Little Miss Revenge Chapter 03

Little Miss Revenge Chapter 03

The study light was on. Alexander sat behind his big walnut desk, drumming his fingers. A cup of cold black coffee sat untouched.

His mind was racing. That little girl’s face. Her eyes—Isabella’s eyes.

Three years ago, he’d been in London closing a deal when his daughter was born. By the time he got back, everything was already handled. Margaret had managed it all. He’d trusted her completely.

But tonight, something felt… off.

*Knock knock.*

“Come in.”

Margaret entered, head bowed. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Sit.” He pointed to a chair.

She sat nervously.

“That child. Ella. Who’s the father?” he asked point-blank.

Margaret’s eyes darted. “I… I don’t know. I found her abandoned on my doorstep. Took her in out of pity.”

A well-rehearsed lie.

Alexander just looked at her. “How long have you been with Isabella?”

“Almost ten years, sir.”

“And you handled everything when she gave birth?”

Margaret’s heart nearly stopped. “Y-yes, sir. My duty.”

“You mentioned a birthmark. On the baby’s ankle. Red, star-shaped.”

Margaret’s blood ran cold. The birthmark. She’d invented it to make Sofia seem legitimate. And Sofia did have one—a red mark. But the real heiress? None.

“Y-yes, sir. Sofia has it.”

“I see.” Alexander took a sip of his cold coffee. “That’ll be all. Keep your girl under control. I don’t want her scaring Sofia again.”

Margaret bowed and fled, drenched in sweat.

The moment the door closed, Alexander pulled out a photo—Isabella’s baby picture. Same blue eyes. Same face as that little girl.

And then there was the strawberry allergy. Isabella’s family had it badly. Sofia? Loved strawberries.

Too many coincidences.

He picked up the phone. “James? It’s me. I need a favor. Send someone reliable to the house tomorrow morning. Discreetly. Take two DNA samples. One from Sofia. And one from… Margaret’s daughter, Ella. Not a word to anyone.”

He hung up and leaned back, closing his eyes.

He hoped he was wrong.

Outside, hidden in the branches of a big oak tree, I watched through the window. I couldn’t hear the words—but I saw his face. Saw him pull out the photo. Saw him make that call with grim determination.

It’s working.

I slid down from the tree like a little cat and didn’t go back to the servant’s room. Margaret would be livid. Instead, I headed somewhere else. Somewhere I could fan the flames even higher.

Isabella’s bedroom.