Rising From Hell: The Vengeful Heiress Returns

Hester's eyes snapped open.

The harsh glare of the crystal chandelier stabbed into her retinas. She gasped, a ragged, ugly sound. Her lungs burned. Her throat felt tight, constricted by the phantom sensation of a rope that was no longer there. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently she thought it might crack her sternum.

She was alive.

"Sign it."

The heavy slap of a thick manila folder hitting the marble coffee table shattered the ringing in her ears. The sharp slide of the paper sounded like a blade being drawn.

Hester blinked. Her vision slowly focused.

Domenic Harrison stood over her. His young, handsome face was twisted into a mask of absolute arrogance. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at her as if she were dirt on the bottom of his expensive leather shoes.

Hester's fingers curled. Her nails dug so deeply into the velvet sofa cushion that the fabric threatened to tear. A wave of nausea hit her stomach, thick and acidic.

She stared at the man who, in another life, had ordered her bones broken and her reputation shredded.

"I said, sign the annulment agreement, Hester," Domenic demanded, his voice dripping with impatience.

Hester didn't cry. She didn't beg. She didn't collapse into a puddle of tears like she had the first time this happened. The suffocating terror of the noose, the agonizing phantom pain of her past death, suddenly washed away like a receding tide. In its place, an abyssal, freezing rage ignited in her chest. She was no longer the naive lamb waiting for the slaughter. She had returned from hell, and she had brought its fire with her. Instead, she sat up. Very slowly. Her spine straightened until it was rigid. The sudden, dead silence in the room caused the air pressure to drop.

Sitting on the single armchair to her right, Tricia shifted uncomfortably. The other woman pulled a delicate lace handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her mouth.

A tiny, pathetic sob escaped Tricia's lips.

Domenic's head snapped toward the sound. His hard eyes instantly melted into a pool of sickening tenderness. He reached out, gripping Tricia's shoulder, shifting his body to block Hester's view of her.

Hester watched the performance. Her stomach churned. The bile rose in her throat, burning the back of her mouth, but she swallowed it down.

Domenic turned his head back to Hester. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by pure ice.

"You are using your family's military backing to hold onto a title that doesn't belong to you," he spat. "You are making a mockery of true love."

Hester lowered her eyes. She looked at the thick document on the table. The bold black letters of the non-disclosure clause stared back at her. Her brain raced, locking onto the timeline. She was sixteen. It was winter.

Tricia stood up. Her stiletto heels clicked against the floor. She walked over to Hester and reached out a trembling hand.

"Hester, please,"