THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 48: THIS IS NOT A REAL - DONT UNLOCK

Chapter 48: THIS IS NOT A REAL Chapter DONT UNLOCK

"Okay, well, *that’s* creepy."

"I got it right after I walked offstage," Heather added. "No name saved. No previous messages."

Penny was already dialing.

Heather’s eyes widened. "Penny, *no*!" She snatched the phone back just before the call connected.

"I don’t want to engage. I don’t care who it is."

Penny raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? Because you’re definitely *thinking* about it."

Heather didn’t answer, but the hesitation in her eyes said everything.

A second knock came at the door.

Penny sighed. "What now, fan mail?"

Heather opened the door. It was Lily—one of the makeup artists from set. She looked a little winded, holding out Heather’s jacket.

"You left this in the dressing room."

"Oh—thanks." Heather took it, then hesitated. "Come in?"

Lily stepped inside, immediately catching the tension in the air.

"What’s going on?"

Penny was already waving the phone like a game show prize. "Hell got a weird message."

Lily read the screen and frowned.

"Could be one of those industry weirdos," she said. "The ones who think being mysterious makes them irresistible."

Penny rolled her eyes. "Could also be some big shot producer trying to impress her. That audition was *buzz-worthy*."

Lily ignored her. "I’ve seen these games before. They test boundaries. First it’s a cryptic text. Then it’s a private invite. Then—well, worse."

Penny scoffed. "God, Lily. Could you *not* be the harbinger of doom for five minutes?"

Heather raised her hand, stopping them both. "I’m too tired for this."

The room fell quiet. Penny and Lily exchanged a look, then nodded.

"Okay," Penny said, zipping her bag. "We’re heading out. But if anything else weird pops up, you tell me, alright?"

Lily leaned in. "Lock the door behind us."

Heather nodded as they stepped out. The door clicked shut behind them.

She slumped onto the couch, tossing the jacket onto the armrest. Her head dropped back. For a second, everything was still.

Then—*buzz*.

She didn’t want to look. But she did.

**Same number. New message:**

*"Let’s meet. Tomorrow. 2PM. The Terrace. I’d love to see you again, Miss Remington. —J. Calloway"*

Heather sat up slowly.

*Remington.*

Nobody used that name. Not in public. Not in five years. Not unless they knew her before.

She stared at the message. Long and hard.

Whoever this was... it wasn’t random.

It was intentional.

And it was personal.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Then, she hit *block*.

Let them stay in the past.

Where they belonged.

But her hand trembled long after the phone went dark.

Of course. Here’s the continuation written in the same tone—simple, slow-paced, natural, with Heather fully immersed in every feeling, every thought, every breath:

---

Heather pushed the door open with her shoulder, too tired to even lift her hand.

The heels on her feet felt like punishment. Her coat hung over her shoulders, hair pinned, makeup untouched. She had barely pulled it off... the event, the flashes, the pretending.

Inside, the room was dim. Soft, warm lights. Lavender lingering in the air from a diffuser someone had probably turned on before she came back.

Two maids stood near the bed she’d woken up in that morning.

One smiled politely. "Ma’am, we’ve been asked to move your things to the Young Master’s chambers—"

Heather blinked at them.

"I just want to sit. That’s it." Her voice came out thinner than expected.

The other maid fidgeted. "We’re sorry, it’s just been arranged..."

Heather didn’t mean to look at them like that, but her exhaustion sharpened everything.

She turned her back to them before she pushed her heels off. She nearly shoved them down one of their throats.

"If anyone touches my things right now, I’m going to scream." She didn’t raise her voice, but the message landed.

They stepped back, bowing quickly before slipping out.

Heather stood in silence.

Her eyes drifted to the hallway. She didn’t want to sleep here. They said "Young Master’s chamber"—whatever that meant. Maybe if she moved there, they’d stop hovering.

So she walked. Quietly. Her coat still over her shoulders, the inside of it still warm from her body heat. She felt her bones aching with every step.

The hallway was empty. Her heels tapped quietly across the floor as she entered the new wing.

Maybe a shower first. Then sleep.

She opened the door to the chambers.

Soft blue light was glowing from inside.

A low hum.

Her steps slowed.

The TV?

Someone was in here?

She entered quickly, jaw tight. Ready to yell if she had to.

But no one.

Just the TV, casting light across the room.

She grabbed the remote and turned it off. The quiet settled like a sigh.

Then—another sound.

A small thud.

Heather stiffened.

She turned her head slowly, then walked toward the sound.

A window.

Slightly open. Breeze curling in, moving the curtains like whispers.

She closed it. Locked it. Her hand shaking a little.

