Reborn Embrace: Taming the Possessive Tycoon
I woke up gasping from a nightmare of flames devouring Chandler Finch's estate, my body wrapped in burning curtains as I died alone.
But my eyes opened to silk sheets in his penthouse master bedroom. He was alive beside me, his cedarwood scent real. This was my second chance—I'd been reborn.
His phone buzzed: Eugenia Stewart's "emergency." Her security detail reported her refusing meals, unstable. Chandler bolted without a glance, rushing to her side.
I signed the brutal cohabitation contract binding me to him, but Temperance had planted birth control pills in the trash—a trap to frame me. Chandler found them, exploded in jealous rage, crushing the pills to dust. "No child unless it's mine," he growled, possessive fire in his eyes.
Brett, Eugenia's lapdog, stormed in later, accusing me of manipulation. I fired back: Chandler demanded my womb for his heir. Brett paled, fled to tattle.
Then the storm hit—power outage, locked on the terrace in pouring rain, freezing as Eugenia faked an asthma attack on Chandler's line, stealing his focus again. I hung up, huddled with a stray puppy, nearly dying from hypothermia.
He'd never believed me before—Eugenia's lies always won, dooming me to isolation and fire. Why did her every whimper trump my screams? How could he be so blind?
This time, reborn weeks before the inferno, I wouldn't beg. I'd play his game, shatter Eugenia's web, and make Chandler mine—before the flames returned.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 1
A scream clawed its way up Carolyn Lindsey's throat, but it died as a choked gasp before it could find air.
Her eyes flew open, pupils shrinking to pinpricks against the dim morning light.
Her fingers dug into the sheets beneath her. Silk. Cool and impossibly smooth. Not the coarse, burning fabric of the curtains she'd wrapped around herself as the flames ate the world alive.
She sucked in a breath, then another, her lungs aching with the effort. Cold sweat plastered her thin nightgown to her skin. Her gaze darted around, slowly making sense of the shapes in the darkness. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling like a frozen starburst. Towering windows draped in heavy velvet. This wasn't the smoke-filled ruins of the estate.
This was the master bedroom in Chandler Finch's penthouse.
The mattress beside her dipped. A wave of cold, sharp cedarwood scent washed over her, a smell so familiar it made her stomach clench. It was his scent. Chandler's.
"Another nightmare?" His voice, rough with sleep and laced with its usual brand of cutting amusement, sliced through the quiet. "What are you planning on breaking this time?"
Carolyn's head snapped toward the sound. Her eyes met his, a pair of gray-blue irises as cold and stormy as the Atlantic. The sight of him, propped up on one elbow, his bare chest defined by shadows, sent a violent tremor through her. He was alive. He was here. The terror of the fire and the dizzying relief of this reality crashed together inside her chest, a collision so powerful it stole her breath again.
This time, she didn't scream. She didn't throw the lamp on the nightstand at his head like she had two weeks ago. She didn't spit venomous words designed to wound him.
Her lips trembled. A single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down her temple. Then another. They came without a sound, a silent, desperate flood.
Chandler's brow furrowed. The amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by a guarded suspicion. This was new. This quiet, broken reaction was not in her playbook. He instinctively shifted back an inch, a subtle retreat.
She saw it. That flicker of hurt and defense in his eyes, a detail she'd been blind to in her past life. It was the tell. The tiny crack in his marble facade.
Before he could pull away further, she moved.
Carolyn launched herself across the small space between them, throwing her arms around his waist and burying her face against his bare chest. She clung to him with a strength born of sheer terror.
His body went rigid, hard as stone beneath her cheek. She could feel the shock radiate through his muscles. His hands hovered in the air, uncertain, unwilling to touch her.
She didn't care. All she cared about was the steady, powerful thud of his heart against her ear. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. It was the sound of life. The sound of a second chance.
She squeezed her eyes shut, smearing her tears against his warm skin. "Don't go," she whispered, her voice ragged and broken. "Please... don't leave."
His hands, which had been suspended in the air, finally came down. But they didn't wrap around her. They clamped onto her shoulders, his grip firm and impersonal.
He peeled her off him, the separation feeling like a physical tear. He forced her back against the pillows, his eyes dark and unreadable, searching her face for the angle, the trick. "Carolyn," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "What new game are you playing?"
She was forced to look at him, to see the hard line of his jaw, the muscle ticking in his cheek. He was fighting for control. She knew that now.
