The Fake Heiress Is My Minion

The day I returned to the Osmond estate, the fake heiress's fiancé blocked the gates, spitting threats. "I don't care how much you beg or plead, Roxy is the only girl for me!" he sneered. "If you have any self-respect, crawl back to whatever gutter you came from." I took one look at his scrawny, fragile frame, and silently slid the steel tactical nunchucks from my waistband. But instead of screaming, Roxy, my supposed rival, stared at my sharply defined biceps, her eyes practically shining. "Oh my god, is that a pair of nunchucks?" she gasped. "Can you do a roundhouse kick? Have you ever chased someone down the block with a machete? Do you have a crew? Like, a real gang? Can I join?" Her fiancé was dumbfounded. I was dumbfounded, too. Was this girl watching way too many mobster movies? But funny thing was... I actually did have a crew of old-school street-fighter dads. 1 Standing outside the massive wrought-iron gates of the Osmond estate, I sucked on a cherry Blow-Pop, wearing a black ribbed tank top, cargo pants, and a pair of worn-out flip-flops. I looked at the pristine rows of weeping willows lining the driveway, then down at my dusty toes. Yeah. I didn't exactly fit the Architectural Digest aesthetic of this place. But I wasn't planning on staying anyway. When my four adoptive dads first heard that I was the biological daughter of the wealthy Osmond family, and that they were sending a car to fetch me, they nearly tore down the wooden sign of our boxing gym in a fit of rage. I had to physically hold them back, promising I would only take a quick look and come right back. Deep down, I just wanted to see what kind of world my birth parents lived in. That was when a guy in a pristine white linen suit materialized from the side garden. He sneered, looking me up and down like I was a spill he had to clean up. "So, you're the long-lost biological daughter?" I rolled the Blow-Pop from the left side of my mouth to the right, not bothering to give him a response. My silence only seemed to egg him on. "Let me make one thing crystal clear," he said, taking a menacing step closer. "No matter what trashy tricks you try to pull, you will never replace Roxy in this house. She's my fiancée, and I will protect her position here." Ah. The fiancée’s betrothed. The Osmond family lawyer had mentioned him. Tanner Croft. Some trust-fund prince. I looked at his pale, manicured hands. His forearms were thinner than my calves. A stiff New England breeze could have blown him into the hedges. He took another step, trying to tower over me. "If you know what's good for you, you’ll turn around and crawl back to the slums. Don't think because you share their DNA, I'll ever look at you. My heart belongs entirely to Roxy." I let out a dry laugh. "Look, buddy. I came to take a glance. Just step aside." Instead of moving, he reached out and shoved my shoulder. "Yeah, right. As if some gutter rat wouldn't jump at the chance to live in a mansion. You're just another greedy parasite. It's disgusting." I looked down at where his hand had touched my tank top. Did this boy really just lay a hand on me? Slowly, I reached behind my back, slipping the steel tactical nunchucks from my waistband. Tanner’s face went white. "What... what are you doing? This is the Osmond estate! You wouldn't dare!" I flicked my wrist, letting the steel chains clink as I spun them lazily around my knuckles. "I told you I was leaving," I murmured. "But you had to block my path. And then you touched me. So now, we have a problem." Sensing the shift in the air, he scrambled backward, screaming, "Security! Get the hell out here!" But before any security guards arrived, a blur of pastel pink burst through the front double doors. It was Roxy. I braced myself. The family lawyer had shown me her picture. I knew the script: the spoiled, adopted princess joins forces with her prince to expel the dirty intruder. Except... Roxy ignored Tanner completely. Her eyes were locked onto my hands. "Holy crap," she gasped. "Your biceps are rock solid!" 