
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 3
The sound of the shower finally stopped.
Inside the bathroom, Bowen grabbed a thick towel and scrubbed the cold water from his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and forced himself to take ten deep, slow breaths.
He pulled the belt of his black robe tight, knotting it aggressively. He convinced himself the nosebleed was just dry air. He was Bowen Greene. He was a monster in the boardroom. He could handle one woman.
He pushed the bathroom door open and marched back into the living room. His eyes locked onto Aria.
Aria was sitting sideways on the expensive leather sofa. She was holding a heavy silver lighter she found on the coffee table, flipping the lid open and shut with a rhythmic, metallic click. She didn't even look up when he walked in.
Bowen walked over and stopped right in front of her. He stood tall, trying to cast a dark shadow over her body.
He cleared his throat. He dropped his voice into a deep, vibrating register that sounded completely unnatural.
"Don't think you've won anything, woman."
Aria's left eyebrow twitched. The forced gravel in his voice was physically painful to listen to.
Before she could speak, Handler 377 flashed a bright gold notification box across her vision.
[High-Reward Task Triggered: Counter the male lead's provocation. Say the exact phrase: "Is that it?" with a mocking expression. Reward: Flawless Skin Gene Upgrade.]
Aria's heart skipped a beat. As an actress whose face was her entire livelihood, a genetic skin upgrade was worth more than a million dollars. She accepted the task instantly.
Aria snapped the silver lighter shut. She slowly lifted her chin.
Her eyes started at Bowen's face. She dragged her gaze down his neck, over his chest, and let it drop lower.
She intentionally stopped her eyes right at the knot of his bathrobe, staring directly at his crotch.
Bowen felt the physical weight of her stare. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. His knees jerked, and he subconsciously pressed his legs closer together.
Aria let out a short, breathy laugh. The sound bounced off the high ceiling, filled with absolute contempt.
She tilted her head to the side. She curled her upper lip into a perfect sneer, mixing pity with disgust.
"Is that it?" she asked.
The three words hit Bowen like a physical blow to the stomach.
His jaw dropped. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock. It was as if she had just pulled a gun and shot him in the chest.
The fragile shell of his male ego shattered into a million pieces. His bottom lip actually trembled.
He raised a shaking finger, pointing at her. He opened his mouth, but his brain couldn't form a single word of defense. He just stood there, stuttering over empty air.
A sharp, pleasant chime rang in Aria's head. [Task Complete. Reward Distributed.]
A rush of cool, minty energy washed over Aria's body. She felt her pores tighten. The dull ache of exhaustion vanished from her face.
She lifted her hand and stared at the back of it. The skin, which had felt slightly dry and tight just moments ago, was now as smooth as silk, even glowing with a healthy radiance under the light.
Aria smiled, completely mesmerized by her own hand. She ignored the towering man standing in front of her.
Bowen sucked in a ragged breath. He desperately tried to glue his pride back together. "I... I was just off my game today. The market was stressful."
Aria didn't look at him. She just gave a vague, dismissive nod, waving her perfect hand in the air. "Sure. I'm very busy right now."
A crushing wave of defeat slammed into Bowen. His brutal negotiation tactics, the ones that made old Wall Street billionaires sweat, were completely useless against her.
He grabbed a handful of his damp hair and yanked it in frustration. He spun on his heel and walked stiffly toward the master bedroom. He needed to hide.
The bedroom door clicked shut.
Aria stood up. She walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling mirror near the entryway to inspect her new face.
She touched her cheek. It was flawless. She realized right then that this system wasn't a curse. It was a tool. And she was going to use it to bleed this world dry.
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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.