Claiming The Lost Heiress

Chapter Two

The scent of bleach lingered in the air—sharp, invasive, and suffocating. It clung to everything, saturating the air with a chemical sting that settled deep into Hazel Lionel’s lungs. She knelt on the icy marble floor of the kitchen, knees red and sore, hands raw from the friction of scrubbing. The rag in her hand, once a pale yellow, was now stained with a day’s worth of grime. Soapy water sloshed with each swipe, and the bucket beside her shivered from the force of her effort, casting a quivering reflection of her strained face.

Every movement was a battle. Her arms throbbed, her lower back screamed, and her fingers had started to prune. Still, she didn’t stop.

Because stopping wasn’t an option.

She pressed the rag against a stubborn spot near the sink and scrubbed harder, her jaw tight. The faint chatter of birds outside was muted by the thick walls, and only a single beam of mid-morning light managed to pierce through the narrow kitchen window. It fell across the floor in warm, golden stripes, casting fleeting illusions of hope.

Hazel paused for just a second, lifting her head to follow the light.

Maybe, she thought, if I just finish the kitchen, I can sit for ten minutes. Just ten. Maybe close my eyes. Pretend the world is quiet.

Her stomach growled then—sharp, angry, and hollow. She winced. Dinner the night before had been little more than a sliver of bread and a watery stew that barely passed for food. She pushed the thought away. Hunger was just another ache. One of many. Maybe if she didn't think much about it, the hunger would go away.

Then—clack. Clack. Clack.

The unmistakable staccato rhythm of heels against hardwood echoed down the hallway. Hazel froze. She knew who those belonged to.

The sound grew louder. Faster.

And then—

"Look what you’ve done this time, Hazel Lionel!"

The shrill voice pierced the air like a blade. Hazel’s shoulders hunched involuntarily.

She barely had time to push herself halfway upright before Lucy Lionel burst into the kitchen. Her dark brown curls bounced wildly with each furious step, and in her red manicured hand, she clutched a silk dress like it was a crime scene exhibit.

Hazel blinked, her mouth parting. "What... what happened?"

"What happened?" Lucy shrieked. "You forgot to do the damn laundry, that’s what happened! Now look at this—look at this!” She waved the dress violently. “I have nothing to wear to Daphne’s party! Nothing! Do you even understand what tonight is? Do you have a single working brain cell in that hollow skull of yours?!"

Hazel’s heart pounded, but she tried to stay calm. "I—I had a lot to do today. Maybe it slipped my mind—"

Crack.

The slap came out of nowhere.

Her head whipped to the side. The pain bloomed across her cheek like fire. She stumbled a bit, the bucket tipped from the force of her movement, spilling brown-tinged water across the marble. A puddle spread slowly beneath her knees.

Another work to be done. If only she had steadied herself, the water wouldn't have spilled. Now she had some extra work to finish up. So much for thinking about taking a nap.

Hazel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of her. She never did.

Lucy loomed over her, face twisted in contempt. "You are useless, Hazel. You’re a mistake. I should’ve left you to rot in the street that day. George—he was an i***t. Brought home a stray mutt and called it family."

Hazel stared down at the floor. Her long strawberry blond hair fell over her shoulder in thick waves, and her clothe dipped a bit downwards, revealing a pale teardrop-shaped birthmark etched just beneath her shoulder.

Lucy’s eyes flinched toward it but darted away.

Hazel said nothing. She’d heard it all before.

But no matter how many times Lucy said it, the words always found new ways to hurt.

Her mind drifted, as it often did when the pain became too loud. To that night. The night everything changed.

She didn’t remember faces. But she remembered the voices. The night Lucy had recounted to her a billion times, never letting her forget where she crawled from.

Most times she could almost visualize the incident, the voices– the scenarios, especially those of the person she would've called ‘Father’. The one who supposedly dragged her into this family and made life miserable for everyone else. She could picture him yelling at Lucy that night as she's often recounted;

"Shut the f**k up and let me handle this, okay?"

George. His voice will be tense. Afraid.

"What the hell, George? Daphne is asleep upstairs, and you come in here with a toddler from some woman you slept with? You’ve lost your mind!"

Lucy will be screaming. Betrayed.

"It’s not mine! Just listen, damn it! I have a buyer coming up. We need the money, Lucy. All of it. With what we get for her, we can start over. Fresh. Debt-free."

Hazel, back then, would've been too small to understand it all, way too little. Just barely two years.

"You’re giving this child to those assholes to clear up your f*****g debt? A child, George! That’s what you’re doing. A child."

"You think I care? You want to live on the street?"

“What the hell do you plan to do th–”

Then—knocking. Loud and relentless knocking as Lucy had described.

George had gone still. Pale.

"That’s them. The debt collectors are here. I'm not ready to see them, I still have to make sure she's ready to give away so no one knows where she's from. Don’t open it. Don’t tell them I’m here."

He left the living room, going out the sliding door that led to the back, never coming back.

Hazel snapped back to the present as Lucy’s voice cut through her thoughts.

"George was a fool. Walked out that door and got himself shot like a dog in the street. Never even said goodbye. Left me with you. A leech, disgrace and debt."

Hazel didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat felt tight. Her skin still burned. She wouldn't even dare speak up when Lucy was still within hearing range, the second slap is usually worse than the first, and she's be sporting a migraine for days if that happened.

"Now scrub every inch of this floor and don’t stop until it sparkles. And if I find one speck—one speck—don’t expect to eat again this week. You filthy little maid. That’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be."

With a huff and a dramatic turn of her heel, Lucy stormed out.

The silence left behind was louder than the shouting.

Hazel stayed still. Slowly, she reached up and touched her cheek. It pulsed beneath her fingers. Her other hand clenched the rag so tightly her knuckles went white.

‘That’s all you’ll ever be.’

The words echoed. As much as she'd tried to drown the bad words, it always lingered. Tormenting her, and reminding her of how useless she was.

Hazel stood up, the ache in her joints protesting. She walked to the corner counter, each step deliberate. Her phone rested beside a chipped dish and a rusted butter knife.

She picked it up. The screen lit, showing one contact pinned to the top.

One person she had left in the world who loved and appreciated her.

Or did they?