The Heiress's Comeback-Chapter 393: [ Volume 1] Chaper 392- Motor Valley

Then there were the others—mers of striking beauty, the kind that could charm their way into the hearts of the weak-willed. They were different from her guide, weaker in presence, but undeniably dangerous in their own way.

Looking at them, anyone could be mesmerized by their beauty and effortless charm. Their smiles were enough to enchant, their presence enough to turn heads.

But for Esme?

They weren’t even worth a second glance.

To her, no one could compare to her husbands. They weren’t just beautiful—they were godlike, untouchable, beyond anything these people could ever hope to be.

And why wouldn’t she see them that way?

She was the daughter of Gina Vallahe—the woman whispered about in both reverence and scorn. The so-called slave wife, the woman who had loved her husband to the point of madness, who had worshipped them as if they were the very gods that ruled her world.

Esme carried that same blood, that same devotion.

So, of course, in her eyes, her husbands would always be the most beautiful.

And these people?

They didn’t even come close.

After walking for a while, they stopped in front of a house that looked barely livable.

Its windows were shattered, the door barely hanging on its hinges, the walls worn down by time and neglect. Compared to the other structures, this one was in even worse shape—something that seemed impossible.

Esme’s lips curled into a smirk.

The man leading her paused, catching the expression on her face. He turned slightly, his dark eyes studying her reaction.

"What?" he asked, raising a brow. "The little lady not impressed by our hideout?"

Esme tilted her head, her smirk deepening. "Nah, it’s just..." She let her gaze roam over the rotting wood, the cracks, the decay. "It’s quite beautiful. I really want to destroy it."

A short chuckle escaped the man. His grin twisted into something sharper, something cruel.

"Careful what you wish for," he murmured.

To the untrained eye, this place looked like nothing more than a rundown shack—one strong kick away from collapsing entirely.

But Esme wasn’t fooled.

This was no ordinary hideout.

It was the strongest base in the city.

Not just the city—the entire country.

Ranked number ten on the list of deadliest places in existence.

Because while the outside was an illusion of weakness, the inside told a different story.

The man knocked on the door three times. A pause. Then, without waiting for an answer, he pushed it open.

"I’m home," he said.

Three figures stepped out of the dimly lit interior.

They were dressed in plain clothes, their expressions warm, their movements relaxed. If someone had wandered in by mistake, they might have assumed this was a welcoming household. A place where friends gathered, where meals were shared.

But then there were the knives.

Gleaming, sharp, and wet.

The scent of blood hung in the air, thick and unmistakable. A single drop fell from the blade, hitting the wooden floor with a soft plip.

One of them grinned.

"Oh? You brought a guest?" he mused, tilting his head as his fingers twirled the bloodstained knife.

The man in the apron smiled at Esme, his expression eerily warm, like a perfect housewife welcoming a guest—if only he weren’t holding a bloodstained knife.

Esme smirked, tilting her head slightly. "How about you greet me properly after wiping the blood off that knife?" Her voice dripped with amusement, but there was a sharp edge beneath it.

She wrinkled her nose and took a step back as if the very air offended her. "Human blood reeks. Absolutely disgusting." Her fingers brushed against her nose, her expression turning to one of mild repulsion.

The man’s smile faltered, just for a moment, before stretching into something more sinister. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, and then he let out a low chuckle.

"You brought an interesting one," he said, turning to the man who had led Esme here.

The guide, still standing beside her, laughed lightly. "Yeah, I was just as dumbfounded."

"Well then, welcome." The man in the apron finally gestured inside, but Esme didn’t move. Instead, she slid her hands into her pockets, her demeanor unreadable.

"Call your so-called Mama outside," she said, her voice suddenly cold. "I want to talk."

The air in the room shifted.

The man in the apron hesitated. The casual atmosphere cracked, and a heavy silence settled in. Just as the tension began to stretch too thin, another man—one lounging lazily near the doorway—spoke up.

"Why not come inside first?"

His voice was smooth—too smooth. It dripped with charm, soft and lilting like a melody designed to soothe. A voice like that could twist reality itself, could make lies sound like gospel truth.

But to Esme?

It was like nails on a chalkboard.

Her expression darkened, and she turned her gaze to him, eyes filled with nothing but disgust. "Fix your tone."

The man’s smile froze. What?

For the first time, someone had rejected his voice. No admiration. No intrigue. Just raw, open revulsion.

Esme, completely unbothered by his stunned silence, smirked. "You want me to come inside, right?"

The man hesitated before nodding. "Of course. We can’t let a guest wait outside."

Esme’s smirk deepened.

And then, in one swift motion, she raised her foot and kicked her guide forward.

The man stumbled, arms flailing, before crashing face-first onto the floor.

And then—

Two knives sliced through the air.

They were fast. Silent. Meant to kill.

Their target? The guide’s unprotected back.

But Esme was faster.

With a flick of her wrist, she snatched a nearby flower vase and hurled it.

The vase shattered in midair, its impact deflecting the knives just in time. The blades spun wildly, embedding themselves deep into the wooden walls with a heavy thunk.

The room fell into stunned silence.

The men stared.

Esme simply looked down at her fallen guide, her lips curving into a slow, lazy smile.

"Oh my," she purred. "I really can’t let you die just yet."