Safely locked inside my tiny, suffocating room, I collapsed onto my narrow bed. My mind was a war zone. Part of me wanted to run back upstairs, show them the photograph, expose my birthmark, and claim my rightful place as the heiress to this empire. I wanted the luxury, the love, the twenty-two years of stolen family warmth.
But a colder, more analytical voice in my head forced me to pause.
How did I end up with my aunt in a remote village in Ondo state? If I was stolen from a heavily guarded mansion in Lagos, how did a poor, uneducated village woman manage to get her hands on a billionaire’s daughter without anyone noticing? A kidnapping of that magnitude required inside help. It required power. It required immense amounts of money.
My aunt didn’t have that kind of money. Which meant someone had paid her to take me away. Someone had wanted me gone permanently, but alive.
Who?
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