Chapter 2: The Lost Heiress
Clara sat silently at the breakfast table, her eyes fixed on the cracked rim of her chipped mug. The scent of burnt toast hung in the air, but she didn't notice. Not really. Her mind was elsewhere—thinking,racing, calculating.
Across from her, her adoptive mother, Diane Quinn, scrolled through her phone, pretending Clara never exist. Her father, Greg Quinn, skimmed the newspaper as usual, as though nothing unusual had happened. As though their "daughter" hadn't just risen from the ashes of death, memories intact, and secrets ready to be unraveled.
And then there was Jenna. Still in her pajamas, makeup smudged, pretending she was too perfect,too good for this house. She sat with her legs crossed on the couch, texting someone with a smile that could cut glass.
They had no idea.
Clara had once loved them. Once bent over backwards to earn crumbs of affection. Once cried into her pillow wondering what she'd done wrong to deserve such coldness.
But now? She didn't feel pain nor thinks about it.
Only purpose.
"So," Diane finally said, not looking up, "what are your plans after graduation, Clara? You can't leach off us forever, you know."
Clara's grip on her mug tightened, but her voice came out calm. Reluctantly calm.
"I've already submitted applications. I'm waiting on one in particular."
Diane scoffed. "Don't hold your breath for scholarships. We've done enough charity, raising you."
Clara met her eyes and smiled. "Don't worry. I won't need your money."
Greg muttered something behind his paper. Jenna snorted.
Clara stood, placing her mug down with perfect poise. "Thanks for breakfast."
Diane barely reacted. But as Clara walked away, Jenna's voice drifted behind her.
"Don't forget, you're just lucky we took you in. You never belonged here anyway."
Clara paused, back turned. A slow smile curved her lips. You have no idea how right you are.
---
Later that day, in the quiet of her room, Clara connected her phone to her laptop and pulled up an old article she remembered reading in her first life.
"Lockwood Heiress Missing Since Infancy," the headline read.
There she was. A grainy, scanned photo of a baby girl with dark curls and green eyes.
Her.
She zoomed in on the photo, feeling a strange tug in her chest. That wasn't just some lost heiress. That was her. She had been kidnapped as an infant and left with the Quinns, who had passed her off as their own to cover up an "adoption" that was never filed legally.
The Lockwoods—the powerful family she had once admired from afar—had searched for years. There were rumors, sightings, dead ends. But they had never stopped hoping.
And now, Clara finally had a name to follow.
Vivienne Lockwood—her birth mother.
Marcus Lockwood—her father, CEO of the Lockwood Group.
She dug deeper, scanning through family records, watching press conference clips, combing through online forums that tracked the case over the years. Her heart raced with every clue.
There was even a hotline set up for anonymous tips. Clara stared at the number for a long time.
She didn't want to be another voice in the void.
She wanted proof.
---
That weekend, she took a bus into the city. Not to party like Jenna had assumed, but to visit a small private clinic known for discreet DNA testing.
She didn't have much—just an old baby bracelet she had found in Diane's drawer years ago with the name Ella. And her own blood sample.
"I need a match confirmed with this family," she told the technician, sliding over a Lockwood medical profile she had printed from a leaked source.
The technician frowned. "You understand this is highly confidential—"
"I'll pay in cash. No records. I just need to know."
The man studied her for a long moment, then nodded.
---
A week later, the results came in.
99.98% match with Vivienne Lockwood.
Clara stared at the paper until her vision blurred. It was real. The blood in her veins wasn't Quinn—it was Lockwood.
She wasn't some unwanted charity case. She wasn't a mistake someone forgot to return.
She was the firstborn daughter of the Lockwood's.
The lost heiress.
---
That evening, Clara stood in front of the Lockwood estate. White gates gleamed under the sunset. A mansion that looked like something out of a dream loomed beyond the hedges, elegant and distant.
She hesitated.
What if they didn't want her anymore?
What if she was too late?
Then she remembered Jenna's smirk. Diane's apathy. Greg's indifference. And all the years she had spent wondering why she was never enough.
No more wondering.
She pressed the buzzer.
A voice crackled through. "Yes?"
"My name is Clara Quinn," she said firmly. "I believe I'm your daughter."
Silence.
Then a gasp.
"Please—wait there."
The gates clicked open.
Clara stepped forward. Her heart thundered with every step she took toward the house, toward the l
ife stolen from her.
No matter what happened next, she was ready.
Because this time, she would write her own story.
---