Rising From Ashes: The Swapped Heiress

From the back cover

My son Leo had just died, and the silence in our cramped apartment felt like a physical weight crushing my chest.

Before I could even process the grief, my husband, Preston, kicked the door open and threw divorce papers onto the table.

Behind him stood Gloria, wearing a pristine cashmere coat and the diamond pendant Preston swore he had pawned to pay for Leo's hospital bills.

"Sign it," Preston said coldly. "You get nothing."

Gloria smirked, mocking me for failing to keep my sick child alive. When I tore up the papers in a blinding rage, Preston slapped me to the floor.

Then, my biological mother, Jerilyn, walked in. Instead of helping me, she pulled a serrated kitchen knife from her bag and plunged it deep into my stomach.

As I lay dying in a pool of my own blood, Jerilyn leaned in and whispered the devastating truth.

"I swapped you in the nursery. Gloria is my blood, and you belong in a Manhattan mansion. I can't let you ruin her life."

Until my lungs stopped working, I was consumed by a roaring, violent hatred. My own mother had traded my life of privilege for poverty, let my son die, and then murdered me to protect the fake.

Opening my eyes again, the dingy ceiling and the agonizing pain were gone.

I was sitting at a wooden desk, surrounded by the chatter of teenagers.

I was back in high school. And this time, I was going to make them pay.