Reclaimed by the Ruthless Heir

Aria POV Rain poured heavily from the dark sky, soaking my thin sweater within seconds. My suitcase stood beside me like the last proof that I once belonged somewhere. “You can’t keep staying here for free!” Aunt Diane shouted before slamming the iron gate in my face. The loud sound echoed through the quiet street. I flinched. For a few seconds, I just stood there staring at the gate, unable to move. My fingers tightened around the handle of my old suitcase while rainwater dripped down my face like tears I refused to shed. Behind that gate was the only home I had known since my mother died eight years ago. And now I was nothing. No family. No money. No place to go. I swallowed painfully and looked down at the small sewing box sitting on top of my suitcase. The edges were worn out from age, but I protected it more than anything else I owned. It was the last thing my mother left behind. My chest tightened immediately. I still remembered sitting beside her old sewing machine when I was little, watching her work late into the night while humming softly. “Aria,” she used to say with a smile, “your hands were made to create beautiful things.” At twelve years old, I didn’t understand those words. At twenty, they were the only reason I kept going. A car sped past, splashing muddy water near my feet. I stepped back with a sigh and looked around the unfamiliar street. Night was falling quickly, and I knew I couldn’t stay outside forever. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small amount of money I had saved from doing part-time cleaning jobs behind Aunt Diane’s back. Not enough. Far from enough. But it would have to do. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my suitcase and began walking. The rain became heavier with every step, but I forced myself forward. My shoes hurt. My arms ached. Still, I kept moving because stopping meant breaking down, and I couldn’t afford that. Not tonight. Not ever. An hour later, I finally stood in front of a tiny apartment building squeezed between two old shops downtown. The landlord looked me over suspiciously before handing me a key. “The room is small,” he warned. “That’s okay,” I answered quietly. Because small was better than nothing. The apartment smelled old and dusty. The ceiling leaked slightly near the window, and the bed looked older than me, but the moment the door closed behind me, I released a shaky breath. I was safe. Barely. Dropping my suitcase near the bed, I slowly opened my mother’s sewing box. Inside were needles, faded measuring tape, and small fabric pieces she once used. Then I found her sketchbook. Carefully, I opened the first page. Dress designs. Beautiful ones. Elegant ones. My vision blurred instantly. “I’ll do it, Mom,” I whispered emotionally. “I’ll become a designer someday. I promise.” Outside, thunder shook the city. But for the first time in years, something stronger than fear settled inside me. Determination.