2 Before I could react, her fingers were pinching my arm. I froze. "And you actually know how to use those nunchucks! That is the coolest thing I've ever seen!" she squealed. "Can you do a roundhouse kick?" I blinked. "Uh... yeah." "Have you ever chased someone down the street with a machete?" "Three blocks, actually." "Oh my god! Do you have a crew? Like, a real gang?" I paused, thinking of the gym back home. "I guess you could say that." Roxy grabbed my forearm, her eyes practically shining. "Can I join? Can I be in your crew?" Tanner stood there, completely bewildered. I was just as stunned. This wasn't how the script was supposed to go. Wasn't she supposed to burst into tears and beg me not to steal her life? Since when did a high-society heiress treat a street fight like a job interview? Tanner finally found his voice. "Roxy! What are you doing? She's here to take your place!" Without even looking at him, Roxy slapped his hand away. "Get lost, Tanner! Don't ruin this for me. I'm talking to my sister." "She's not your sister—" Roxy whipped her head around, glaring at him. "Say another word, Tanner. She has steel nunchucks." Tanner's mouth opened and closed. He looked at the gleaming metal in my hand and wisely shut up. Still, he couldn't help pointing a finger at me as he backed away. "Don't get too comfortable! The Osmonds will never accept you! I'll make sure your parents—" Roxy didn't let him finish. She slipped off one of her designer platform heels and hurled it with surprising accuracy. Thwack! It struck Tanner right on the forehead. "Go away! You're annoying!" she screamed. Tanner clutched his forehead in utter disbelief. Realizing he was outmatched, he scrambled into his sports car and sped off down the driveway. Roxy turned back to me, her face instantly melting into a brilliant, warm smile. "Okay, he's gone. Now we can finally talk." I looked at her, feeling a headache coming on. "You... don't hate me?" She tilted her head. "Why would I hate you? I'm not the real Osmond. You are." She leaned in close, lowering her voice to a whisper. "To be honest, I've always felt like an alien in this house anyway. They're all so stiff and polite, and I'm just here secretly watching old gangster movies, wishing I had a crew." I stared at her in dead silence. I tucked my nunchucks back into my waistband and turned on my heel. Roxy immediately trailed behind me like a golden retriever. "Where are we going, sister?" "I've seen what I wanted to see," I said flatly. "I'm going home." Roxy’s eyes lit up. "Are we going to the safehouse? Can I come? I want to see the real streets." I pinched the bridge of my nose. This girl had watched way too many movies. 3 My beat-up motorcycle was parked just outside the estate gates. I climbed on and pulled my helmet over my head. Without waiting for an invite, Roxy hopped onto the back seat. I rolled my eyes, kicked the starter, and revved the engine. The bike surged forward. The wind caught her pink sundress, sending it flapping wildly. She used one hand to keep her skirt down and wrapped the other tightly around my waist, screaming into the wind the entire time. "This is amazing! It's better than a roller coaster!" "Just hold on," I yelled back. "And don't fall off." Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the entrance of an alleyway in the gritty, industrial part of the city. The murals on the brick walls were faded and peeling, and the telephone poles were plastered with old flyers. Near the corner, a couple of older, shirtless guys were sitting on plastic crates, playing cards. Roxy climbed off the bike, her legs looking a little shaky. She took one look at the rugged surroundings and immediately latched onto my arm. "There are so many guys with tattoos here..." she whispered. "Are we going to get mugged?" "You're the one who wanted to see the streets," I said. "Scared already?" Just then, a few local punks with bleached hair strolled out of a nearby convenience store. They didn't recognize me—probably new kids trying to mark their territory. The leader, chewing on a toothpick, let out a low whistle at Roxy. "Well, well. What's a pretty little thing like you doing out here? You lost, sweetheart? Let me show you around." Roxy shivered, hiding behind my shoulder. "Sister..." The punk kept grinning, stepping closer. "Your friend is kind of cute too. How about we all—" Before he could finish the sentence, I stepped forward, grabbed him by his collar, and executed a flawless shoulder throw. Crash! He went flying, landing upside down in a large blue dumpster. His friends froze, their jaws dropping. Right then, a few guys from our gym ran out of the alley. The moment they saw me, they stood up straight, their voices booming in unison. "Hey, Sister Reese!" The punk struggled out of the dumpster, his face turning pale when he saw the reinforcements. "Boss... who is she?" "That’s Reese, you idiot! Are you trying to get us killed?" The punk instantly bowed at a perfect ninety-degree angle. "I'm so sorry, Sister Reese! I didn't recognize you! Please don't kill me!" I waved my hand, letting them go. I turned around to find Roxy looking at me with absolute awe. "Sister Reese is a legend!" she cheered. Several people in the alley turned to stare. I quickly covered her mouth with