Reborn As The Billionaire's Wife：The Despised Wife Shines On Live TV

The path leading to House 5 dead-ended at a clearing choked with dead weeds and the exposed roots of old pines. The structure stood there, listing to one side like a wounded animal. Rotted planks, a roof with a mouth gaping open to the grey sky, a door hanging by a single rusted hinge.

Cecile stopped fifteen yards from the shack and scanned the perimeter. A cracked wooden rain barrel sat beneath a sagging gutter, half-full of murky water filmed with fallen pine needles. She turned to the cameraman.

"Two minutes. No filming."

The cameraman hesitated, the lens still tracking her face. Cecile did not repeat herself. She just stared at the red recording light until it blinked off.

She strode to the rain barrel, knelt, and plunged her right forearm into the icy water. The cold hit the swollen welt like a punch, stealing her breath for an instant. She held the arm submerged, watching the grey water soak through the sleeve of her white t-shirt, feeling the bone-deep ache slowly retreat into numbness. When her fingers began to stiffen from the cold rather than the injury, she withdrew her arm.

She tore a long strip from the hem of her t-shirt with her teeth, then wound it tight around the bruised forearm. The pressure steadied the deep contusion. She flexed her hand into a fist and released it twice. It hurt—a grinding, bright pain beneath the compression—but her grip would hold. It would have to.

She stood, water dripping from her elbow, and walked back toward the shack without glancing at the cameraman. The red light flickered back on.

The floorboards groaned in agony under Cecile's weight. The sound was a sharp, splintering crack that echoed in the small space.

The cameraman squeezed in behind them, shoving the lens right into a massive spiderweb in the corner, then panning up to the gaping hole in the roof where the grey sky threatened rain. He was hunting for the exact moment Cecile would break down and cry.

Cecile's face remained a mask of stone. She let go of Damien's hand and began pacing the perimeter of the room. Her eyes darted rapidly, assessing the structural integrity.

Damien stood frozen by the doorway. The smell of mold and wet dirt assaulted his nose. His severe OCD flared up, making his skin crawl. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his small face scrunched in misery.

Cecile stopped by the window. The glass was shattered, letting in a biting wind that cut straight to the bone. In the corner sat a wooden bed frame, missing its front left leg, tilting dangerously toward the dirt floor.

She turned and saw Damien shivering by the door.

She didn't sigh. She didn't complain about the unfairness of it all. She walked over to him and crouched down so they were eye-to-eye.

"Give me two hours, Damien," Cecile said, her voice steady and absolute. "I promise you, we will sleep in a warm place tonight."

On the live stream, the chat rolled their eyes collectively.

Delusional.

She doesn't even know how to boil water.

Cecile stood up. She took off her expensive grey sweatshirt, folded it neatly, and placed it over the relatively clean wooden threshold. "Sit here," she told Damien.

Underneath, she wore a simple, tight white t-shirt. She rolled up the sleeves, revealing pale, slender forearms.

She turned back to the room and went to work.

She grabbed chunks of rotting wood and piles of wet leaves with her bare hands, hauling them out the door. Dust plumed into the air, coating her face and hair in a layer of grime. She didn't stop to wipe it away.

Behind the shack, she found a collapsed woodshed. Digging through the debris, her fingers brushed against cold, heavy metal. She pulled out a rusted claw hammer and a pile of discarded, semi-solid pine planks.

Cecile weighed the hammer in her right hand. A sharp bolt of pain shot from her forearm to her elbow the moment the weight settled into her grip. She clenched her jaw, exhaled slowly through her teeth, and adjusted her hold until the hammer's balance carried more of the strain. Her first swing sent a jarring shock up her arm. She did not stop. By the tenth strike, the hammering had settled into a grim rhythm—her forearm screaming beneath the compression wrap, her face expressionless as stone. She drove each nail with three brutal blows, the repetition becoming a mechanical, pain-ignoring cadence.

The cameraman flinched, the lens jerking downward. He stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

The chat froze.

Wait.

Did she just measure that with her hand?

Cecile picked up a handful of bent, rusty nails she had salvaged from the shed. She held a plank over the broken window.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three strikes per nail. No hesitation. No bent metal. The hammer fell with a rhythmic, brutal efficiency. Within five minutes, the window was completely sealed. The howling wind in the cabin died instantly, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence.

Damien sat on the threshold, his amber eyes wide. He stared at the back of the woman swinging the hammer. In his five years of life, he had never seen his mother do anything more strenuous than lift a champagne flute.

Who was this person?

Cecile moved to the broken bed. She inspected the splintered joint where the leg used to be. It was beyond simple repair.

She gripped the heavy wooden slats of the bed base with both hands. When she pulled upward, the strain tore through her right forearm, the deep bruise burning like a brand beneath the bandage. She shifted her weight, driving the force through her left arm and her shoulders, breaking the rotted joints free one by one. The slats came loose with a sound of snapping rusted nails. She took the remaining planks, wedged them under the four corners of the base, and drove the nails through them deep into the hard-packed dirt floor, anchoring the bed frame solidly against the ground.

In twenty minutes, she had built a low, incredibly sturdy platform bed.

Cecile dropped the hammer. She wiped her forehead with the back of her left wrist, smearing a streak of dirt across her pale skin. She turned slightly away from the camera, pretending to inspect the sealed window. In that brief blind spot, she cradled her right forearm against her stomach, her fingers tracing the edge of the soaked bandage. The muscles beneath the skin trembled with exhaustion and muted pain. She allowed herself one ragged, private breath.

Then she straightened, turned to Damien, and let out a breathless, triumphant exhale. A genuine smile broke across her face.

It was the first time Damien had ever seen her look truly happy. A shaft of weak sunlight broke through the clouds, filtering through the roof hole and illuminating her face. She looked radiant.

Suddenly, the wind carried a sound from across the valley.

It was a sharp, angry voice. Abbey White.

"Do it again, Brayan! You missed the key! Do you want to look stupid on camera?"

The distant yelling was a jarring contrast to the quiet, dusty peace of House 5.

Cecile walked over to the threshold. She held out her dirt-stained hand to Damien.

"Come on in," she said softly. "Welcome to our new home."