there was my ruthless, sadistic ex-fianc. Even until my dying breath, I never uncovered his true identity.

If I wanted to drag him to hell, I had to use Pierce to get to him. Therefore, Ophelia was still useful.

I didn't head straight to my apartment after getting off the bus.

The brutal July sun baked the asphalt, radiating waves of heat that distorted the street view. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and headed into a discount appliance store. I bought a clunky, outdated window AC unit and a mini-fridge. It cost me less than two hundred bucks, but it was going to make a world of difference.

Passing Brody's alleyway, I spotted him and Ophelia sitting in the shade of a dying oak tree at the corner. I signaled the delivery guys to take the back way.

This rundown project housing complex was built in the 80s. The hallways were permanently choked with the smell of stale cooking grease and black mold.

"My home" was barely three hundred square feet: A cramped kitchenette by the door, a bathroom so small you couldn't turn around in it, and the main living space in the back. The wooden window frames had warped years agofreezing in the winter, boiling in the summer.

Now, this ancient AC unit would finally blast some cold air.

I scrubbed the severely scratched linoleum floor until my eyes stung. Only someone who had spent years homeless could understand how precious it was to finally have a locked door of your own.

I hauled years' worth of hoarded junk to the dumpster. The room instantly felt massive.

I had barely finished sweeping when familiar footsteps pounded up the stairsthat obnoxious, bouncy rhythm I instantly recognized. Brody.

Sure enough, the moment he saw me, his annoyingly handsome face lit up with excitement. "Juniper! Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea how many times I came looking for you?"

He tried to push his way past me.

I jammed the heavy mop handle firmly against his chest, stopping him dead. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I just mopped. You smell like a locker room, back up."

He pushed against the broom again.

Chapter 5

I reversed my grip on the heavy mop handle and smashed it into his self-righteous face.

"Ah! Are you out of your damn mind?!"

"You're the one who's crazy! This is my apartment. You think you can just barge in whenever you want? Who the hell do you think you are?!"

I backhanded the rusty meat cleaver off the cutting board, pointing the jagged tip straight at his throat. I glared at him like a starving wolf guarding its kill.

He scrambled backward, his voice cracking in disbelief. "Juniper, what the hell is wrong with you? You're pulling a knife on me?!"

I swiped the blade through the air. "We aren't that close. Watch your mouth and keep your hands to yourself!"

"Who's touching you? With that garbage temper of yours, I didn't even want to come look for you!"

"Then get out!" I shoved the door to close it.

He slapped his palm against the wood, flashing that shameless, punchable grin. "Juniper, wait. I seriously need a favor!"

"No." I chopped the cleaver down toward his fingers.

He yanked his hand back just in time.

Slam! The heavy door clicked shut.

I ignored his incessant banging and muffled cursing from the hallway.

I flipped on the AC, letting the cold air blast my face while I opened my textbook. If I was going to drag Pierce to hell, I had to become untouchable. Getting into a top-tier Ivy League was step one.

When the words started blurring together, I pulled a half-eaten watermelon from the mini-fridge and dug in with a spoon.

Outside the window, Brody's swearing finally faded down the street.

I didn't let him win this time. He was never going to dump the burden of babysitting Ophelia on me again.

Word around the block was that he was forced to take a sketchy, under-the-table job flipping burgers at a late-night diner, pulling in barely five hundred bucks a month. If he wasn't stupid, it would be enough to keep the two of them alive.

But that dump of an apartment he lived in had been a notorious short-term rental for years. Shady characters knocked on the door daily, looking for a room or just causing trouble.

In this chaotic slum, even a native like methe daughter of a violent felonhad to hide my face and keep my mouth shut to survive. How long did a pristine white swan think she could last here?

Strangers had barged into the room multiple times while Ophelia was trying to sleep. The sheer terror sent her to the emergency room more than once. Brody's pathetic paycheck couldn't even cover the ambulance bills.

Ophelia's heart condition actually wasn't that severe. As long as she popped her pills on time, she functioned like a normal person. But living under this constant, suffocating stress? Who knew how long she'd last.

A few days later, I headed downstairs to grab breakfast and nearly slammed straight into Brody.

"Juniper!" He grabbed my arm in a vice grip. Those supposedly charming eyes of his widened into a pathetic, wounded puppy look. "What the hell did I do to you? You've been dodging me for days. I'm seriously backed into a corner here. Just help me out, for old times' sake."

Brody had always coasted by on his pretty-boy face. Thick lashes, a perfect jawline, and a smile that crinkled at the edges. He played the charming, harmless neighborhood kid flawlessly. Half the older women in the building were completely wrapped around his finger, constantly sneaking him free meals.

I used to consider him my only friend. I watched his back. Who knew all that loyalty was just feeding a rabid dog that would eventually rip my throat out.

"Spit it out." I ripped my arm out of his grasp.

He instantly plastered on a winning smile, taking a half-step closer. "I've got a female friend who's practically homeless right now. Can she crash at your place for a bit"

"No." I cut him off before he could even finish the sentence. "If she's your girlfriend, why the hell are you shoving her into my apartment?"

"She's not my girlfriend yet" The tips of his ears turned red. He broke eye contact, suddenly acting like a blushing middle schooler.

"So you're obsessed with her." I scoffed. "Ever heard of keeping them close? Why are you trying to kick her out?" I stepped sideways to bypass him.

"Don't walk away!" He panicked, snatching the hem of my shirt. "I work the graveyard shift. It's not safe for her to be alone in my place at night."

"Look, just let her stay with you during the day. I'll pick her up the second I clock out. Deal?"

"You clock out at two in the morning. Are you trying to wake the entire building?" I swatted his hand away. "Not happening."

Chapter 6

Brody's face hardened instantly. "Juniper! What the hell is wrong with helping out a friend?"

"Then consider this friendship over." I didn't even turn around, walking straight into the greasy neighborhood diner. "I'll take a black coffee and a breakfast burrito."

That was when he finally noticed the massive dark glasses swallowing half my face. "What happened to your eyes?"

"Got a stye." I looked down, stirring my black coffee.

"Get me one too." He had the nerve to slide into the booth across from me.

I didn't look up. "Grab a rusty cup and kneel by the door. Maybe someone will drop a quarter in."

"You!" He slammed his hand flat against the sticky table, turning to yell at the cook. "I'll have the same!"

He aggressively slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the counter. "Like I'd ever beg you for anything!"

I picked up my mug and moved to a booth in the far corner.

Brody followed right behind me. "What is it going to take for you to help me out?"

Ever since Ophelia passed out on the street and triggered that ambulance siren, the entire block knew Brody was harboring a sick, fragile princess. Now, all the neighbors took the long way around his apartment just to avoid catching any of his mess.

"I have a garbage temper. It would be a real shame if I accidentally scared your little fairy to death." I took a slow, deliberate bite of my food.

"Who the hell are you cursing?" His expression instantly darkened.

Unbelievable. I could insult him a thousand times and he wouldn't blink, but the second I breathed a word about Ophelia, he went rabid. Did love really make people this pathetic?

"Tell you what." I pointed my plastic fork toward the towering high-rise across the street. "Go jump off that roof. If you survive the fall, I'll help you."

In my past life, right after Ophelia's diary went viral, I begged him to delete the posts and clear my name. That was the exact sentence he had spat back at me