my hand. "Keep it down! You're embarrassing me!" She pulled my hand away, shaking my arm excitedly. "You really do have a crew! They actually respect you! This is literally better than the movies!" I dragged the ecstatic girl through the alley until we reached the entrance of our gym. The wooden sign hanging crookedly over the door read: Ironclad Boxing Gym. This was the place my four dads ran, and where I had grown up. I pushed the door open. The ceiling still had water stains from the last rain, several heavy punching bags hung from the wooden rafters, and the floor tiles were cracked and uneven. Roxy looked around, her excitement dampening slightly. "Do you live here? The... the accommodations are a bit..." Before she could finish, her stomach let out a loud, awkward rumble. She rubbed her neck, blushing. "Sorry. I skipped breakfast. I'm kind of starving." I sighed, went into the tiny kitchen, and pulled out two packages of instant ramen. I boiled the water, cooked the noodles, and served them to her in a battered metal pot. Roxy took a bite, and her eyes went wide. "Oh my god! Is this what the streets taste like? It's incredible!" I watched her devour the cheap noodles with pure satisfaction, realizing she had probably never eaten processed food in her life. Between mouthfuls, she mumbled, "I'm your loyal soldier now, Reese. For life." I stared at her, sipping my broth. Sure, princess. With your delicate skin and designer clothes, you're going to make a great street fighter. 4 That night, I tried to reason with her one last time. "Are you sure you don't want me to take you back?" Roxy was stubborn. "I told you, I'm your soldier now. A soldier stays with her commander. Besides, our parents won't be back from their trip for another few days anyway. I don't want to go back to that empty house." Seeing no other choice, I set up a squeaky military cot for her. To my surprise, she didn't complain once, falling asleep almost the second her head hit the pillow. But in the middle of the night, a loud crash echoed through the gym. The front doors were kicked wide open. Four massive shadows burst into the room. Roxy shrieked, leaping out of bed and holding her pillow like a shield. "Is it a rival gang? Are we under attack?" I rolled my eyes and flicked on the light switch. Under the buzzing fluorescent bulb stood four intimidating figures. At the front was my eldest dad, Butch. He was six-foot-two, had a buzzed haircut, and was holding a heavy iron tire iron. The other three dads were right behind him, similarly armed. "Reese!" Butch roared. "Who put their hands on you?" My second dad, Mack, chimed in. "We heard some rich punk blocked you at the gates of that mansion!" My third dad, Spike, added, "The boys are ready. Just give us the name and we'll trash their cars!" Clint, my youngest and quietest dad, didn't say a word, but he was already testing the weight of a heavy wrench in his hand. I jumped out of bed to intercept them. "Stop, stop! No one hurt me! I came back on my own!" Butch frowned, lowering his iron. "But the kid down the street said some trust-fund boy in a white suit was yelling at you." "I already took care of him," I said, putting a hand on Butch’s arm. "It's fine, Dad." Butch finally calmed down, but then his eyes drifted over to the corner of the room, landing on Roxy, who was trembling on her cot. "Who's that?" he demanded. Instantly, three weapons pointed in her direction. Roxy squeaked. "Help..." I quickly stepped between them, batting their weapons down. "She's with me! She's my new recruit. Don't scare her." Butch looked her up and down, his face twisting into a look of pure skepticism. "Her?" he muttered. "Her arms look like toothpicks. She looks like she’d break if I sneezed on her. Can she even lift a punching bag?" Roxy was terrified by the weapons and the massive men holding them. But somehow, her action-movie obsession kicked in. She swallowed hard, puffed out her chest, and delivered a shaky line: "I... I'm not afraid to bleed! What matters most on the streets? Loyalty!" The room went dead silent for three seconds. Then, Butch burst into a belly laugh. "Haha! I like this kid!" Mack started laughing so hard he had to lean on the boxing ring. Spike slapped his thigh, and even quiet Clint let out a rare chuckle. Before Roxy knew what was happening, Butch turned to Clint. "Get the beer and the barbecue!" A few minutes later, Clint returned with boxes of takeout and a case of beer. The four heavyweights sat on the floor, dragging Roxy into the circle to join them. Roxy was handed a beer. She took one big gulp, her face flushed bright red, and she immediately became dizzy. Clinging to