"Just the wind," she murmured. "You’re making things up."

She took one step back—then froze.

The TV was humming again.

She had *just* turned it off.

Heather stared.

She could feel the fear crawling up her spine.

No, no, no.

This was not her room. She didn’t even *want* to be here.

She was going to leave.

Now.

She turned, her breath held in her throat, about to bolt—

But something made her stop.

She reached down, took off one of her heels. Gripped it tightly.

If someone was here, she wasn’t going to just stand and scream.

She limped her way back toward the main room, heel in hand. One foot bare. The sound of her steps echoed weirdly—one heel, one limp. It threw her off.

She reached the room.

No one.

TV on again.

She approached it.

Her own face stared back.

Heather. On the red carpet.

Miss H.

She looked... flawless.

She hated that she noticed.

She was reaching for the remote again when—

**"What are you doing?"**

The voice cut through the room like glass shattering.

Heather screamed. And in that same breath, she *threw* the heel across the room with all her strength.

A sharp sound. Then a groan.

Someone cursed lowly. "Damn it."

Heather ran straight to the telephone mounted on the wall and dialed. "There’s someone in my room—an intruder!"

When she turned around, her blood drained from her face.

She stared.

He stood there, rubbing the side of his forehead where her heel had landed.

She knew this face.

Too well.

Too painfully well.

**"You."** The word came out on a breath, like it had fought through her chest to get there. Her fists clenched. Her entire body shook.

He looked up. Same face. Same eyes. That unreadable calm.

"You throw your goddamn shoe at someone you don’t know?" he snapped.

**"I’ll throw another one at you, you bastard!"** she shouted, limping forward. "What are you doing here? Get out!"

He didn’t move.

He just... looked at her.

That same stare he always gave her. Like she was chaos. Like she was too loud.

**"What are *you* doing here?"** he asked, tone flatter than stone.

She gritted her teeth. "You’re not seriously asking me that. You were supposed to be gone. Long gone."

He tilted his head slightly. "Why would I leave my house?"

Heather blinked. "Y-your house? You’re confused. This is my husband’s estate. *Mine.* And you—get out before I call him."

He kept looking at her.

**Call him.**

Heather hesitated. It felt like he could see straight through her.

She turned and dialed the number for security again. "There’s an intruder here. In my room. Please come—fast."

In seconds, the door opened. Guards marched in. She turned, pointing.

**"He’s in there! That’s him! Take him out!"**

They looked at her. Then him.

And bowed.

**Bowed.**

She froze.

"What are you—?" Her voice cracked. "That’s the intruder!"

**"You’re dismissed,"** he said calmly.

They left.

Everything inside her went silent.

It all clicked.

**Caius. Caius is the Young Master.**

Her knees buckled. She held onto the wall.

"You look like you’re going to pass out," he said.

She refused to look at him. Her lungs burned like she’d run miles.

She slid down the doorframe and sat.

"I didn’t know you had a family," she whispered. "They never came to the wedding. Never even called."

His voice was distant. "How am I supposed to know why they brought you here?"

"They said I had a husband," she muttered. "A mysterious one."

**"And you stayed. Because you’ve always been desperate for marriage."**

That one hurt.

She stood up fast, even though her legs screamed.

**"I was curious. I wanted answers."**

"Right," he said. Then he turned away and poured himself a drink.

She hated how familiar the way he moved still was. How well she knew him. How much she’d tried to forget.

**"They think we’re still married."**

That made her stomach turn.

**"Well, maybe someone should’ve told them we’re not. Then I wouldn’t be here."**

**"You can stay on the bed."**

**"I’d rather stay far away from you."**

He sipped, watching her.

"What are you doing back?" he asked.

"I’m not hiding anymore," she said. "Not from you. Not from anyone."

He studied her.

She grabbed her bag.

When she turned, his eyes were on her again. Then... the TV.

She froze.

The footage was still playing.

Red carpet.

The dress.

The walk.

The mask.

Heather’s eyes widened.

She pulled the coat tighter around herself.

He looked at her. Then at the screen. Then back again.

**"You’re dressed like Miss H."**

Her secret. Out.

Just like that.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, no longer bothering to hide.

**"I can explain."**

"Miss H cancels. Then shows up at the last minute." He raised a brow. "Makes sense now."

Her fingers tightened around the coat.

**"What are you going to do about it?"**

He poured another drink.

**"I want something in return."**

Heather closed her eyes.

"What?"

**"Be my wife."**

She stared at him.

And everything inside her froze again.

But this time—it wasn’t fear. Or anger. Or confusion.

It was something else.

Something terrifying.

Because a part of her still remembered what it felt like to be his wife.

---

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