From Trash To Treasure: Masked Heiress

One hour earlier, inside a soundproof room at the Syndicate headquarters.

A man named Quentin was tied to a chair. His face was swollen.

Deondre stood in front of him. He was wearing an immaculate cream-colored suit. He held the black and gold coin between his thumb and forefinger.

"You tried to kill a Lancaster without my permission," Deondre said. His voice was gentle, almost affectionate.

Quentin sobbed. "They paid double! Terrence Lancaster paid double!"

Deondre sighed. He looked disappointed.

"It is not about the money, Quentin. It is about the rules."

He flipped the coin.

"And you made her use this. You put her in danger."

Deondre nodded to Quincy. Quincy stepped forward with a plastic sheet.

Deondre walked out of the room. He picked up a tablet Quincy had left on the table. It displayed a profile.

Ivy Goff.

The photo showed a girl with frizzy hair, thick glasses, and a vacant expression. Deondre smiled.

"Still playing hide and seek, little doctor?"

He walked to a wall safe and spun the dial. He took out a velvet box. Inside sat a pink diamond ring, rare and flawless.

He handed it to a guard outside the door.

"Send this to her. Tell her... the debt is acknowledged."

At the Goff estate, the living room air was thick with tension.

Joette was trying to pour tea for Felicity Miles. Her hands shook so badly the china rattled. Felicity ignored the cup.

Jerome Miles stood by the fireplace. He looked at the furniture with disdain.

Cleora sat on the sofa, her posture perfect. She exchanged a glance with Pringle.

"I will go check if Miss Ivy is awake," Pringle announced loudly. "She had a... long night."

Jerome sneered.

Footsteps scuffed on the stairs. Slow. Dragging.

Ivy walked into the room. She was wearing the gray hoodie and baggy jeans. Her hands were shoved deep in her pockets.

She didn't look at anyone. She walked straight to the kitchen area of the open-plan room and poured a glass of water.

Jerome slammed his hand on the mantelpiece.

"Ivy! Have you no manners?"

Ivy took a sip of water. She turned around slowly. Her eyes were unfocused behind the lenses.

"And you are?" she asked.

The room went silent. Cleora covered her mouth to hide a smile.

Jerome's face turned a deep shade of red.

"I am your future father-in-law! Or I was!"

Jared Miles stood in the corner. He looked at Ivy. He hated how she looked-frumpy, messy, uninterested. It made him feel small.

Ivy shrugged.

"Okay. So?"

Jerome pulled a document from his briefcase. He slapped it onto the coffee table.

"Sign this. The Miles family cannot accept a loose woman."

Joette began to cry. "It is a misunderstanding! Pringle is lying!"

Ivy watched her mother's tears. Her jaw tightened. She hated weakness. She hated that these people made her mother cry.

Upstairs, Braylon heard the words "loose woman."

His eyes darkened. He pushed himself off the bed. The stitches pulled tight, burning like fire. He grabbed the doorframe to steady himself.

Downstairs, Ivy picked up the pen. She didn't care about the engagement. Jared was a bore and a coward. She prepared to sign.

The front door burst open.

Two men in black suits marched in. Douglas and Clay. They were huge, taking up space with efficient violence.

"Intruders!" Pringle shrieked. "Call the police!"

Douglas didn't look at her. He looked up the stairs.

Everyone turned.

Braylon stood at the top of the landing. He was shirtless. The bandages wrapped around his torso were stark white against his tan skin. His hair was messy. He leaned heavily against the railing, his face pale and slick with a thin sheen of sweat. He looked like a ruin, but a magnificent one.

Cleora stared. Her breath hitched.

"Who is this man?" Jerome demanded.

"See!" Pringle pointed a shaking finger. "That is the man she was hiding! A criminal!"

Douglas and Clay ran up the stairs. They didn't tackle him. They stopped three steps below him and bowed their heads.

"Sir," Douglas said.

Braylon waved a hand. He leaned heavily on the banister. He looked down at the group in the living room. His gaze landed on Ivy.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

"Honey," he rasped. "Why are these people bothering us?"

Ivy froze. The pen hovered over the paper. She looked up and glared at him.

Jared took a step back. The man on the stairs radiated power. It wasn't just physical; it was the way he looked at them-like they were insects.

Braylon walked down the stairs. It was a slow descent, each step a visible, agonizing effort. He reached the bottom and walked to Ivy.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. He leaned his weight on her.

To everyone else, it looked like a possessive embrace,but Ivy knew he was about to pass out.

Braylon looked at Jerome.

"You want to annul the engagement? Good."

He reached into the pocket of the pants Ivy had found for him-an old pair of her father's sweatpants.

He pulled out a folded piece of thick, cream-colored paper that Douglas had slipped it to him.

He tossed the check onto the annulment papers.

"You don't deserve her anyway," Braylon said. "Now, get out."

Jerome Miles stared at the cashier's check from a private Swiss bank. The number of zeros made his head spin. It was more than his company's entire quarterly profit.

He snatched up the signed papers and stormed out. Felicity and Jared followed, heads bowed. Cleora lingered for a second, staring at Braylon with hungry eyes, before turning away.

The heavy front door clicked shut.

Braylon groaned. His knees buckled.

He collapsed forward. Ivy caught him, her small frame straining under his weight.

"He is collapsing!" Joette screamed.

Douglas and Clay rushed forward, hands outstretched.

"Don't touch him!" Ivy barked. Her voice was commanding. "His ribs are unstable. If you grab him wrong, you will puncture a lung."

The bodyguards froze. They looked at the teenage girl in the baggy hoodie.

"Carry him. Horizontal. Careful," Ivy ordered.

They carried him back up to the bedroom.

Joette hovered in the doorway, wringing her hands.

"Ivy, who is he? Is he... your boyfriend?"

"No," Ivy said, checking Braylon's pulse. "Just a patient. Go rest, Mom."

Inside the room, they laid him on the bed. Braylon's face was gray, but his eyes were open and alert.

Douglas stood by the bed.

"Sir, the family thinks you are dead. The stock dropped fifteen percent this morning."

"Good," Braylon whispered. "Let them panic."

He looked at Ivy. His gaze dropped to his chest, then back to her face.

"Doctor, I feel dirty. I need a bath."

Ivy was mixing a saline solution. She didn't turn around.

"No. Wounds can't get wet."

"Sponge bath then," Braylon said. A smirk tugged at his lips. "My men are clumsy. You do it."

Douglas and Clay looked at the floor, studying the carpet pattern intently.

Ivy turned. She held a large syringe in her hand.

"One more word and I sedate you for twenty-four hours."

Braylon closed his mouth. But his eyes were laughing.

Ivy sighed. She threw a basin and a towel at Douglas.

"You do it. If he complains, gag him."

She walked out of the room to get more gauze.

Douglas looked at his boss. "Boss, is she... reliable?"

Braylon touched the bandage on his chest. His expression turned serious.

"Investigate her. Everything. From birth to now."

Clay frowned. "But she saved you."

"Exactly," Braylon said. "A high school girl with surgeon skills and Syndicate tokens. She is an anomaly."

In the hallway, Ivy saw Mrs. Pringle pretending to dust a vase.

Ivy stopped. She walked up to the housekeeper. She stepped into her personal space.

"I know you texted Cleora," Ivy said. Her voice was low, barely a whisper.

Pringle paled. "I don't know what you mean."

Ivy stared at her. Her eyes were cold, devoid of any teenage awkwardness.

"Next time, you won't just be fired. You will disappear."

Pringle dropped her duster. She took a step back, genuine fear in her eyes.

Ivy walked past her into her room and shut the door.