Reborn as the Villain's Wife

Elise Nelson sucked in a breath so sharp it felt like swallowing a knife. Her eyes snapped open. Her body coiled tight, muscles locking in anticipation of the impact. The screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the searing heat of the explosion-she waited for the end. It didn't come. Instead, her spine slammed against something cold and unforgiving. Marble. Hard, polished marble. Crash. The sound of shattering glass exploded right next to her ear. Shards rained down, stinging her bare arms. Elise flinched, throwing her hands up to protect her head. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, bruising rhythm. She wasn't dead. She was breathing. The air smelled of ozone and expensive cedarwood, not gasoline and blood. "Do you hate me that much?" The voice was a low growl, vibrating with a rage so palpable it thickened the air in the room. Elise lowered her arms slowly. Her vision blurred, then sharpened. A hand was pressed against the wall, inches from her face. The knuckles were white, the veins prominent and throbbing. A trickle of blood ran down the wall where the skin had split. She looked up. Damian Vincent loomed over her. His gray eyes were usually the color of a calm ocean, but tonight they were a turbulent storm, rimmed with red. His chest heaved, straining the buttons of his white dress shirt. He looked like a man on the edge of murder. Or madness. "Answer me!" he roared. Elise pressed herself flatter against the wall. The cold seeped into her skin, grounding her. She looked around the room. The overturned luggage. The shredded plane tickets scattered on the Persian rug like confetti. The rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. Three years. She had gone back three years. This was the night she tried to run away with Eddie. The night Damian dragged her back from the airport, kicking and screaming. In her past life, she had spat in his face. She had told him she would rather die than be his wife. And eventually, she had died. Miserable, used, and alone. Damian's hand moved. He gripped her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw with bruising force. He forced her to look at him. "You want to go to him?" His voice dropped to a whisper, more terrifying than his shout. "You want to run to that piece of trash?" Pain shot through her jaw. Her instinct-the old instinct-screamed at her to fight. To claw at his eyes. To scream that he was a monster. But the memory of her death was too fresh. The memory of Damian, years later, standing by her grave when everyone else had abandoned her. Elise didn't fight. She lifted her hand. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably. Damian flinched as her hand approached his face, as if he expected a blow. His eyes narrowed, fixating on her smudged, dark lipstick, a flicker of disgust warring with the rage in his expression. His entire body went rigid, a man bracing not for a slap, but for filth. She didn't strike him. She laid her palm against his cheek. His skin was burning hot. His stubble grazed her sensitive fingertips. "Dami," she whispered. The nickname hung in the silence between them. A ghost from a childhood they had both buried. Damian froze. The contact seemed to short-circuit his fury. The pupils of his eyes dilated, swallowing the gray. His grip on her jaw loosened, just a fraction. "What did you call me?" he rasped. Elise didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat was too tight. Tears welled in her eyes-not from fear, but from the crushing weight of regret. She reached for her neck. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of the silver locket she wore. It was her mother's. The only thing she had left of her. In her past life, she had screamed that Damian would never touch it. That it was the only piece of her soul he couldn't buy. The clasp clicked open. She pulled the silver chain free. It pooled in her palm, cool and heavy. She reached out and took Damian's free hand. His fist was clenched so tight his fingernails were digging into his palm. She pried his fingers open, one by one. She pressed the locket into the center of his hand and closed his fingers over it. "I'm not going anywhere," she said. Her voice was hoarse, wrecked from crying, but steady. "Keep it. It's my collateral." Damian looked down at his fist. He looked at the silver chain spilling out between his fingers. He looked back at her face, searching for the lie. Searching for the trick. He found only wet lashes and a terrifying stillness. His chest rose and fell, a jagged breath escaping his lips. The rage in his eyes fractured, replaced by something raw. Something that looked like panic. He released her chin abruptly. He stepped back, stumbling slightly as if the floor had tilted. "Wash your face," he said. His voice was devoid of emotion now, locked down tight. "Go to sleep. If you try to leave this room, I will chain you to the bed. Do not test me, Elise." He turned and walked away. He moved fast, putting distance between them. He slammed the bedroom door so hard the walls shook. Elise slid down the wall until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her knees and exhaled. A long, shuddering breath that rattled her lungs. I'm alive. She sat there for a minute, letting the adrenaline fade, letting the reality settle in. Then she stood up. Her legs felt like jelly. She walked to the vanity mirror. The reflection staring back was a stranger. Heavy black eyeliner smeared down her cheeks. Dark purple lipstick. Fishnet stockings torn at the knee. The "Goth Disaster" of Manhattan. A costume she wore to push people away. She grabbed a tissue and wiped her mouth violently. The purple smeared, then vanished, revealing pale, pink lips. "No more," she whispered to the glass. Jill. Eddie. The people who had turned her into this joke. The people who had drained her trust fund and laughed at her funeral. A fire ignited in her chest. It burned hot and clean, cauterizing the fear. Knock. Knock. The door opened. Sterling, Damian's personal assistant, stood there. He looked pale. "Miss Nelson," Sterling said, his voice tight. "Your brother is here. Donavan. He's... he's downstairs. He says he's taking you." Elise's blood ran cold. Donavan. Her big brother. The one who would die in a car accident six months from now because he was rushing to save her from another one of her messes. "Where is Damian?" she asked. "He went down to meet him," Sterling said. "Miss Nelson, please stay here. Mr. Vincent is... he is not in a state to be provoked." Elise didn't listen. She kicked off her heavy combat boots. She didn't have time for shoes. She sprinted past Sterling, her bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood floor. She had to stop them. If Donavan took her tonight, the cycle would repeat. Damian would destroy the Nelson family business in retaliation. Donavan would die. She burst through the living room just as Damian was about to step into the private elevator with two guards, his face a thunderous mask. He saw her running towards him, barefoot and desperate, and his hand shot out, grabbing her arm. "Going somewhere?" he snarled. She wouldn't let that happen. Not this time.