His Dead Lover In A New Body
Imogen Montgomery was the perfect billionaire heiress, deeply in love and ready to marry her fiancé, Clark Ellis.
That all ended the night her cousin Kathleen ripped the sapphire pendant from her neck and pushed her into a pool of toxic chemicals to die.
Two years later, Imogen's eyes snapped open. But she didn't wake up in a hospital. She woke up tied to a stained mattress, trapped in the battered body of Briana, a teenage girl from the slums who had just been sold to a local trafficker.
After violently fighting her way out of a cheap motel, she discovered the horrifying truth. Kathleen had taken over the Montgomery Group. She had locked Imogen's grieving parents away in a psychiatric facility as prisoners.
And worst of all, Kathleen was now flaunting her stolen wealth online, preparing to marry Clark.
A wave of pure, white-hot rage boiled in her blood. Kathleen had murdered her, stolen her family, and was playing the perfect grieving cousin. How was she supposed to fight back? She was just a runaway nobody now. If she tried to expose the truth, Kathleen's security would shoot her dead in the street.
She needed a weapon. She needed a shield. She needed the one man Kathleen feared.
Covered in mud and blood, Briana intercepted Clark's car in the freezing rain. She was going to infiltrate his home as his vulgar, unhinged fake mistress, and she would drag Kathleen straight down to hell.
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Chapter 2
Briana's body went entirely limp, sliding down Clark's chest.
Clark's arm shot out instinctively, his large hand gripping her waist to keep her from hitting the wet asphalt. His jaw tightened as he felt the warm, wet smear of blood and rain transfer onto the expensive wool of his heavy trench coat.
Jairo, standing by the driver's side, took a step forward to take the girl off his boss's hands. But he stopped short.
Briana's fingers, slick with rain and blood, were tangled into the dark silk tie at Clark's chest. The knot had been pulled askew during her collision with him. Even in unconsciousness, her grip was locked tight, her knuckles white.
Clark looked down. The sudden, persistent pressure against his throat made him freeze.
He stared at her pale, rain-streaked face. In her semi-conscious state, Briana let out a soft, pained whimper. It was a specific, broken sound. A sound Imogen used to make when she had nightmares.
Clark's entire body went rigid. The muscles in his arms locked. His dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of absolute disbelief breaking through his icy exterior.
Without a word, he ripped off his heavy, blood-smeared trench coat and wrapped it tightly around her, completely shielding her from the rain and any prying eyes. Only then did he reach up and forcibly pry her stiff fingers from his tie, one by one. As the fabric came free, he saw the dark stain of her blood had seeped through the wool of his coat and bloomed against the chest of his bespoke suit jacket beneath.
Jairo watched in stunned silence but quickly pulled open the rear door. Clark ducked inside, pulling the unconscious girl onto the leather seat beside him.
The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the roar of the storm. The sudden blast of the car's heater made Briana's body violently shudder.
Her heavy eyelids fluttered open. The world was blurry, but it quickly focused on the sharp, unforgiving line of Clark's jaw. The tension in her muscles uncoiled slightly. She was safe. For now.
The heat in the cabin was stifling. Clark reached up and impatiently yanked his tie loose, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.
As the fabric parted, the sharp, masculine lines of his collarbone were exposed. The faint, rhythmic pulse at the base of his throat caught her attention. It was a hypnotic, steady beat of life in a night that had been filled with nothing but death.
Briana's pupils dilated so fast her eyes physically ached. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest heaved. That pulse. That exact spot at the hollow of his throat. Something buried deep in her fractured memory surged up—a flash of sunlight through a bedroom window, her lips brushing that exact place on his skin in another life. Before she could stop herself, her bloody, trembling fingers reached out, inexplicably drawn to the radiating warmth of his skin, a desperate instinct to anchor herself to the most powerful presence in the room.
"Don't touch him," Jairo's voice barked from the driver's seat, sharp as a whip.
Briana flinched, snatching her hand back.
