The Heiress He Left to Die

Avery's POV: Sylvia Whitmore's prenatal checkup report slammed down on the gilded table in the Whitmore family banquet hall. In my hand, I clutched the overseas project proposal I'd labored over for 3 months, my fingertips creasing the paper deep. Today was supposed to have two items on the agenda. First, announce me as the heiress. Second, have me present the key project. I thought after enduring ten long years, I'd finally hear a word of acknowledgment. My adoptive mother's well-maintained hand rested on Sylvia's stomach, her smile so wide she could barely contain it. "Sylvia really is capable. She gave the Whitmore family a grandson just like that." The succession ceremony officially began. But when they pulled back the massive curtain, the name and formal portrait on the backdrop wasn't mine. It was Sylvia's name and photo printed there. Whispers rippled through the guests below, their murmurs drilling into my ears. "Why is it the younger Ms. Whitmore? Didn't they say the returned eldest daughter was the legitimate heiress?" "What do you know? The younger miss was raised by Mrs. Whitmore herself, but the eldest is just some outsider brat." A staff member bent low beside Mrs. Whitmore, explaining in a hushed voice that the Design Department had grabbed the wrong file and they'd swap it out right away. Mrs. Whitmore glanced up, her eyes sweeping over me where I stood in the shadows at the side of the stage. She waved her hand dismissively, her tone as casual as if discussing something trivial. "Don't bother changing it. Too much trouble." The host gripped the microphone and walked onstage, stealing glances at Mrs. Whitmore to gauge her expression. His opening remarks gave the Whitmore heiress two perfunctory lines. The rest of his lengthy introduction was devoted to praising Sylvia's youth and accomplishment. Sylvia stepped forward and accepted the family seal from Mrs. Whitmore with both hands. She tilted her head toward me and arched an eyebrow, her gaze brimming with the smugness of a victor. Thunderous applause erupted below, camera flashes bursting into a sea of stars. Every lens trained on her, standing center stage. My grip on the proposal tightened until the paper's edge bit into my palm, sharp and stinging. I stood in the shadows at the side of the stage, nothing more than an unnecessary prop, even my breathing kept deliberately quiet. I turned to slip away quietly, unwilling to stand there and humiliate myself any longer. I'd barely taken a step when the banquet hall doors suddenly burst open from outside with violent force. A group of masked kidnappers stormed in, armed with guns. A business rival come for revenge. The champagne tower toppled with a crash, shattered glass mixing with screams. The scene descended into complete chaos in an instant. Champagne flooded the carpet, spreading in a glaring pool of dark red. The leader strode forward and seized Sylvia by the collar, while another grabbed me from the corner. "So you're the Whitmore heir? You're coming with us." Mrs. Whitmore's face went deathly pale, her fingers trembling so badly she could no longer hold onto her wine glass. The kidnapper looked between Sylvia and me, the tip of his blade glinting in the air. "Two heirs? Then you pick one."