Heiress in Disguise

ALEX’s POV Running. That was the plan. No map, no backup, just me and my old ass sneakers slapping against the pavement like they had something to prove. I turned a sharp right and lunged at the wall in front of me, fingers scraping the rough concrete as I hauled myself up. My arms screamed in protest, but I managed to swing one leg over and tumble to the other side in what I’m sure looked nothing like an Olympic landing. The second my feet hit the ground, I was off again. I could still hear their voices screaming for me to stop. I’ve been running for what felt like ten minutes now but still, they were all hot on my heels. Barreling down the road, I started to realize where I was. This side of town was the worst. Way too many people. All of them standing around like they had nothing better to do than watch me run for my life. Some of them looked alarmed, some amused, and one lady straight-up pulled out her phone. Great. I was about to go viral. My lungs were failing me, my throat burned, and sweat plastered my hair to my forehead. But stopping wasn’t an option. I pushed harder. Faster. And then—bam! I slammed into something solid, except it wasn’t a wall. Nope. It was a cop car. A moving one. The hood met my body like it had been waiting to hit me all day. I bounced off, hit the asphalt, and pain radiated everywhere. My ribs screamed, my knees throbbed, and I may or may not have blacked out for half a second. The crowd around me gasped and I could just feel my cheeks heat up. I’ve never been this embarrassed before. I groaned, rolling onto my side. “Oh, yeah,” I muttered. “That’s exactly how I wanted this chase to end.” Two officers jumped out of the car just as the rest of them who’d been chasing me rounded the corner towards me. I tried to push myself up, but my arm buckled. “Stay down,” one of them ordered. “Trust me,” I wheezed, my face twisting into a pained smile, “lying here in agony is now my new favorite hobby.” They didn’t laugh. Shocker. One of them grabbed me under my arm and hauled me up into the police car like I weighed nothing. The sudden movement made my side flare with pain. “Hey! I’m a minor!” I shouted at them, trying to twist free from the dumbass that picked me up. “You can’t just toss me around like that! I’m a kid!” They ignored me and shoved me into the back of the cruiser. The door slammed shut. “Did you hear me?” I yelled at the glass, banging my hand against it. “Minor. Child. Underage. Basically a baby. Arresting me is, like… illegal. I think. Yeah, I’m pretty sure.” The car pulled away, the crowd still gawking like they’d just witnessed a street performance. I slumped back against the seat, clutching my ribs and glared at the cops in the front. “Congratulations,” I muttered. “You hit a kid. Hope you’re proud.” They didn’t answer. Of course not. Adults never do when you’re right. The sirens wailed, the city blurred past the windows, and I sat there plotting a scathing Yelp review for the police department. This day has gone to s**t. With this kind of luck, I might as well just give up. When we arrived at the police station, one of the officers dragged me by the arm and into the open door. The station smelled like old coffee and cheap air freshener. The walls were painted a dull beige, the kind that probably looked exactly the same twenty years ago, and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Desks sat in uneven rows, stacked with paperwork and half-empty mugs, and a tired-looking fan turned lazily in the corner, moving the air but not really helping. They sat me down in a hard plastic chair that squeaked every time I shifted. Across from me, two officers typed on an ancient computer. The first one was tall, built like a linebacker who’d discovered donuts, with a buzz cut so sharp it looked like he could slice cheese with it. The second was shorter, skinnier, with a mustache that screamed, I’ve been on the force since the 80s and refuse to change my look. Both of them looked like they’d seen it all—and were deeply unimpressed by me. “Name?” Buzz Cut asked without looking at me. “Alex,” I muttered. “Short for ‘Why the hell am I here?’” He finally glanced up, unimpressed. “Full name.” I rolled my eyes and gave it to him. They ran my information. Their faces stayed neutral until something popped up on the screen. Then Mustache leaned back in his chair and whistled low. “Well, would you look at that? Orphan.” Buzz Cut chuckled at this. “And her birthday is tomorrow. Eighteen