Clark's head snapped toward her. His eyes, previously clouded with a strange, unguarded vulnerability, were now pitch black and lethal. He had seen exactly where her fingers had been reaching—the place no one touched. The place he only ever allowed one woman to kiss.
No stranger would reach for that exact spot. No one.
His hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw in a bruising grip.
Pain flared in her face, snapping her fully awake. She stared into his eyes, her stomach dropping into an endless void of ice.
"What is your name?" Clark demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in the small space.
Briana's brain fired on all cylinders. If he knew she was Imogen, he would know she was a freak. A ghost in a stranger's body.
She forced her eyes to well up with tears. She let her lower lip tremble. "Briana," she choked out, making her voice sound small and pathetic.
The name hung in the air.
The dangerous intensity in Clark's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a disgust so profound it made Briana's chest physically ache.
He released her jaw as if her skin burned him. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped her blood off his fingers.
"Drop her at the diner on the next block. Have a detail keep eyes on her," Clark ordered Jairo, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Panic seized Briana. She couldn't lose him. He was the most powerful man in the country. He was her only weapon against Kathleen.
She lunged forward, her bloody hands grabbing his sleeve. "Please! They'll kill me!"
Clark ripped his arm away. "Don't push your luck." The temperature in the car plummeted.
Briana instantly changed tactics. She shrank back, pulling her knees to her chest, curling into a tight, trembling ball against the leather door. She let out a soft, pathetic sob, playing the role of a broken, abused street rat to perfection.
It was a cheap act, but her eyes—wide, stubborn, and terrified—locked onto his. Clark looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw, visibly irritated by the strange pull he felt toward those eyes.
The Maybach glided to a stop at a desolate intersection in downtown LA. The locks clicked open. The freezing wind howled into the cabin.
Briana knew when to retreat. She swallowed her pride, whispered a trembling "Thank you," and dragged her throbbing ankle out of the car.
The heavy door slammed shut behind her.
The second the Maybach pulled away, the pathetic fear vanished from Briana's face. Her expression hardened into cold, calculating stone.
Inside the car, Clark stared at her shrinking figure in the rearview mirror. "Run a full background check on her," he ordered Jairo.
Briana stood under the dripping awning of a closed shop. The wind bit through her wet clothes. She needed a safe place to think.
She turned her head and saw the neon sign of a cheap, 24-hour diner glowing through the rain. She pushed through the greasy glass doors.
The cashier glared at her bloody, soaked appearance. Briana ignored him, limping straight to the darkest booth in the back corner, her mind already spinning a web.
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7.2
Genevieve woke up choking on her own blood, a fatal gash tearing through her abdomen. The memories of a primitive world crashed into her mind—she had transmigrated into the body of a sadistic beastman Mistress.
But the five powerful beastmen "mates" standing over her hadn't come to her rescue. They had come to watch their tormentor die.
"We should just leave her," Kameron sneered coldly. "The scavengers will clean up the mess."
Gilberto spat in disgust, while Angelo, a silver-scaled snake-man, trembled in pure terror at the sight of her. The original owner had whipped them, humiliated them, and driven another mate to suicide. Now, they were letting her bleed out in the mud, their eyes filled with undisguised loathing and satisfaction.
She was a top-tier apocalyptic survival expert, yet here she was, paying the ultimate price for a stranger's monstrous sins. It was a bitter, unacceptable irony to die helplessly in the dirt while her supposed protectors waited for her corpse to rot.
She refused to accept this ending.
Forcing a chaotic surge of energy through their shared Biological Link, she brought all five men to their knees in agonizing pain, commanding them to carry her back. In the dark cave, without a single scream, she plunged her bare hands into a fire and brutally cauterized her own gaping wound with searing ash. As the beastmen stared in horrified awe at the unbreakable soul now occupying the tyrant's body, Genevieve wiped the blood from her face and began to rewrite her fate.
8.3
Betrayed at the altar. Replaced by her own sister.
On what should have been the happiest day of her life, Amara loses everything-her fiancé, her dignity, and her future.
