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 7
The bodyguards immediately released Briana and stepped back.
Briana pushed herself off the floor. She dusted off her ruined sequin dress, completely ignoring the terrified stares of the maids.
She turned and walked barefoot up the grand oak staircase, her steps heavy and deliberate. She walked straight to the second floor and pushed open the heavy double doors to Clark's study.
The room smelled of rich tobacco and leather. Clark was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, an unlit cigar pinched between his fingers.
Briana walked right up to the desk, planted her hands on the polished wood, and leaned in. "I did my job. Now pay up."
Clark's eyes dragged over her smeared lipstick and the faint scratch on her neck. A rare, genuine gleam of amusement flickered in his cold eyes.
He opened a drawer, pulled out a solid black titanium credit card, and slid it across the desk. Unlimited limit.
Briana snatched the card and shoved it down her cleavage. She opened her mouth to demand a secure room.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated violently against her thigh. She had found a charger in the guest room and finally powered the cracked-screen device back on while scrubbing the grime from her skin. Now it buzzed with an incoming message.
She frowned and pulled it out. It was a picture message from Doyle.
She clicked open the image. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. All the blood drained from her face in a single second.
It was a photo of Eleonora, her mother in this life. She was tied to a rusted pipe with thick, coarse rope. Her face was a mass of purple bruises, her lip split open. Her worn sweater was soaked in fresh blood.
Below the photo was a text: Bring the money in 30 minutes, or you can come collect the bitch's corpse.
Even though this body's memories were filled with the trauma of being sold by a deadbeat father, Eleonora was different. Eleonora's eyes, always filled with sorrow but never lacking in gentle care, were the only source of warmth the original Briana had ever known in that broken home. That profound, inherited sense of familial love seared into Briana's soul like a branding iron. A wave of primal terror and blinding rage hit Briana so hard her knees buckled slightly. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. The phone rattled against her palm.
Clark's eyes sharpened instantly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "What is it?"
Briana's brain scrambled. Clark was a ruthless businessman. He wouldn't risk his men for a slum dispute. If she asked for help, he would see her as a liability.
She hit the power button, turning the screen black. She forced her facial muscles into a stiff, unnatural smile. "Nothing. Just an old debt collector trying to scare me."
Clark's eyes narrowed. He stared at her white knuckles gripping the phone. He didn't believe a word of it.
"I need to go clean up," Briana blurted out, spinning around.
She didn't look back. She forced her weight onto her good leg, dragging her throbbing ankle as she limped frantically down the hall, biting her lip to keep from crying out.
Clark stared at the empty doorway, his jaw clenched tight. He hit the intercom button on his desk. "Jairo. Track her phone. Now."
Briana burst into her guest room. She tore off the sequin dress, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She pulled on a pair of black sweatpants, a hoodie, and sneakers.
She ran into the bathroom, ripped open the first aid kit, and grabbed a pair of heavy medical scissors and a roll of bandages. She shoved them into her pocket.
She didn't go to the front door. She opened the window, grabbed the thick metal drainage pipe, and slid down into the dark bushes below, landing heavily. A sickening jolt of pain shot up her injured ankle, forcing a choked gasp from her throat, but she swallowed the agony.
She dodged the security patrols, scaled the low stone wall at the back of the estate, and dropped into the shadows of Beverly Hills.
Ten minutes later, Jairo walked into the study. "She jumped the wall, sir. GPS shows her heading straight for Skid Row."
Clark's eyes flashed with dark fury. She had just secured his protection, and now she was running off to get herself killed.
He snapped the unlit cigar in half and threw it in the trash. He grabbed his trench coat from the chair and strode toward the door.
He was going to find out exactly what made this calculating woman lose her mind.
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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.