The Disgraced Heiress’s Revenge

"Emily Windsor, when you killed that man, was he capable of figghting back?? Was your personal safety under serious threat?"

"You need to think carefully before answering these questions. They determine the nature of the case—was it self-defense or non-defensive homicide?"

In the interrogation room, Emily Windsor sat in the defendant's chair, looking up helplessly at the harsh desk lamp shining on her face and the two stern police officers across from her.

Her fingers twitched, the movement restricted by the handcuffs around her wrists. Her lips were dry and cracked as she struggled to speak, "I..."

She hadn't spoken in so long. Her mental state was clearly fragile—hair matted against her face, clothes torn and full of holes, exposed skin covered in overlapping bruises and scabs, evidence of inhumane torture.

If she hadn't been secured to the chair with handcuffs, she would have already retreated to a corner to hide, just like she had during countless beatings before.

The male detective picked up a file and spoke sternly, "I have the autopsy report for the man you killed. He died a gruesome death. We're inclined to see this as excessive self-defense. Once we determine the nature of the case, you'll be held legally responsible."

Before Emily could respond, the female detective couldn't contain herself any longer, speaking angrily.

"That man was nothing but an animal—a demon walking among us! After all the heinous, unspeakable things he did, dying a hundred times wouldn't be enough!"

The male detective replied coldly, "You need to calm down. We're working here. Don't bring your personal emotions into this case."

"How can I calm down? That scumbag hurt so many innocent people; he deserved to rot in hell!"

The heated exchange made Emily tilt her head slightly. She stared at the dried blood caked on her hands, suddenly remembering the woman who had died in that pool of blood.

She began to slowly recount that experience.

They had all been prisoners in that underground cellar.

Hundreds of women crammed into a sunless, cramped space—dark, damp, hopeless.

The criminal gang treated them like livestock, beating and abusing them at will. Whips with barbs hung on the walls, alongside countless electric batons.

Every person imprisoned there wore the same expression of helpless numbness, their eyes filled with despair.

She had been locked up with these women.

Every day, they were whipped raw. The gang wanted to break them down until they were as obedient as pets.

Only one person had been kind to her—a frail woman who secretly saved a bite of food for her each day. Without her, Emily would have died long ago.

But that woman had died under a knife.

What happened after that? Emily couldn't remember clearly.

She only remembered red everywhere—the metallic smell of blood overwhelming her from all directions, threatening to swallow her whole.

When she regained consciousness, she saw the man who had been stabbed hundreds of times, dead beyond any doubt.

The knife in her hand had been taken from him.

Listening to Emily, the female detective's heart grew heavier with sadness and sympathy.

"We've learned the details of what happened. You can go home now. If we need anything else, we'll contact you."

Emily remained silent as she stood up from her chair. The female detective unlocked her handcuffs.

The moment she stepped out of the police station, sunlight poured down from above. Emily instinctively raised her hand to shield her eyes.

After being imprisoned for so long, she was no longer accustomed to daylight.

Once her eyes adjusted, she lowered her hand and noticed a Maybach driving away from the police station.

She recognized that car.

The person in that car had rescued her from hell, then delivered her to the police station.

The female detective stood beside her, asking, "You have a lot of dried blood on you. Would you like to clean up? I can find you a washroom."

Emily slowly shook her head, her voice hoarse. "I want to go home to wash. Thank you."

The detective nodded. "Your parents will be so happy to see you come home."

Emily's lips curved into a gentle smile.

Going home was the only motivation that had kept her going.

On the way back to the Windsor Manor, Emily's heart felt unusually light, like a bird finally breaking free from its cage.

She could finally return to her family.

But her beautiful dreams were shattered the moment she saw the lively atmosphere at the Windsor Manor.

Today was apparently the day the Windsors were hosting a grand party.

She unconsciously looked down at the still-swollen whip marks on her arms.

This was clearly her home, yet Emily suddenly lacked the courage to enter. Her feet felt like they were filled with lead.

The party was extraordinarily lavish, with guests coming and going constantly.

Soon, someone noticed Emily.

"She looks so familiar—like the Windsor family's eldest daughter who was kidnapped years ago!"

"She really does look like her, but didn't she die?"

"Yeah, I heard she died from a disease after being tortured by that criminal organization."

The whispers spread like wildfire.

Soon, Wayne Windsor and Bianca Windsor emerged from the house. The moment they saw Emily, shock and surprise filled their faces.

Neither of them stepped forward; they just stood there, staring at Emily in stunned silence.

"Mom. Dad." Emily forced down the sadness in her heart and called out to them.

Bianca was the first to recover, responding somewhat uncomfortably, "Emily, you're actually alive and back home. We thought we'd never see you again."

Though Bianca said this, she never took a step forward.

The distance between her and Emily seemed like only a few steps, but it felt like an invisible chasm.

Wayne looked at Emily with complex emotions.

"It's good that you're back. Good that you're back."

His words were formal, detached, and dismissive.

Emily had expected to see joy and happiness on her parents' faces, but she only saw the disgust flickering in their eyes and a barely concealed sense of shame.

She had once been their golden child, the apple of their eye.

But now she had become a disgrace—one that would bring shame to the Windsor family.

At that moment, Laura Windsor and Lucas Smith also emerged from the house.

Laura wore a beautiful, expensive princess gown. Though she was adopted, she was clearly treated no differently than a biological daughter.

"Mom, Dad, why are you all standing at the entrance? We have quite a few guests, and Lucas and I are getting overwhelmed."

Only after speaking did Laura notice Emily, her voice filled with disbelief. "Emily?"

The whispers around them grew louder.

"So it really is the eldest daughter who was kidnapped all those years ago. After being held captive for so long, who knows how many men she's been with?"

"Look at her skin—we should stay away from her. She might have some contagious disease."

"We just came to a party. We don't want to catch some filthy disease."

"Having a daughter like this come back alive is more shameful than if she'd died out there."

These discussions made Emily's face grow paler and paler.

She looked at Lucas with her last shred of hope. They had been childhood sweethearts—they had even promised to marry when they grew up.

But Lucas avoided her gaze.