in just a few hours. You must be in luck.” My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might puke. “That’s… bad, right? Like, really bad? Jail-bad?” “Adult-bad,” Buzz Cut said flatly. “Means you’re our problem in a whole different way after midnight.” “Great,” I muttered. “Happy freaking birthday to me then.” They found it funny. Like, laughing-at-the-dumb-kid who was stupid enough to get caught before her eighteenth birthday funny. Meanwhile, I was near shitting my pants. I tried to glare at them, but it probably came off more like terrified blinking. Hours dragged by. I sat there, my leg bouncing uncontrollably, while they casually did paperwork, drank coffee, and occasionally glanced at me like I was some sad puppy they’d picked up on the side of the road. Then, when the clock finally hit midnight, the two of them broke into a taunting, off-key rendition of the song ‘Happy Birthday’. I stared, horrified. “You have got to be kidding me.” Buzz Cut grinned wide, producing a cupcake from God knows where. “Eat up, birthday girl.” I eyed the cupcake like it might explode, then snatched it from his hand. “If this is poisoned, I’m suing.” “You can’t sue if you’re in prison,” Mustache pointed out. I flipped him off and took a huge bite anyway. And honestly? It was good. Damn good. Probably my last real meal before they threw me into whatever nightmare counted as prison food. So yeah, I ate the whole thing enthusiastically, glaring at them with frosting on my lip. “Delicious,” I said around a mouthful. “Now, what’s next? You gonna tuck me in with a bedtime story?” They didn’t answer. Instead, they hauled me up, marched me past the rows of desks, and pushed me toward a set of barred doors. My heart hammered in my chest. The cell clanged open, and they shoved me inside with the other detainees—older, rougher, meaner-looking adults. The smell hit me first: sweat, cheap cologne, and despair. The door slammed shut behind me. Happy freaking birthday. The other detainees eyed me like I was the evening entertainment. One of them, a woman with greasy hair and a smile that made me want to check for missing teeth, c****d her head. “You old enough to be here, kid?” I straightened a little, though my heart was doing gymnastics. “Eighteen. Just turned eighteen.” “Yeah? When?” “Now.” That got them. A few muffled chuckles rippled through the cell, the kind that stung because I knew I was the butt of the joke. Then a woman with a massive tattoo curling up her arm and across her shoulder stood. Her eyes swept over me like she was deciding whether I was worth the trouble. She finally asked, “What were you arrested for?” “Stealing,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Stealing what?” “A bag.” She stared at me for a moment, then let out a low grunt, turned on her heel, and flopped back down on the concrete bench. Within minutes, she was snoring. Guess I wasn’t interesting enough. Which, honestly, was fine by me. In a place like this, you don’t want to put a target on your forehead by being too loud. And if I’m going to be locked up alongside these people, well then I’m going to need to master that skill. I pressed myself into the farthest corner of the cell, knees tucked tight to my chest. The wall was cold against my back and the place looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for ages. I rested my head on my knee, eyes heavy. I’d always been a troublemaker. Always testing limits, always daring someone to stop me. In and out of juvie like it was a second home. Well, second only to the orphanage. But this was no juvie. This was the real deal. Adult prison. And no matter how tough I pretended to be, I knew it was worse. Way worse. The other detainees settled after realizing I wasn’t worth their time, voices fading into murmurs and snores. The cell smelled like damp stone and sweat. My body ached from the cop car, from the chase, from everything. As my eyelids slowly dragged shut, a single thought gnawed at me: Was I ever getting out of this place? I don’t have money. Every person I know doesn’t have one either. Even if the orphanage could get me out, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t. The nun that ran that place used to always beat me up for every little thing I did so when I got old enough, I fought back. Since then she never touched me, never asked about me, or even cared about anything that related to me. I’m sure she’ll be happy I’m rotting in this place. But what if I really never get out?