Entwined With The Mysterious Heir

Chiara

The juice hit my face before I could move.

Cold, sticky, and humiliating.

“I hate the sight of you!” Amelia screamed. “Go back to whatever slum you crawled out of, you thief!”

This was my real family. The people who were supposed to love me.

And they wanted me gone.

Let me go back to the beginning. To how I ended up here, dripping with orange juice in a mansion that should have been my home.

Nothing could be worse than living in the slums. Getting beaten every single day like it was normal. All because of one tiny mistake I had no control over—being switched at birth.

For twenty-one years, I lived in hell. I never knew my real family was one of the richest in New York.

Now, somehow, the universe decided to smile on me. Or so I thought.

My real parents found me.

“You’re going to stain it, Chiara! Use the rug!”

That was the first thing my mother said to me when I arrived an hour ago. Not “welcome home.” Not “we missed you.” Just a warning not to touch her white couch.

I jumped up so fast that I almost fell. My heart was pounding, and my hands were shaking.

I looked down at my dress. It was incredibly old, with patches upon patches.

Despite its worn appearance, I had washed it three times that morning, using up all the soap I had saved for a month. I scrubbed vigorously until my hands bled.

I wanted to be clean for them. I wanted them to be proud of me.

But my mother still looked at me as if I were dirt.

“Mom! How many times do I have to say I hate that name?”

Amelia stood at the bottom of the stairs. She was beautiful. Her dress probably cost more than I’d seen in my entire life. Her hair gleamed to perfection, and her skin was flawless and radiant.

She looked like a princess.

I looked like a beggar.

She glared at me with pure hatred.

“Chiara this, Chiara that! If she’s staying here, change that disgusting name!”

I shrank back under her hateful stare. I hadn’t done anything wrong. We’d just met. But I could tell her words were just an excuse to hurt me.

I waited for my mother to defend me. To tell Amelia that Chiara was my name. That I had a right to it.

Please, I thought. Please say something. Anything.

“We can’t just call her anything, sweetheart,” my mother said softly as she reached out and gently touched Amelia’s cheek with love. “We agreed to change her name together as a family, remember?”

Change my name.

Like I was a dog they picked up from the street.

I watched my mother’s gentle touch on Amelia’s face, radiating warmth and love.

She hadn’t touched me once since I arrived. When I tried to hug her at the door, she stepped back. She kept at least two steps away from me.

Like I would infect her with poverty.

I didn’t smell bad. I knew I didn’t. I had used almost a whole bar of soap. I scrubbed my skin until it hurt. Until it turned red and raw.

But maybe the slums don’t wash off. Maybe she could still smell it on me.

Back in the slums, the woman I thought was my mother only touched me when she hit me. But at least she touched me. At least I existed to her.

Here, I was a ghost.

“I don’t care what you call her!” Amelia shoved my mother hard. “Just stop using that name!”

A maid entered the room carrying a silver tray with glasses of orange juice. The glasses glistened in the light, showcasing the beauty of even the cups in this house.

“Ma’am, here’s the juice you asked for.”

Amelia grabbed a glass, her hand shaking.

I thought she was just upset. I didn’t know she was filled with hate.

She threw the glass at my face.

The cold juice splashed into my eyes and mouth, soaking my only dress.

The glass shattered at my feet.

I stood there. Frozen. I didn’t understand what was happening.

Then she grabbed the whole pitcher and poured it over my head.

“I hate the sight of you! The smell of you! Everything about you!” Her voice was so loud it hurt my ears. “Go back to whatever slum you crawled out of, you thief!”

Thief.

I stole nothing. I was a baby when they switched us. I didn’t choose the slums. I didn’t choose to take her life.

But she blamed me anyway.

The empty pitcher fell and rolled away. Amelia ran upstairs, crying as if I had hurt her, as if I was here to steal what was hers.

I stood frozen, with juice dripping from my hair, nose, and chin.

My whole body was shaking.

Don’t cry, I told myself. Don’t cry. You’ve survived worse. You’ve survived so much worse.

But this was different.

In the slums, I was beaten by strangers and by a woman who wasn’t my real mother, but I survived.

I survived twenty-one years of hell.

“Lia! Amelia, wait!” My mother ran after her. She didn’t even look at me. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t apologize.

She just ran to comfort the girl who had everything I should have had.

My father grabbed her wrist. “Amelia’s upset right now. Give her some space.”

My mother quickly moved away from him and rushed up the stairs.

My father remained standing, appearing uncomfortable as he cleared his throat.

“Um... Amelia isn’t in a good mood right now. You can’t really blame her,” he said. He wasn’t looking at me. “This is... hard for everyone.”

Hard for everyone.

Like I wasn’t the one who lived in hell for twenty-one years. Like I wasn’t the one covered in juice right now. Like I wasn’t the one whose heart was breaking.

“I understand,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “I just thought... maybe we could get along.”

The maid returned with a small towel in her hand, offering it to me with just her fingertips, as if I were dirty and touching me would make her sick.

I grabbed the towel, my hands shaking so hard that I almost dropped it.

I wiped my face with the towel, and it turned orange.

I wasn’t crying. I wouldn’t let myself cry.

But inside, I was dying.

This was supposed to be my happy ending. After twenty-one years of pain, I was supposed to finally be happy.

But nobody wanted me here. Not my mother. Not my father. Not Amelia. Not even the maid.

I was more alone in this mansion than I ever was in the slums.

“We’re... really excited to have you back with us,” my father muttered. But his eyes said something different. They said he wished I had never come. “Things are just complicated right now.”

He looked at the broken glass on his perfect floor. “I believe we have plastic cups in this house, don’t we?”

Plastic cups for the girl from the slums, because I might break the nice things.

“We prepared a room for you,” he continued. “It’s... good enough. Since you won’t be staying here very long anyway.”

My heart stopped.

Not staying long?

“Tia will take you upstairs,” he said, pointing at the maid.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Oh, and Chiara?”

He stopped me as I turned to leave.

“Don’t forget, we have something very important to discuss once you’ve cleaned up. Come back down in twenty minutes. It concerns your future.”

Chiara

“I... I think there’s been a mistake,” I whispered, staring at the papers in my trembling hands.

I was back in the sitting room after cleaning up in my “room”—if you could even call it that. A windowless basement with cobwebs in every corner. The slums had treated me better than this.

But none of that mattered now. Because in my hands was a marriage contract. With my name as the bride.

“Mistake? What mistake?” Father snatched the file from me. “This is correct. Sign here and here.” He shoved it back.

“If you can’t write, use your thumbprint,” Mother said coldly, pushing an ink pad toward me with her foot.

“But... this is a marriage contract.” My voice cracked.

“Oh? You can read?” Mother arched a brow. “Impressive. I thought the slums beat every brain cell out of you. Emilia must be a miracle worker.” Her chuckle was sharp and mocking. “Now sign the d*mn paper.”

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “Why? I don’t understand. This is my