Ashes of the Inheritance

Chapter 3: Been Drugged, Help Me

The moment those words left her lips, it was as if Frank Scott had been abruptly jolted awake. His brows furrowed, and the fury in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a calmer, more conciliatory expression.

“Evelyn, are you still upset about earlier? I drank too much—I really thought she was you. Please, don't be angry.”

His voice was soft and coaxing, uncannily similar to the tender tones she remembered from before. A pang rose in Evelyn's chest, almost enough to make her confront him with the truth then and there.

But she swallowed it down. The road ahead was long, and she needed to be patient.

After all, true revenge required patience—only when Frank Scott had climbed to his peak would the fall break him completely.

Steadying her breath, she allowed him to pull her into his arms, feigning weariness.

“My head hurts. I'd like to go upstairs and rest.”

Frank gently patted her shoulder, dislodging the fine, pale dust that dispersed into the air with a faint, unfamiliar scent. His eyes gleamed with calculation.

“Alright, get some rest. I'll join you once the guests are gone.”

The strange aroma lingering in the air made Evelyn tense. Something felt wrong. But she forced herself to smile and go along with his plan—for now.

As the two exchanged this performative farewell, neither noticed a pair of burning eyes watching them from the shadows.

Upstairs, burdened by the weight of her thoughts, Evelyn ascended slowly, her mind spinning with ways to avoid sharing a bed with Frank tonight. But halfway up, her hand froze on the banister.

A sudden, molten desire surged from the pit of her stomach, flaring into an unbearable heat that pooled in her chest and simmered beneath her skin. Each step in her tight-fitting gown felt like torment, the coarse fabric igniting her hypersensitive nerves with every movement.

She bit back a moan.

Sweat beaded on her brow, her cheeks flushed scarlet. Even in her inexperience, she knew—she'd been drugged.

**Damn it. Frank Scott again!**

Forcing her trembling legs forward, she barely made it to the second-floor landing before a strong hand yanked her into the shadows.

Her scream was stifled before it could escape, smothered by the sudden, aggressive press of lips—hot, insistent, and utterly unfamiliar. A tall, muscular frame pinned her to the wall, and Evelyn's knees buckled under the weight of need that now consumed her.

“Mm…”

A low, shameful sound escaped her throat, her feverish body betraying her mind as it yielded to the contact. Her thoughts grew hazy, slipping into the fog of desire with every passing second.

Then—suddenly—the pressure vanished.

A deep, frosty voice cut through the haze above her, cold and unmistakably disapproving.

“Isn't it a bit indecent for a bride to be this wanton on her wedding night?”

Through the blur of her vision and the dim light, Evelyn barely made out the face of the man before her—one she never expected.

William Collins.

She let out a shuddering breath, her voice trembling with rage and humiliation.

“And isn't it rather hypocritical of you to cry thief while being one yourself? You were the one who—”

But before she could finish, her words dissolved into the molten heat that drowned her thoughts. She slumped against the wall, the chill of the surface pulling a soft gasp from her lips.

“What's wrong with you?”

William's brow furrowed as he caught her sagging form. She was clearly in no state of normalcy.

Without hesitation, Evelyn's arms wound around him, her body instinctively seeking him out, clinging tightly as the ache inside her deepened.

“Help me…”

Her voice was barely a whisper, fingers trembling as she pointed weakly toward the guest room at the end of the hall.

William's jaw tightened. For a moment, he hesitated—then scooped her up without another word.

By the time he laid her in the icy bathtub, her gown was soaked through with sweat. Before she could beg for relief, he turned on the faucet in the shower room.

The sudden shock of cold water made Evelyn jolt, a breathy gasp escaping her lips. For a brief moment, clarity returned.

But it was short-lived.

The fire raging inside her only burned brighter—hungry, consuming, impossible to ignore.

Evelyn Collins hadn't anticipated that the drug Frank Scott gave her would be so potent. The burning sensation devoured her reason, and panic began to surface, misting her eyes with helpless tears. Low, plaintive whimpers rose from deep within her throat.

Standing beside the bathtub, William Collins' gaze darkened as he watched her lift the hem of her dress up to her waist. His throat tightened instantly, her breath becoming ragged, as if her every move was a match struck in dry tinder.

Her trembling voice came again, a plea drenched in desperation.

“Please… help me…”

The entire bathroom was thick with the scent of desire. In the next breath, Evelyn's soft body melted into his, her crimson lips trailing down the line of his throat—irresistible, incendiary.

“You know what you're doing?”

William Collins clenched his fists, fighting the torrent threatening to overwhelm him. His hands reached for her burning forehead, the fever scorching to the touch.

Evelyn's mind cleared for a fleeting moment, long enough for her nails to dig deep into her own palm.

She had lived another life—what did she have left to fear? If Frank Scott intended to drag her into the abyss, then she would burn the path before him to ashes.

With a calmness born from resolve, she said nothing. Her fingers gently curled around William's hand and drew it downward. Her delicate tongue flicked over his fingertips, the gesture ripe with dangerous invitation.

That was the breaking point.

The final thread of William Collins' self-restraint snapped with a sharp, irreparable snap. He no longer resisted—his lips crashed down on hers, greedily claiming every breath, every inch.

It was a collision of flame and fury.

The night swallowed their tangled silhouettes, veiling the sin in shadow, but it could not muffle the passion that ignited within those four walls.

When the golden light of dawn filtered through the window, William Collins had yet to stir. It wasn't until a knock came at the door that he jolted awake, eyes snapping open.

The space beside him was cold.

He threw back the sheets—and there, on the snow-white linen, bloomed a shocking crimson mark.

“Evelyn Collins…” he murmured, voice hoarse, as ripples of something unfamiliar stirred within him.

Meanwhile, the woman in question stood before her husband with a composed expression, enduring his fury in silence.

“Do you have any idea how long I looked for you last night?!”

Frank Scott's face was dark with rage. His wife disappeared on their wedding night—how could he endure the humiliation?

More importantly… in her state last night…

The thought alone made him spiral inwardly, though he dared not act rashly.

Evelyn calmly adjusted the collar of her shirt and answered with perfect composure.

“I wasn't feeling well. I fell asleep in the guest room.”

Whether or not he believed her, she didn't care. Rubbing her temples as if suffering a headache, she turned toward the bathroom—only to be yanked back by Frank.

Startled, she flinched and recoiled as if touched by something vile, instinctively struggling freely.

In the motion, Frank caught a glimpse of faint marks on her neck—kisses, fading yet unmistakable.

The color drained from his face.

Those discolored traces struck him like lightning, thunder cracking in his mind. His expression twisted, and he slowly let go, his voice low and menacing.

“…Alright. If you're not feeling well, rest. I'll head to the office and come home this afternoon.”

As he turned away, Evelyn's eyes bore into his back, sharp as shattered glass.

Home? **That** place had never been her home.

Descending the stairs, she found herself momentarily dazed as she stepped into the all-too-familiar living room. For a moment, it felt like she had returned to that night—the roar of flames, the suffocating heat, the pain of betrayal.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and uncontrollable.

Then, a sharp, pained yowl echoed from the backyard. Moments later, the butler appeared, dragging a black plastic bag that still leaked blood.

“Wait,” Evelyn called, her voice brittle. “What is that?”

The butler froze, quickly hiding the grotesque bundle behind him as if terrified to upset her.

“It's… it was the maid's cat, ma'am. She licked some spilled red wine on the floor last night and yowled in the heat the whole night. The young master said, … to have it put down.”