The scandal didn't start with fire, punches, or curses—though honestly, Sarah Bullock had done all three at some point in her chaotic twenty-one years.
It started with champagne.
And boredom.
A deadly combination for a girl like her.
Sarah lounged on the velvet barstool of the rooftop lounge, swinging one heel off the edge while the city lights glowed beneath her like a thousand little temptations. Music thumped, bodies moved, men stared, and she—Sonia Bullock, the heiress who never followed rules—felt deliciously reckless.
She didn't come here to behave. She never behaved.
She came here to forget the last week of lectures from her parents.
To forget her father's cold stare.
To forget her mother's clipped voice saying, "Sarah, you cannot keep embarrassing this family."
But what was she supposed to do? Be normal?
She didn't do normal. She did thrilling. Chaos was her oxygen.
Tonight she was wearing scandal on purpose—short leather skirt, silk top that slipped every time she breathed, and lips painted a red so sinful even the bartender forgot to blink.
"Another drink?" he asked, eyes on her chest.
"I'm bored," Sarah sighed, swirling the champagne. "Surprise me."
He grinned. Big mistake.
Before she could blink, a tray slipped from a waiter's hand, sending glasses crashing. A drunk businessman yelled. Someone shoved someone. The bartender leaned too close, Sarah leaned back, a man's girlfriend shouted, and then—like a match against gasoline—the whole place erupted.
Sarah didn't even do anything.
Well… not at first.
But when the jealous girlfriend grabbed Sarah's hair, calling her "cheap," Sarah's patience snapped like glittering thread.
One yank.
One shove.
One perfectly aimed kick with her expensive heel.
And suddenly, people were screaming, security was running, a live band stopped mid-song, and someone's wig flew across the dance floor like a wounded bat.
Sarah stood there in the middle of the chaos she didn't fully start… but definitely finished. Hair messy, lipstick smeared a bit, chest rising and falling with the thrill of it.
Damn. She loved drama too much.
Then the cameras came out.
Phones clicked.
Voices shouted, "Isn't that Sarah Bullock? The heiress?"
Someone recorded her kicking the girlfriend's boyfriend—who honestly deserved it—and it went straight to social media.
Trending in ten minutes.
Chaos in thirty.
Disaster by morning.
By the time Sarah got home in an Uber, barefoot with her heels in her hand, her parents were waiting.
Her father sat stiffly on the couch, jaw clenched, reading headlines on his tablet.
Heiress of Stone Empire Causes Scene
Bullock Trouble Again
Spoiled Princess Strikes in Public
Her mother didn't yell. She didn't need to. She just gave Sarah that disappointed look only mothers could master.
"Morning," Sarah muttered, trying to slip past them.
"Sit," her father said.
Oof. The tone.
Sarah sat. Mostly because she was tired and slightly hungover.
Her father rubbed the bridge of his nose like he was praying for patience.
"You assaulted three people."
"They touched me first," Sarah argued.
"You kicked someone who wasn't even involved," her mother added.
"He grabbed my waist." Sarah shrugged. "That involves me."
"This is not funny," her mother snapped.
Sarah crossed her arms. "None of this is my fault. I was just there."
"Exactly," her father said sharply. "Wherever you go, trouble follows."
Sarah looked away, lips tightening. She wasn't going to cry. She never cried.
"You leave us no choice," her mother said softly, though her eyes were stone. "You're going to the countryside."
Sarah blinked. "What?"
Her father stood. "You'll stay at the old Bullock estate. No clubs, no city lights, no trouble. Just peace."
"I am not going to some village like a—"
"It's final," her father cut in. "Pack your things."
Her heart hammered in her chest. The countryside? That boring, quiet place? With trees and crickets and no Wi-Fi?
"I'll die," Sarah said dramatically.
Her mother's lips twitched. "You can survive a month."
"I can't survive a day!" Sarah argued, standing up.
"Then maybe," her father said, picking up his tablet, "you'll finally learn something."
He didn't wait for her answer. The conversation was over.
Just like her freedom.
Sarah stormed to her room, slamming the door so hard one of her expensive perfume bottles clinked. She threw her bag on the bed and paced like a trapped cat.
This was ridiculous.
She wasn't a child.
She didn't need punishment.
She needed fun. Noise. Life.
Not countryside silence.
She grabbed her phone to call her friends, but the screen was full of notifications. Clips of last night. Memes. Comments dragging her.
Some even said she deserved the punishment.
Sarah tossed the phone aside, chest tight. She didn't want to feel guilty. Guilt wasn't her thing. She made chaos, people reacted, life moved on.
So why did her chest feel heavy now?
Maybe she was just tired. Yeah. That was it.
Still, as she packed clothes into her designer suitcase—throwing in crop tops and mini skirts that would probably scandalize every villager—something strange tugged at her.
A weird chill.
Like someone watching.
Or something waiting.
She shook it off and zipped the bag.
---
The drive to the countryside took four miserable hours. No music she liked, no stops at fancy cafés, just her mother's driver humming old songs and the long stretch of road that looked like it led to nowhere.
Trees.
Fields.
Silence.
Disgusting.
Sarah leaned her head against the window. Every minute felt like torture. She wanted to go back home, back to the city's heartbeat.
Then the car turned into a narrow road lined with old, twisted trees.
They bent toward the car like they were curious.
Or hungry.
Sarah frowned. "Why does this look like a horror movie?"
The driver chuckled. "It's just nature, miss."
Nature needed to relax.
When they reached the Bullock countryside estate, Sarah expected an ugly old house. She was wrong.
The place was huge—old stone walls, tall towers, giant windows, vines crawling over everything. Beautiful in a creepy, magical way.
Too magical.
Sarah stepped out and shivered.
The air felt different.
Heavier.
Alive.
Like it knew her.
"Nah," she muttered. "This is just old-house vibes. Nothing special."
She dragged her suitcase inside, heels clicking dramatically on the floor.
Everything smelled like pine and forgotten secrets.
Her grandmother used to live here.
Her grandmother, who everyone whispered about.
Her grandmother, who people said had… abilities.
Sarah shook her head. Lies. All superstition. Nothing magical was real.
Right?
As she explored the house, she felt it again—that strange pull.
Like the walls were humming.
Like the shadows shifted when she wasn't looking.
Upstairs, she passed a long hallway and gasped as a cold rush brushed her neck.
She spun.
Nothing.
"Great," she muttered. "Now I'm imagining things."
She went to the room her parents prepared for her. It was simple—too simple—white sheets, wooden desk, big window overlooking the forest.
Ugh. Forest.
Sarah dropped her suitcase and collapsed on the bed.
"This is hell."
Silence answered her.
But the longer she lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, the more she felt something strange in her bones. A simmering warmth under her skin. A quiet vibration like the air itself was calling her name.
She sat up slowly.
"What… was that?"
Another chill crawled up her spine.
Outside the window, the forest swayed.
Not with wind.
With intent.
Sarah swallowed hard.
This wasn't just punishment.
Something wanted her here.
Something old.
Something magical.
Something waiting.
She didn't know it yet, but her reckless mistakes in the city were nothing compared to the consequences coming for her now.
Because the countryside wasn't calm.
It was the beginning.
And Sarah Bullock—troublemaker, heiress, chaos in heels—was about to awaken a legacy that had been sleeping beneath her skin her whole life.
A legacy that wouldn't stay quiet any longer.