Reborn Actress: Defying The Ruthless Billionaire
Aria Mcgee was the unwanted second daughter of a decaying Long Island family.
To save their bankrupt corporation, her father and older sister drugged her. They shoved her into a town car and delivered her to a ruthless Wall Street billionaire's bed like a piece of meat.
They expected her to be the perfect sacrifice. The original Aria had no access to her own trust fund and was forced to live in a windowless broom closet. Even worse, a cold, synthetic System voice echoed in her skull, demanding she play the tragic, helpless female lead. It ordered her to endure her family's abuse and suffer the billionaire's humiliation to force a pathetic romance plotline.
"Host must follow the tragic trajectory and achieve the ultimate painful romance."
But the soul that woke up in that bed wasn't a weak, frightened girl. She was a dead Hollywood Oscar-winning actress. Why would a top-tier professional ever agree to play the weeping victim in such a garbage, B-list script?
Instead of trembling in fear as the System commanded, Aria looked at the billionaire and smiled. Using her flawless acting skills, she shattered his ego, extracted a hundred thousand dollars, and walked right out the door. Now, she was heading back to the Mcgee estate, ready to rip her money from her father's greedy hands and burn her sister's life to the ground.
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Chapter 2
Bowen slammed the whiskey glass down on the marble bar.
The violent crash of crystal against stone echoed through the penthouse. It was a desperate attempt to use physical noise to take back control of the room.
Aria didn't even blink. Her eyelashes remained perfectly still. She just stood there, watching his pathetic performance with calm, calculating eyes.
Bowen ground his teeth together. He remembered a scene from a trashy reality show he had watched the night before. He forced his face into a rigid mask of authority and spat out a command.
"Take off your clothes."
Aria rolled her eyes internally. The dialogue was worse than a B-list Hollywood movie.
Handler 377 flashed a frantic red light in her retinas. The system demanded she act humiliated. It wanted her to cross her arms, cry, and beg for mercy.
Aria ignored it. Fighting him would only drag out this terrible script. Obedience was the fastest way to end the scene.
She raised her right hand. Her fingers brushed against the thin silk strap of her nightgown.
Bowen's pupils dilated so fast his eyes looked almost entirely black. He hadn't expected her to actually do it. He expected a fight.
Aria flicked her index finger. The left strap slipped off her shoulder, exposing a large expanse of pale, bare skin.
Bowen stopped breathing. His lungs locked up. His gaze snapped away from her skin as if he had been burned, locking onto the floor-to-ceiling windows on his right.
But the morning sun was too bright. The glass acted like a perfect mirror, reflecting Aria's every move right back at him. He couldn't escape her image.
Aria noticed his desperate attempt to look away. She took a small step forward. Her bare toes almost brushed against the edge of his expensive leather slippers.
The silk nightgown slid down her body with a soft, whispering friction. It pooled in a dark puddle on the rug around her ankles.
Bowen's blood rushed to his head. A loud ringing noise filled his ears. His brain completely short-circuited.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything to regain his footing. His throat was so dry it felt like it was coated in sand. No sound came out.
Aria tilted her head. She noticed the tips of his ears. They were glowing a violent, bright red.
A single drop of warm, dark red liquid fell from Bowen's right nostril. It hit the white marble counter with a wet tap.
Aria froze. She stared at the spot of blood. The ruthless Wall Street predator was actually having a nosebleed just because a woman dropped her nightgown in front of him.
Bowen raised his hand slowly. He touched the skin above his lip. He looked down at his fingertips, seeing the smear of fresh blood. His face went completely slack with horror.
Aria bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She had to use every ounce of her professional training to stop herself from bursting into laughter.
She instantly changed her expression. Her eyes softened into deep, genuine concern.
She reached out her bare arm. Her cool fingertips pressed gently against the exposed skin of his chest, right where his robe hung open.
The second her skin touched his, she felt his pectoral muscle. It was locked as tight as a block of concrete.
Bowen jumped backward like he had been struck by lightning. His spine slammed hard against the edge of the bar.
He frantically wiped the back of his hand across his nose, smearing the blood across his cheek. He was trying to scrape together whatever dignity he had left.
Aria let her voice drip with sweet, innocent concern. "Do you want me to call a doctor for you?"
Her eyes, however, danced with pure mockery.
Bowen's face flushed a deep, furious purple. "Shut up!" he barked.
His voice cracked on the second word, pitching up into an embarrassing squeak.
He spun around, his bare feet slipping slightly on the polished floor. He practically ran toward the bathroom, his broad shoulders hunched in total defeat.
The heavy bathroom door slammed shut behind him. A second later, the loud rush of the shower turning on full blast echoed through the wall. Cold water.
Aria bent down. She picked up her silk nightgown and slipped it back over her head.
She looked at the empty air where the system screen usually hovered.
"This is your male lead?" she said out loud, her voice dripping with ice.
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9.8
Four years ago, I was drugged on a luxury yacht and ended up pregnant with twins.
I raised them in secret, enduring my stepfamily's daily abuse, until the billionaire West family patriarch cornered us at the airport.
He instantly recognized my son's face—an exact replica of his ruthless grandson, Bernardo West.
My malicious stepmother and stepsister immediately leaked to the press that I was a delusional gold-digger using fake kids to trap a billionaire.
They wanted the West family to destroy me to save their own social standing.
Bernardo himself looked at me with pure disgust, demanding a DNA test.
"If you ever lie to me, I will take the children, and I will make you wish you were never born."
