The Jilted Heiress And Her Karmic Revenge

I woke up in a sweltering attic, my body covered in overlapping whip scars. I was Alice Morrow, a top-tier occultist, but now I was trapped in the body of a girl who served as a human punching bag for the wealthy Wallace family. Before I could even catch my breath, my adoptive sister Britney Wallace kicked the door open. She pointed a silver revolver right at my forehead. She had been siphoning my luck through a parasitic karmic tether, using me as a sink for all her misfortune. "Go to hell, you useless freak," she screamed, pulling the trigger. But she didn't know the absolute rule of the tether: any malicious attack reflects back to the sender. The massive recoil blasted backward, snapping her wrist in half. I walked out of that hellhole and was found by my biological family, the incredibly powerful Morrows. But Britney wasn't done. She sent them deepfake photos to frame me for cursing them, and even planted a deadly amulet to kill my biological grandfather. My own uncle threw the photos at me, his eyes full of disgust. "She's a rabid dog raised by the Wallaces! She's been cursing her own blood!" I didn't argue. I simply rolled up my sleeves to reveal the mangled flesh, burn marks, and protruding bones the Wallaces had left me with. As my real family broke down in tears of agonizing guilt, I smiled and gripped my ancient copper coin. It was time to show the Wallaces what real karma looked like.

Chapters

Chapter 4

Thick black smoke billowed into the sky. Car alarms shrieked in a chaotic chorus. The pungent smell of burning rubber and gasoline seeped through the truck's vents.

Byron sat frozen in the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were bone-white. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head to look at the passenger seat. His Adam's apple bobbed hard.

Alice's expression hadn't changed. She calmly picked up the three ancient coins from her lap and slipped them back into her pocket, as if she had just finished a crossword puzzle.

Byron's brain short-circuited. He was a man of logic, of concrete and steel. He tried to rationalize it. A coincidence. A blind spot. A lucky guess.

But he remembered the absolute certainty in her eyes when she threw those coins. The foundation of his materialism cracked.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Within seconds, cruisers and fire trucks swarmed the intersection.

A traffic cop walked up to the truck and rapped his knuckles against Byron's window.

Byron flinched. He rolled down the window, his hands shaking slightly.

"If you're witnesses, pull over and wait for a statement. If not, back up and clear the lane," the cop barked over the noise.

"We're leaving," Byron said, his voice hoarse.

He threw the truck into reverse, navigated around the shattered glass on the road, and turned down a quiet detour route.

The silence in the cabin was suffocating. Byron kept stealing glances at Alice, his mouth opening and closing, unable to form words.

Alice stared out the window at the passing trees. "It's just basic fortune telling," she said, breaking the silence.

Byron let out a shaky breath. "Where... where did you learn parlor tricks like that?"

"I had a lot of free time locked in the Wallace's attic," Alice said smoothly. "I read some old books."

The word attic hit Byron like a physical blow. The shock of the crash vanished, replaced instantly by a burning, protective rage.

"Nobody is ever locking you up again," Byron ground out, his jaw tight. "I swear it."

The truck pulled into an upscale, heavily wooded neighborhood. It stopped in front of an old, red-brick mansion. Byron cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish as he killed the engine. "My older brother, Daryn, works as the live-in caretaker and property manager for this place. The owner is overseas for the year, so he lets us stay in the servant's quarters and use the main floor. Don't let the size intimidate you, we're just keeping the dust off." It looked unassuming, but Alice's trained eyes instantly spotted the military-grade security cameras hidden in the eaves. She noted the lie immediately-caretakers didn't usually have access to this level of security-but chose not to press him.

Byron grabbed her light canvas bag and pushed open the heavy oak front door.

The interior was classic, understated luxury. But the air inside was thick with tension.

An elderly man with sharp, intelligent eyes sat in a wheelchair near the fireplace. Horatio Morrow, the patriarch.

Beside him stood a tall man in a perfectly tailored bespoke suit. Daryn Morrow, her eldest uncle.

Daryn's eyes locked onto Alice. His brow furrowed into a deep, hostile knot. He didn't hide his disgust.

Horatio sighed heavily and struck the hardwood floor with his cane. "Bring her here, Byron."

Byron felt the hostility. He immediately stepped in front of Alice, shielding her. "What the hell is with that look, Daryn?"

Daryn sneered. He picked up a thick manila envelope from the coffee table and hurled it at Byron's chest.

The envelope burst open. Dozens of high-definition photographs scattered across the Persian rug.

The images were crystal clear. They showed Alice sitting in a dark room, viciously stabbing needles into voodoo dolls with the names of the Morrow family members written on them.

Byron stared at the photos. His pupils shrank. But he turned to look at Alice, his eyes still holding a desperate trust.

Daryn pointed a manicured finger at Alice. "She's a rabid dog raised by the Wallaces! She's been cursing her own blood!"

Alice looked down at the photos near her boots. The corners of her mouth twitched upward into a mocking smirk. A strange, unfamiliar word floated to the surface of her mind, pulled directly from the original Alice's fragmented memories of late-night internet scrolling. It took her a fraction of a second to grasp the concept, but it fit perfectly.

"Deepfake," she said softly.

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