My Family Chose The Fake Heiress Then Begged For Me Back Chapter 04
Mia walked me through the foundation’s operations the next morning. All smiles, all warmth.
The finance officer slid a security token and a set of account credentials across the table.
“Miss Aldrich, if you could inventory these and sign the transfer form.”
“On it!”
I locked the token and the documents in the office safe. I did not sign the transfer form.
That night, Mia’s texts came fast.
Nora, there’s an emergency disbursement that needs approval tonight—did you see the alert?
I’ve already run it through the approval chain, you just need to confirm.
I was on the couch watching videos. I typed back without looking up.
Got it.
Okay.
…
The next day, Mia was all sunshine.
“Nora! I found this amazing bakery—their strawberry cake is to die for. My treat!”
Strawberry cake. I was in the car before she finished the sentence.
When we pulled up, there was no bakery. No café. Not even a food truck.
Just a half-built commercial building surrounded by scaffolding and construction fencing.
Mia led me inside, into a ground-floor room. Bare concrete walls, no furniture, plastic sheeting over the windows.
“Wait here—I’ll go find the place. Must be around the corner.”
“Sure.”
She left. The door locked from the outside.
I looked around.
The building was still under construction. The balcony wasn’t sealed off—no railing, no glass, just a short drop to a pile of sand and cement bags.
I’d been climbing out of worse places since I was six.
I stepped onto a stack of cement bags, swung my legs over, and dropped. I landed hard, stumbled, then caught myself.
…
By the time I got home, the foundation was in chaos.
The finance officer was in the Aldrich living room, ashen-faced.
“Eight hundred thousand dollars in restricted program funds—gone. The transfer was made from Miss Nora’s work account.”
Callum snatched my bag off the counter, dug through it, and slammed the security token onto the table.
“You money-grubbing piece of white trash.”
Before I could open my mouth, Mia was helped through the front door.
A bandage covered her forehead, and dark bruises ringed her throat.
She was crying. Of course.
“Please—don’t call the police. She’s never had money before—she didn’t know what she was doing. I can sell my jewelry, my bags—I’ll cover it—”
Then, between sobs: “She locked me in that building… her hands around my throat… she had a steel pipe…”
Dad stood up.
The same man who’d patted my shoulder that morning and said I’m counting on you.
His expression slowly turned cold.
“I misjudged you.”
He picked up his phone and dialed 911.
Mom grabbed my wrist, her fingers digging into my skin. Her whole arm was shaking.
“I should never have brought you back. This family has no room for someone like you.”
Callum rushed at me and shoved me—hard—both hands, full force. I staggered backward. The edge of the coffee table caught me right above the eyebrow.
I hit the floor. Warm blood ran down from my brow into my eye.
My body was shaking. I couldn’t stop it. My foster dad used to shove me exactly like that—into walls, into furniture—whenever he needed someone to blame.
But this time, I wasn’t going to take it.
I clenched my fists. Wiped the blood off my brow with the back of my hand. Opened the voice memo app on my phone.
“Mia.”
She looked at me, tears still flowing.
“What time?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You said I hurt you. What time?”
Her eyes flickered. “Around three in the afternoon.”
“How, exactly?”
“You shoved me against the wall. You had a steel pipe.”
“Keep going. Be specific.”
Mia pulled out several chat screenshots.
They’d been carefully cropped, leaving only my replies:
Got it.
Okay.
Got it.
Okay.
It looked airtight.
Mia glanced at me, a hint of triumph in her eyes.
Then she lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry, Nora… I never wanted it to come to this…”
Callum turned on me. “What could you possibly say?”
I didn’t look at him.
“Can I borrow a laptop?”
“You’re still—”
“Please.”
I opened my cloud backup.
The full chat log loaded, every message and original timestamp intact.
I pulled up the photos from handover day. The security token, time-stamped, sitting in the office safe. The transfer form—unsigned.
“The token was in the safe the entire time. I never signed the form. Whoever moved it into my bag—the office cameras will show that.”
Then I opened one last file.
The construction site surveillance feed.
“That building has security cameras. See for yourselves.”
The footage loaded.
Mia’s face went white.