THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 41: THIS IS NOT A REAL - DONT UNLOCK

Chapter 41: THIS IS NOT A REAL Chapter DONT UNLOCK

Caius stood from his desk, jaw clenched. Heather had just hung up on him. No warning. No explanation.

Why?

His instincts screamed. Heather never acted like that unless something was very wrong. And she sure as hell didn’t just hang up on him.

He paced the room, his movements sharp and deliberate, like a lion circling the edge of a cage.

Something’s off.

She sounded scared—shaky. And that text... *i niid ur hapel rigrht nkw*—the sloppiness wasn’t her. That wasn’t a typo. That was something else. Perhaps desperation?

He sat down and pulled up the call trace. 19th and Wexler. The Glass Ember. Midtown. Supposedly a gala venue. He frowned. That address rang a bell, wasn’t that the new gala venue Heather mentioned last week?

But when he searched the name, the photos told a red carpet event location. It’s been their source for years now... But rumors suggested otherwise.

That wasn’t a gala venue. It was a disguised underground club. A strip lounge, masquerading as something classier for the rich and reckless.

Caius’s eyes darkened.

What the hell were they doing with her there?

He grabbed his phone and called a few people, contacts who didn’t ask questions. People who knew how to move fast and quiet.

Grabbing his leather jacket off the back of the chair, he threw it on with finality. He was going to find Heather. And if anyone had laid a hand on her, he’d make sure they regretted ever being born.

...

"I’m not having as much fun as I want," one of the girls murmured, sipping her drink without looking up.

"If Lauren didn’t bring her dumb sister, we wouldn’t be in this mess," another snapped.

"Don’t blame me," Lauren said, waving her hand dismissively. "I thought she was used to how things work in this industry by now."

"You weren’t even sure..."

"I thought she was ready!" Lauren shouted defensively.

"Let’s just go, Miguel," Trish groaned. Her influencer voice was gone, this was stress now.

"Ugh, fine. This is so not how I planned to enjoy myself," Miguel muttered, sweeping his gaze across the half-cleared table.

Bang.

A knock, hard, deliberate.

"Open up, Miguel!"

He opened the door. "Would you stop banging like—"

The man shoved his way inside.

"Viktor?" Trish blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"The place has been swatted. Your brother’s handling it downstairs. He sent me to get you all out. Now."

"What do you mean—swatted?"

"Police. Or worse. Either way, not your friends." His Russian accent made the urgency sound colder. "Let’s go."

Miguel looked at the table. Powder. Packets. Pills.

"We can’t leave," he said. "Our prints are everywhere. We need to clean this up first."

Trish yanked her hand away from Viktor. "He’s right. We leave this mess here, we’re all going down."

"If we split it up, we can get it done fast," she added, racing to divide the substances.

They started swallowing, rushing to erase the evidence.

Lauren dropped to her knees, gagging on the bitter taste. Miguel joined in. Heather, chained to the table, watched in stunned silence.

She yanked at the cuffs. They wouldn’t budge. The pain at her wrist made her stop, gasping.

Trish slid a pile toward the youngest dancer—the one who’d been closest to Heather.

"Make him take it too." Miguel said.

The boy hesitated, but Miguel didn’t. He grabbed him by the chin.

"We’ll shove it down his throat."

Trish forced the powder into the boy’s mouth with shaking hands, her voice sharp with panic.

"Just swallow it! Just... just take it!"

She poured liquor in after it, forcing his head back.

The boy coughed, then choked. Even as he choked, she still didn’t stop. Then he started to convulse.

His limbs thrashed violently, his body jerking like a puppet with cut strings. His mouth foamed as the substances spilled back out, staining his lips, his chin, the floor beneath him.

"No, no, no, what’s happening?" Trish gasped, stumbling backward. "What’s going on?!"

Heather’s voice cut through the chaos. "He’s dying! Someone do something!"

But no one moved.

Miguel backed away slowly, his face pale, stunned.

The other girls screamed and ran out of the room, heels clattering, leaving behind perfume and fear.

Trish stood frozen, watching the boy as his eyes locked on hers, wide and pleading. His hand reached out, trembling, then dropped.

"You can still save him," Heather begged. "He’s not gone yet, someone do something!" she screamed, yanking at her wrist.

But then... he stopped. The shaking ceased. Stillness. His eyes stayed open. Too open.

Viktor stepped forward, grim and quiet. He knelt, placed two fingers on the boy’s neck, waiting.

"No pulse." His voice was cold steel. "He’s dead."

"No...!" Trish’s knees gave out. She backed into a corner and vomited, heaving uncontrollably.

Viktor grabbed her arm, steadying her. "We leave. Now."

She nodded numbly, wiping her mouth, but before following him out, she turned.

Her eyes fixed on the lifeless body in the center of the room, limbs twisted, face slack, the drugs still staining his mouth.

Then she looked at Heather. Fear met fury. And then she walked away.

Miguel stared at the boy’s body, pale and twisted.

"I can’t be here," he said. He turned to the door. "Lauren, aren’t you coming?"

Lauren stood frozen, eyes locked on the body.

"Lauren! Snap out of it! We need to leave."

She looked at Heather, dazed. "You need to unlock the cuffs."

"Where are the keys?!" Miguel barked.

Lauren blinked at her empty hands. "I had them..."

"Then where the hell are they?" Heather screamed.

"I had them! I swear!" Lauren sobbed.

"Dammit, Lauren!" Miguel ripped through the room. Nothing.

"We’re wasting time," Viktor warned.

Miguel turned to Heather. "I’m sorry. We have to go."

"No! Miguel, please! I didn’t do anything!"

"There’s a body. I’m not going down for this."

"We can say it was an accident! Trish did this!"

"She’s my friend. I’m not letting her take the fall alone."

Heather’s voice broke. "Miguel—don’t leave me here. Please."

But he already walked away, Trish on his heels.

"No! Miguel!"

Heather collapsed, breathless, the cuffs biting deep.

"I found the key!" Lauren’s voice cut through the room. Then she looked up, everyone else was gone.

"Lauren... give it to me."

"Why did they leave me?" Lauren muttered, dazed.

Heather saw her moment, Lauren was high. "They said you were a bad friend. That you don’t matter."

Lauren stared, crushed. "What?"

"Please, Lauren," Heather begged. "Give me the key. We can both leave. Right now."

"I need to sleep," Lauren murmured and collapsed on the couch.

Heather screamed.

She yanked herself again, pain blooming white-hot at her wrist. She fell, dragging herself toward the key, but it was too far.

She turned toward Lauren, already asleep. Her own breath came in panicked sobs.

Please. Someone. Help.

The door burst open again. Miguel.

"Lauren! Get up!"

He lifted her in his arms. He turned to Heather. A glance. Then he walked away. And the door closed.