The Real Heiress Rejects Her Blood Family

"You missed the corners."

Marge tapped her foot against the pristine white tiles of the Hale mansion’s master bathroom.

I scrubbed harder, the stiff bristles tearing at my raw knuckles. "I'll get it."

"You better. Mrs. Hale expects perfection." Marge crossed her arms. "And when you're done here, the laundry room is overflowing. Hand-wash only for the silks."

"I have school in an hour, Marge."

"Then you better work faster."

Gale walked past the doorway, sipping coffee from a ceramic mug. "Don't coddle her, Marge. She needs to earn her keep."

"I'm not coddling," Marge shot back. "I'm managing."

"Yara needs a new laptop for her senior project," Gale said, not even glancing at me on the floor. "Tell Sylvia to pick up the weekend shift at the diner, too."

"I heard that," I said, sitting back on my heels. "I already work seven days a week."

"And we put a roof over your head," Marge snapped. "Do you think raising an orphan is cheap? All our savings go to Yara. She actually has potential."

The unfairness stung, but I swallowed the bitter reply. Arguing never won me anything but extra chores.

"I'll do the laundry," I muttered.

"And the yard," Gale added before walking away. "Trash day."

I plunged my hands into the icy water of the utility sink. The Hale family’s luxury clothes felt heavy and foreign. Silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, lace dresses.

"Careful with that," Marge warned, hovering behind me. "That dress costs more than your life."

"I'm being gentle."

"Just finish it. Yara needs a ride to school, and I'm taking her."

"What about me?"

"You can take the bus."

Marge left, leaving me in the damp basement.

I hauled three massive black bags across the sprawling lawn. The autumn wind bit through my thin shirt. Sweat dripped down my spine despite the cold.

I tossed the last bag into the dumpster and checked the time. 7:20 AM.

If I missed the 7:30 bus, I'd get another detention.

I ducked into the staff restroom at the back of the mansion. Off came the bleach-stained apron. On went my worn-out school uniform.

The skirt was frayed at the hem. The white blouse had a faint yellow stain near the collar that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

I grabbed my backpack and ran.

The bell for first period wouldn't ring for another ten minutes. Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked against the polished linoleum.

I hugged my brown paper lunch bag to my chest. Just a bruised apple and a stale cheese sandwich. It was all I could grab from the fridge before Gale locked it.

"Well, look who finally showed up."

I stopped.

Yara blocked the center of the hallway. She wore a pristine designer jacket, the fabric gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The laptop bag slung over her shoulder was brand new.

Paid for by my extra shifts.

"Move, Yara," I said, keeping my voice low.

"Make me." She smirked, flanked by two of her friends.

I stepped to the left.

She mirrored my movement.

I sighed. "I don't have time for this. I need to get to class."

"You always smell like cheap soap and garbage," Yara announced loudly.

A few heads turned. The hallway chatter dipped.

"Maybe because I took out your trash this morning," I replied.

Yara's eyes flashed with anger. She lunged forward and slammed her shoulder into my chest.

My grip slipped.

The brown paper bag tumbled from my hands.

*Smack.*

The apple rolled away. The sandwich spilled out, landing right in a murky puddle of melted slush from someone's shoes.

"Oops," Yara mocked, feigning a gasp. "My bad."

"You did that on purpose."

"Prove it."

A crowd began to form. Cell phones emerged from pockets.

"Pick it up," Yara commanded.

I stared at the ruined food. My stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the breakfast I hadn't eaten.

"I'm not picking that up," I said, meeting her glare.

"Yes, you are." Yara stepped closer. "You're a maid. Cleaning up messes is what you do."

"I clean the Hale estate. I don't clean up after you here."

"Are those shoes from a dumpster?" Yara asked, pointing at my scuffed sneakers.

Laughter rippled through the gathered students.

"They keep my feet dry," I said flatly.

"Barely." Yara crossed her arms. "You look like a beggar. It's embarrassing to be seen in the same building as you."

"Then close your eyes."

More whispers. Someone in the back snickered.

Yara didn't like being the butt of the joke. Her expression darkened.

"You think you're clever, Sylvia? You're nothing. Just a stray dog my parents pity."

"They don't pity me. They use me."

"Because you're useful for exactly one thing: manual labor." Yara kicked the squashed sandwich closer to my feet. "You live in my house! You eat my parents' food! You owe us everything."

"I owe you nothing. Marge and Gale take every dime I make."

"Don't you dare say their names," she spat. "You're just a charity case. A bottom-tier servant meant to be ordered around. Now get on your knees and clean the floor."

"No."

"Pick it up. Or I'll text my dad right now and tell him you stole from me."

"You wouldn't."

"Watch me." She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. "He'll lock you out of the house. You'll be sleeping on the streets tonight."

Fear spiked in my stomach. I had nowhere else to go. No money. No friends who could take me in.

But I refused to kneel in front of half the school.

"Text him," I said.

Yara's eyes widened. "What?"

"I said, text him. Tell Gale I stole from you. But when you do, remind him who cleans the Hale estate. Remind him who pays for your gas, your clothes, and your phone bill."

Yara's jaw tightened. "You bitch."

She raised her hand, ready to shove me again.

I didn't flinch. Instead, a dry laugh escaped my throat.

Yara froze, her hand hovering in the air. "What's so funny?"

"You," I said, my voice steady. "You wear clothes bought with my sweat. You use a laptop paid for by my bleeding hands. You're nothing without my labor, Yara."

The crowd erupted into whispers.

"Shut up!" Yara screamed, her face turning crimson.

"Make me," I echoed her earlier words.

She grabbed the collar of my frayed blouse. The thin fabric tore with a loud rip.

Gasps echoed through the corridor.

I shoved her back hard. Yara stumbled, her designer shoes skidding on the slick floor.

"You're going to pay for that," Yara snarled, regaining her balance. "I'll make sure my mom kicks you out tonight."

"Let her," I challenged, though panic flared in my chest. "Let's see who pays your tuition then."

Yara raised her hand to strike me across the face.

I braced for the impact.

"Is there a problem here?"

The voice was low, smooth, and commanded instant silence.

The crowd parted instantly.

Yara dropped her hand, the color draining from her face.

I turned toward the sound, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Standing at the end of the hallway was a guy I had never seen before, wearing a jacket bearing the crest of the Hale family.