The Reborn Heiress's Vow Of Vengeance

"Just sign here, Miss Hayes."

The clerk's voice buzzed loudly, dull and distant, as if from another world.

The pen in Sloan's hand was unbelievably heavy, the golden tip hovering just one millimeter above the brand-new paper. The documents exude the scent of ink and the end—the marriage certificate. Brian's hand rested on her back, a kind of possessive weight that should have been comforting. However, a slick and suffocating fear slowly slid down her throat.

A sharp and cruel flashback suddenly tore her apart.

No, that's not memory—it's something more real than memory.

The hospital ward was sterile white. The machine's rhythmic, heartbreaking buzz, the device that breathed for her. Brian's face appeared faintly above her—handsome, ruthless. And Jazmin, her best friend, stood beside him, her smile like a knife.

"What a pity," Jazmin's voice was as sweet as poison, "She loves you so much." ”

Brian didn't answer. His fingers—the very few on her back at that moment—were gripping the ventilator tube. He gently twisted it.

Air. She needs air.

The pressure on my chest felt like it was being crushed by something heavy. Burning pain in the lungs. Black spots appeared in his field of vision. The machine's buzzing turned into a single, piercing scream—

Sloan snapped his eyes open.

She was not lying in a hospital bed. She was sitting at a polished wooden table in New York City Hall. Brian was right beside her, his suit perfectly tailored, his smile full of love.

"Sloane, darling?" Are you okay? His voice was a warm and concerned whisper.

That voice made her stomach clench sharply. The air she inhaled in her lungs felt like swallowing shattered glass.

She looked at his face—the one she had admired for three years—but only saw the man who murdered her. The thin layer of greed in his eyes was barely covered by false tenderness, existing bare and raw. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the Hayes family's funds—$300 million, enough to save his company on the brink of bankruptcy.

The pen slipped from her numb fingers and landed on the table, making a soft sound.

"I ......," she said, gasping for breath. This is not acting. That flashback was so real, that suffocating hallucination so intense that her body reacted against her will. She scratched her chest, her knuckles turning white. "I...... I was out of breath. ”

"Sloan!" Brian's worry was tinged with a clearly visible trace of annoyance. Just one step away. He reached out to grab her.

As soon as his fingers touched her arm, a scream tore from her throat—primal, pure fear. She stepped back in terror, her chair knocked over, and a loud bang echoed through the quiet, bureaucratic hall.

"Don't touch me!" She screamed, her voice hoarse.

She stood up, staggering away from him, and placed the fallen chair between them like a shield. The clerk—a kind-looking middle-aged woman—stood up, looking panicked. Several other couples waiting glanced sideways.

This is her chance. The only chance.

"Sloane, what's going on with you? Stop messing around. Brian shouted hoarsely. His concerned mask slipped off, revealing the ugly impatience beneath him.

"My head......" she panted, pressing the base of her palm to her temple. Pain is a convenient excuse, but trembling is real. Her whole body trembled with adrenaline and fear. "It hurts so much. I ...... I don't know where I am. Who are you? ”

She said the last few words straight to Brian. His face shifted from annoyance to complete confusion. It was a small but satisfying victory.

"What are you talking about? It's me, Brian. We're getting married. He stepped forward, his hands soothingly extended.

"Getting married?" She let out a sound somewhere between laughter and tears. "I don't ...... I don't know you! ”

The clerk—whose badge reads Brenda—circles the table, building a reassuring barrier between Sloane and Brian.

"Sir, maybe you should give her some space." Brenda said firmly. Then he turned to Sloan, "Miss, do you need me to call medical staff?" ”

"Yes." Sloane struggled to squeeze out the word, clutching the lifeline tightly. "Please. Something happened. ”

A storm of conflict flashed across Brian's face—anger, confusion, and a growing fear. His prey slipped through his fingers. He couldn't force her to sign, couldn't be here, in front of so many witnesses.

"Sloane, stop right now!" His voice was low and threatening.

But she didn't listen. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for an exit. The main entrance with a heavy revolving door is thirty feet away. Two security guards stood beside the metal detector. She must act, now.

The moment Brian was distracted by the clerk speaking on the phone, Sloan moved. She pushed aside a pot of decorative banyan trees, her white dress hooked by branches—she didn't care.

"Sloan!" Brian's roar exploded behind her.

She ran away.

Her high heels slipped on the polished marble floor, steadying herself, driven by a fear that had existed for years and was now vividly alive. She ignored the stares and exclamations, pushed open the revolving door, rushed down the steps of City Hall, and burst into the noisy bustle of Lower Manhattan.

The air was filled with car exhaust and the smell of street hot dog stands. It was the most wonderful scent she had ever smelled—the scent of being alive.

She didn't look back. She knew he would catch up.

His thoughts raced in the chaos. She couldn't just disappear like that. Family members will worry. Brian would make up a story. She needed a cover—a reasonable, unshakable reason to explain her actions.

Post-traumatic stress disorder. A sudden severe psychological trauma. This explains everything: panic attacks, memory loss, irrational fear of your fiancé. Perfect.

A visitor saw her tears streaming down her face and handed her a tissue. She shook her head in refusal, her steps unstoppable. She won't be weak again, not this time.

Her left hand was heavy—the huge Cartier diamond ring on her ring finger. A symbol of a promise like a lie, the deposit of her life.

Her stomach churned, and the disgust almost made her nauseous.

She didn't stop and took off the ring. A dent from a year was left on his finger. Without hesitation or looking at it, she casually tossed it into a wire trash bin filled with discarded newspapers and coffee cups. The ring traced a flickering arc of light.

A wave of dizziness swept over him. The emotional outburst made her body tremble uncontrollably. She pressed her right hand deeply into her left palm, the sharp pain becoming her anchor point for returning to reality. She had to think.

At this moment, Brian should have already climbed the stairs, searching through the crowd. He would call her, call her brother. She needs to disappear into the crowds in the city center.

She glanced back. There he was—an angry figure in a tailored suit, trapped in the river of yellow taxis and delivery trucks across the street from Center.

That's enough.

Sloan bent over and slipped into a narrow alley. The smell of trash and rotten beer hit her nose, but she didn't care. She leaned against the dirty brick wall, trembling as she took a deep breath.

She took one last look at the trash bin at the street corner—where her old life was buried.

Goodbye, you foolish, gullible girl.

She walked out from the other end of the alley, stepping onto a different street, a different life. She blended into the anonymous yet surging crowd of New Yorkers, just another face in the crowd. For now, she is safe.