Stolen Identity: Mute Heiress

Abigail sat in the backseat of the Uber, the glowing screen of her phone casting a pale light on her face as she reread the headline.

"Shock as sex tapes of Genevieve Harris are released on her birthday."

Her stomach twisted, and her heart raced as she scrolled through the post. The comments section was already ablaze, filled with mocking laughter, crude jokes, and a smattering of sympathy that was quickly drowned out by cruel taunts.

For a moment, Abigail's chest tightened with something that felt like pity. No one deserved to have their privacy shattered like that, not even Genevieve. But then, the memory of that morning slammed into her— Genevieve in bed with Dave. Genevieve laughing at her pain, belittling and mocking her.

She could still hear Genevieve's voice dripping with venom: "No normal guy in his senses would want a mute like you."

Her grip on the phone tightened. Whatever sympathy had bloomed quickly withered.

As far as she was concerned, Genevieve got what she deserved for being so cruel and living so recklessly. The thought was harsh and unlike her, but Abigail didn't care.

Genevieve had spent years parading herself as the untouchable heiress, lounging around like royalty while she handled and cleaned up after her. She wasn't going to let herself feel guilty for deriving some twisted kind of pleasure from the embarrassment and heartache that this would cause Genevieve.

Abigail couldn't help but be glad that she wasn't home with Genevieve when this happened. She knew very well that if she had been with her, she would have transferred all her frustration and aggression to her.

They would have found a way to make her take the blame for it or ask her to figure out how to fix it, as though her life's sole purpose was to cater to Genevieve and clean up after her.

It wasn't her responsibility to fix this. For once, she didn't have to be the one picking up the pieces.

Reminding herself that tonight was about her—her freedom—and not Genevieve, she decided that she didn't want them to be able to reach her to ask her any questions or demand anything.

Abigail smiled gleefully as she turned off her phone and threw it into her purse. She planned to enjoy this night's freedom without letting Genevieve's problem get in the way or ruin her night.

If anything, she would toast to it. That was the best she could do for her bitch of a sister.

By the time she arrived at the club, Abigail had pushed thoughts of Genevieve and her mess totally out of her mind.

The moment she stepped inside the club, she regretted her decision. The thrum of bass-heavy music vibrated through her chest as she stood frozen at the entrance, her hands clutching her purse tightly. This was a mistake. She didn't belong here.

The club was a din of sound and light, a sensory overload that assaulted her the second she entered. The noise was too much, the lights were blinding, and the crowd was too suffocating.

The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the sharp smell of alcohol. People pressed together on the dance floor, a writhing mass of bodies moving to the relentless beat of the loud music.

It was bad enough that she was mute, but if she stayed here any longer than she already did, she feared she might just go deaf, too. Abigail giggled inwardly at the thought as she imagined how frustrated that would make Genevieve.

No. No thoughts of Genevieve, she quickly reminded herself. The only thing she could do for Genevieve this night was toast to her scandal.

With that thought in mind, she decided that she couldn't leave just yet. Besides, she had promised herself she would try this; even if it were just for a few minutes, she would stay.

Her gaze darted around the room until she spotted the bar. It was a haven compared to the chaos of the dance floor. She made her way over, weaving through the crowd, her heart pounding with every step.

As she walked toward the bar, she wondered if other mutes usually went to bars. She inwardly laughed at herself for having such a silly thought.

Of course, mutes could go wherever. They had as much right as anyone else to go wherever they pleased, regardless of what people like Genevieve thought.

Abigail liked to believe that the reason she was born without the ability to talk was probably to save her from wasting her breath on idiots like Genevieve and to spare them from the sharp tongue she knew she would most likely have had judging by her thoughts.

Then again, Abigail reminded herself that no one here needed to know that she was mute. It wasn't written on her forehead. All she needed to do was act normal and pretend not to want to talk to anyone. That should be easy.

By the time she reached the bar, her chin was held high, and her back was straight. She flashed a smile at the bartender, a young man with tinted white hair and a friendly face.

When he looked at her expectantly, she touched her throat and mimed a cough, pretending to have a sore throat.

"Lost your voice?" he asked, his tone sympathetic.

Abigail nodded, grateful he understood. She pulled out her phone and quickly typed, "Your best drink with minimal alcohol, please."

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're old enough to be here?"

She rolled her eyes and dug into her purse, pulling out her ID. It always amused her how people thought she was under eighteen, whereas Genevieve, who she was older than was always assumed to be over eighteen.

She slid the ID across the counter and watched as the bartender examined it closely before nodding.

"Alright, twenty it is. One moment."

As he turned to prepare her drink, Abigail sat on the barstool and leaned against the counter, her eyes wandering. She couldn't help but compare herself to the other women in the club. They were confident, glamorous, and seemed to belong here in a way she never could.

Abigail's thoughts drifted to Genevieve again, and she pictured her dancing among the crowd. Genevieve was the kind of person who thrived in places like this, who basked in attention and always managed to steal the spotlight. She, on the other hand, felt like a misplaced puzzle piece.

She sighed, shaking her head as a frown tugged at her lips. Why was she still thinking about Genevieve? She should be focusing on enjoying herself here, not her sister, who had made her life a living hell.

Just as she returned her attention to the dancefloor, she noticed someone out of the corner of her eye— a handsome young man approaching the bar.

Her gaze flicked to him briefly, and her breath caught. He was tall, with blonde hair and striking features that seemed almost too perfect. His eyes, deep and piercing, met hers for a fleeting moment, and she felt a spark she couldn't quite explain.

She quickly looked away, her cheeks burning when the bartender's voice startled her. "Here's your drink."

The bartender placed her drink in front of her, and she smiled her thanks as she reached for the glass.

Although she could feel his gaze on her, she tried not to turn to stare as he slid into the seat next to hers.

What was the point of looking at him when she couldn't talk to him? She was pretty sure he'd look the other way the moment he realized she was mute.

She listened as he called out his order to the bartender, and something about his voice made her heart race. For some reason, she really wanted to turn to look at him.

Taking a deep breath, Abigail took a sip of her drink, the sweetness mixed with a sharp flavor that burned pleasantly as it went down. She decided to focus on that instead of the attractive stranger sitting beside her.

But as much as she tried to ignore him, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was different. There was something about him that made it impossible to look away.

When he didn't say a word after a while, she stole a glance at him, and her heart skipped a beat when their eyes met, and she realized his gaze was still on her.