A Millionaire Wept at His Daughter’s Grave—Unaware She Was Alive and Watching Him

Hours later, Isabella crept back into the place where she was being kept.

A small, dim room. A thin mattress on the floor. One window that barely let in light. Fear clung to her like a second skin.

She lay down and pretended to sleep, heart racing.

Then she heard laughter.

Muted voices.

She slid to the door and pressed her ear to the crack.

“It’s been two months now, Mark,” Stella said smoothly. “No one suspects a thing. Everyone believes the fire.”

Isabella’s blood turned to ice.

“And your idiot brother,” Mark chuckled, “probably crying at the girl’s grave right now.”

“Let him,” Stella replied, lifting a glass. “Every cup of tea brings him closer to death.”

Isabella covered her mouth to keep from screaming.

“They’ll call it stress,” Stella continued. “A broken heart. Natural causes. And we’ll inherit everything.”

They laughed.

Isabella trembled.

They burned the cabin. They kidnapped me. They’re poisoning my father.

Fear gave way to something stronger.

Resolve.

That night, she escaped.

At dawn, battered and barefoot, Isabella reached the iron gates of the Harrison estate. Her hands shook as she pounded weakly.

“Dad… Daddy…”

The door opened.

John froze.

“Isabella…”

She collapsed into his arms. They clung to each other like survivors pulled from wreckage.

“They’re killing you,” she whispered. “Stella and Uncle Mark. I heard them.”

Grief turned to fire in John’s eyes.

“We’ll stop them,” he said quietly. “But we have to be smarter.”

They made a plan.

John would pretend to die.