But that same night, a dangerous man steps out of the shadows with an offer she can't refuse.
Marriage. Power. Revenge.
Now bound to a ruthless CEO, Amara is ready to destroy everyone who betrayed her.
There's just one problem...
Her new husband knows more about her past than he should.
And the closer she gets to revenge-
the more she realizes she may have married the man who ruined her in the first place.
7.4
Four years ago, to protect the man I loved from losing his billionaire empire, I drugged his drink, told him I only used him for his money, and vanished.
Now, at a high-society gala, Callum Wyatt is back. He isn't just a CEO anymore; he's a ruthless predator, and the second his eyes lock onto me, I know I am his prey.
When my wealthy half-sister publicly humiliated me, calling me the cheap bastard child of a homewrecker, Callum stepped out of the shadows. He nearly snapped her wrist in half and declared to New York's elite that anyone who touched me would be dismantled.
In the back of his Maybach, he pinned my arms above my head, his eyes burning with psychotic obsession.
"If you run again, Aubrey, I will burn your entire world to the ground just to keep you."
My heart bled. I had spent four grueling years tearing myself apart to keep him out of my messy, blood-soaked revenge against the family that watched my mother die.
But his terrifying protection only made my biological father's family target me harder, using their massive capital to buy out my movie set and crush my acting career.
They thought I would cower.
But as I walked onto the soundstage, facing the heiress trying to steal my role, I took off my sunglasses. I wasn't running anymore; it was time to make them pay.
7.8
The moment I saw my husband massaging his dead brother's pregnant mistress's feet, I knew my marriage was over.
He moved her into our home under the guise of "family duty," forcing me to watch as he prioritized her comfort over our vows.
The final betrayal came when she stole and deliberately broke my mother's priceless necklace.
When I slapped her for the desecration, my husband struck me across the face to defend her.
He had violated a sacred honor code by putting his hands on the daughter of another Don-an act of war.
I looked him in the eye and swore on my mother's grave that I would bring a bloody revenge upon his entire family.
Then I made one phone call to my father, and the demolition of his empire began.
8.6
The Maybach glided through rain, Dante's cold cedar cologne a familiar comfort. Seven years, my life revolved around him, my fingers on his suit cuff, a silent promise. But tonight, our normal shattered with a single phone call.
He answered, speaking rapid Italian – a language he thought I didn't understand. Every word: a death knell. Confirming his engagement to Sofia Moretti, dismissing me as a 'consolation prize.'
Seven years of loyalty vanished. His loving mask back, he left for his fiancée. I stumbled into freezing rain, recalling my foster past. My numb fingers dialed his mother, Isabella, demanding fifty million for my silence. Her insults didn't sting.
The true gut punch: Sofia's Instagram, a prenup on Dante's desk, proudly showing *my* watch, captioned: 'Fourteen days left.' This wasn't their celebration; it was my death sentence.
I wouldn't stay another day in this gilded cage. My old duffel bag, packed, waited. The Australia brochure, a childhood dream, in my pocket. This time, I would live for myself, and they would all pay.
9.5
My husband told me I was a contractual obligation, an irritant he was forced to endure after a car crash stole his memory of our love five years ago. He replaced me with a social media influencer, a woman whose lies were as polished as her feed.
But when her baby was found with a small cut on her lip, she tearfully accused me of being a jealous monster who attacked an innocent child.
My husband, the man I had stood by through everything, didn't hesitate. In a blind rage, he ordered a guard to take a needle and thread and sew my lips shut.
"She needs to see nothing. Hear nothing. Say nothing," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy.
He then had me hung upside down in the lobby of my own wellness retreat, a public spectacle for the world to condemn.
As I dangled there, bleeding and broken, I finally understood. My blind love and foolish hope had been my downfall. I had loved the wrong man, and he had utterly destroyed me.
But they made one fatal mistake. They didn't know about the hidden camera I' d planted in the baby's room. And they had no idea that my family could crush his entire empire with a single phone call.