I didn't want his money. I was a victim of that night too, left with a crescent-shaped bite mark on my collarbone and zero memory of who set us up.
Why did someone drug us? And how could I protect my babies from a corporate predator who could crush me with a snap of his fingers?
But when the DNA test came back 99.9999% positive, I didn't cower.
I showed him the scar he left on me, looked the most dangerous man in the country right in the eye, and made my demand.
"If you want to claim your heirs, you have to marry me."
7.1
For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big.
On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe."
Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero."
Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends.
"She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy."
Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder.
I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number.
"Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."
8.8
On the eve of my glamorous Waldorf Astoria wedding, I went to the penthouse to surprise my fiancé, Hugh, wearing my late mother's heirloom pearls.
Instead, I heard my stepsister's familiar laugh and caught them tangled together on the sofa.
Through the cracked door, I heard Hugh slur that he was only marrying me for my family's financial backing.
"As soon as I secure my inheritance, she's the first thing I'm getting rid of," he promised her.
Floy giggled and asked for my mother's pearl necklace, my only legacy. Hugh agreed without hesitation, mocking my dead mother's naivety and my desperate dreams of building a family.
Every sweet word he had ever said was a lie, a knife he had been patiently sliding between my ribs for years. They planned to strip me of everything the moment I signed the prenup.
I didn't cry or scream. The crushing weight of their betrayal hollowed me out, leaving behind a terrifying, absolute calm.
Why should I be the one to lose everything while they stole my future and insulted my mother's memory?
I calmly walked down the hall, set the prenuptial agreement on fire, and vanished into the rainy night.
If Hugh wanted to play dirty for the Maxwell empire, I would play for keeps.
Using a forgotten, century-old family covenant, I was going to marry Hugh's uncle-the comatose, paralyzed war hero, Fleet Maxwell.
I would return not as a naive bride, but as their worst nightmare: his aunt, and the new lady of the house.
8.2
My wedding to Ethan Reed was just weeks away.
After seven years, I was certain of our perfect future.
Then, Ethan claimed "selective amnesia" from a head injury, forgetting only me.
I tried to make him remember, until I overheard his video call.
"Total genius move," he boasted to friends.
His amnesia was a fake "hall pass" to pursue influencer Chloe Vance before our wedding.
Heartbroken, I feigned belief.
I endured his open flirting with Chloe and their taunting selfies.
He mocked my distress, prioritizing Chloe's fake emergency.
After an accident he caused, he abandoned me, injured, choosing to send Chloe to the hospital first.
He even tried to cut me off financially.
How could my fiancé be this cruel, calculating monster?
His betrayal poisoned every memory.
I felt like a fool for trusting such boundless cruelty.
His audacity left me reeling.
But I wouldn’t be his victim.
Instead of breaking, a cold plan formed.
I would shed my identity, become Olivia Carter.
I would disappear, leaving him, my past, and his engagement ring behind forever, claiming my freedom.
9.6
Antoinette stood on the manicured church lawn, the blinding summer sun stabbing her eyes. The funeral service for her parents had just ended.
A hand wrapped around her trembling shoulder, carrying the sharp, cloying scent of Fabian Cash's cologne. It was the exact same cologne her fiancé wore the night he locked her in a burning house to die in her previous life.
Now, wearing a mask of sorrowful devotion, Fabian tried to drag her to his car to control her parents' massive life insurance payout.
When she shoved him away in pure nausea, his mother Eleanor immediately shrieked to the crowd, deploying her usual guilt trip.
"She's lost her mind! The girl has completely snapped!"
The townspeople whispered and pointed fingers, watching Fabian play the victim as he tightened his bruising grip on her wrist, claiming she was hysterical and needed to be locked away.
Antoinette stared at the mother and son who had conspired to steal her family's estate and end her life. The rage inside her felt like battery acid pumping through her veins.
They didn't care if she lived or died; they only cared about the money. How could she let them strip her of everything again?
She didn't hesitate. She swung with every bit of strength she possessed, slapping Fabian across the face in front of the entire town.
"The engagement is over," she announced coldly.
Then, she turned her back on her greedy ex-fiancé and walked straight toward the terrifyingly powerful billionaire Hiram Graves, ready to let the world burn.
8.0
Aliya woke up in a dingy, freezing apartment with a throbbing headache, only to realize a horrifying truth.
She had transmigrated into the American romance novel she read just last night, becoming the ultimate vicious supporting character. The exhausted man walking through the front door was Cyrus Pace, an amnesiac billionaire currently living under the delusion that he was a broke laborer.
The original owner had trapped him with fabricated memories of being childhood sweethearts. Worse, she relentlessly abused him. Her phone was filled with toxic texts calling him a useless loser, and she had just staged a psychotic hunger strike to force him to buy a designer bag. Cyrus already looked at her with bone-deep, visceral disgust. In the original plot, the moment he regained his memory, his ruthless revenge would send her straight to a maximum-security prison for the rest of her life.
"Are you done playing your hunger strike game?"
Hearing his cold, mocking voice, the sheer terror made Aliya's blood run cold. How was she supposed to survive living with a future tyrant who already despised her? Every time his massive shadow fell over their cramped, shared mattress, her heart stopped. A single wrong move—even a microscopic mistake like accidentally crossing a physical line—would completely seal her doom.
Staring at the torn box of condoms hidden under the bed, Aliya made a desperate, life-or-death decision.
She had to completely rewrite her toxic persona, secretly hustle a high-commission real estate job, and save enough money to flee the country before the billionaire remembered exactly who he was.