Butch's massive arm, she began to slur her words. "Uncle... you're like the godfather... are you the godfather? I'm your biggest fan..." Butch looked at her, completely amused. I covered my face with my hands. I didn't know this girl. I really didn't. 5 The next morning, despite her hangover, Roxy insisted on joining my morning workout. I handed her the lightest pair of boxing gloves we had. "Just tap the punching bag. Don't go crazy." She took a deep breath, bounced on her toes, and threw a wild punch with all her might. "Ow!" Her wrist instantly buckled. She crouched on the floor, clutching her hand and whimpering. I walked over, grabbed her wrist, and with a swift, practiced movement, popped it back into alignment. Crack. Tears welled in her eyes from the pain, but she bit her lip hard. "Soldiers... don't cry on the job." I rolled my eyes. Later that afternoon, Butch decided to teach her some "negotiation tactics." In our world, negotiation tactics usually meant knowing exactly how to flip a table to look as intimidating as possible. Butch stood over her, deadly serious. "Flipping a table is an art, kid. You have to throw your whole body into it. It’s all about the drama, the intimidation." Roxy’s eyes shined. She wanted to try it immediately. Butch took her to the diner down the block. Standing in front of a heavy plastic table, Roxy gripped the edge with both hands. She grunted, pulling upward with all her strength. The table didn't move an inch. She tried again, straining so hard her foot slipped on the greasy floor. She went flying backward, landing flat on her back with her legs in the air. I quickly threw my jacket over her legs to keep her covered. Butch shook his head, trying to hide his grin. "Maybe this street life isn't for you, kid. You belong in a castle." Just then, a group of about a dozen guys turned the corner. I recognized them—they were part of a new crew from the east side that had been trying to make a name for themselves by causing trouble on our turf. Seeing Roxy sprawled on the ground, the leader laughed. "Well, look at this. Is this the famous Ironclad Gym crew? What a joke." Roxy scrambled to her feet, her face red with embarrassment. She marched up to them, pointing a finger. "Who are you calling a joke?" The leader didn't even blink. He reached out and gave her a casual shove, sending her tumbling right into a muddy puddle by the curb. The gang burst into laughter. "That's your new recruit? Pathetic. Reese, we came here to take over this block." I stood up slowly. Butch held me back for a second, whispering, "Keep it easy on them, sweetheart. Don't want to clean up too much blood." Roxy dragged herself out of the mud. She looked up at Butch, worried. "Uncle Butch, shouldn't we call for backup?" Butch chuckled. "For these guys? Nah. Reese is more than enough." Three minutes later, all twelve of them were groaning on the pavement. I shook out my knuckles, preparing to sit back down. But before I could, Roxy spotted a loose brick on the ground. She picked it up, marching toward the groaning leader with a look of grim determination. I grabbed her wrist before she could swing it down. "What do you think you're doing?" She looked at me, completely serious. "The movies say you have to eliminate the threat permanently. No loose ends." I stared at her. "What movies are you watching?" I took the brick from her hand and tossed it aside, dragging her back to the gym. Once we got back, I took off my outer shirt to wash up. Roxy's eyes fell on the faint, pale scars scattered across my shoulders and arms. "Reese..." she whispered. "How did you get those?" "Old turf disputes," I said carelessly. "It happens." Even though my dads protected me, they knew they wouldn't be around forever. They had trained me to survive. Roxy's lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears. "Did it... did it hurt a lot?" "It’s fine," I shrugged. "You get used to it." She didn't say anything. Instead, she wrapped her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. Her wet, muddy hair soaked through my clothes, but she was shaking. She was actually crying for me. I stood frozen. Growing up, my dads had loved me, protected me, and taught me how to fight. But no one had ever cried over my scars before. I reached up and gently tapped the back of her head. "Alright, stop crying. You're acting like I'm dead." She looked up, her nose red. "Sister... when I get stronger, I'm going to protect you." I looked at her thin, fragile arms and tried not to laugh. But deep down, a small, cold part of my heart began to warm. For the first time, I thought that maybe having a sister wasn't the worst thing in the world.