She took a shaky breath, swallowing the sob that threatened to break free. She tried to smile, a weak, placating gesture that felt more like a grimace.
She didn't argue. She didn't fight. She simply lay back, her eyes never leaving his face, as if he were the only anchor in a world that had just been ripped apart and stitched back together.
Chandler stared at her for a long, silent ten seconds. He was looking for the lie, the performance. Finding none, he let out a short, cold huff of air.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the movement sharp and decisive. His bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet. His back was a wall of muscle and rejection.
Carolyn's heart leaped into her throat. This was how it always started. He would leave, without a word, and she would later find out he had gone to Eugenia.
She had to do something. Anything. Even if it only bought her a few more seconds of his presence.
"Chandler..." The name was a soft plea, a sound so foreign in this room that it made him pause.
He stopped, his hand on the doorframe of the walk-in closet, but he didn't turn around. He gave her nothing but the cold, hard line of his profile.
Carolyn's hand tightened on the silk comforter, her nails digging into her own palm. She used a tone she had never used with him before in her entire miserable life. A tone of quiet submission. "Can you... go to the office a little later today?"
He finally turned, his face a mask of incredulous disbelief. A humorless smirk touched his lips. "What makes you think you have any right to make requests about my schedule?"
She dropped her gaze, hiding the desperation and the flicker of a plan forming in her mind. She had no leverage. Not yet. All she had was this body, this moment, and the knowledge of his deepest weakness. She had to test if there was any softness left for her to exploit.
Just as she was about to answer, a vibration buzzed against the marble of the nightstand.
His private phone.
The screen lit up, illuminating a name that sent a shard of ice straight through Carolyn's heart. Eugenia - Emergency.
You may also like
8.1
Terminally ill.
Betrayed by her husband.
Abandoned by the only family she had.
Ariel died with nothing... and no one.
But fate gives her a second chance.
Reborn three years before her death, she walks away from the man who ruined her life-and takes back everything they stole.
Her love.
Her identity.
Her power.
Now, the cold billionaire who once ignored her can't take his eyes off her.
The brother who abandoned her starts to regret.
Too late.
Because this time, Ariel isn't the woman who begs.
She's the one who makes them kneel.
7.6
Johana walked half a mile through a brutal blizzard just to secure a tutoring job with the elite Black family.
But the very night she was hired, she received a terrifying call from the ER—her quiet roommate, Hazelle, had been drugged and severely traumatized at a Hamptons party.
When Johana rushed to the hospital, she didn't find the police. Instead, she found a team of ruthless billionaires erasing the crime.
Leading them was Dalton Black, the cold, arrogant older brother of her new student.
Within minutes, Dalton's fixers wiped the hospital's security footage, deleted all digital evidence, and forcefully transferred Hazelle to a locked private psychiatric facility.
"We are ensuring her privacy."
Dalton's voice was devoid of emotion, treating the horrific assault like a minor PR glitch.
His friends mocked Johana's powerlessness, while Dalton authorized a blank check to pay for the private ward, effectively burying the scandal and buying their silence.
Johana stood in the sterile hallway, trembling with a mix of despair and absolute rage.
How could they destroy an innocent girl's life and simply pay to make it disappear? Why was the truth so easily erased by money?
She had no wealth, no connections, and no proof, but she refused to be a victim of their cover-up.
Staring directly into Dalton's intimidating, icy blue eyes, Johana made a vow.
"I don't want your money. I will find out what you monsters did to her."
She thought the billionaire heir would crush her on the spot, but instead, he watched her walk away and quietly ordered his assistant: "Find out everything about Johana Neal."
8.0
I sat at a table for two in the center of Le Coucou, clutching a gift box that had cost me two months of savings. It was our three-year anniversary, and I was waiting for Gavin to finally ask the big question.
But when the heavy oak doors opened, Gavin didn't walk toward me with a ring. He walked in with a polished blonde heiress tucked under his arm, her hand resting protectively over a small baby bump.
"This is Tiffany Stone. My fiancée," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He didn't apologize for being late or for the three years we'd spent together. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook, scribbled a number, and slid a ten-thousand-dollar check across the white tablecloth.
"Consider it severance for your time," he added, as Tiffany mocked my cheap drugstore dress. "Don't contact me again. Tiffany doesn't need the stress." I was the entertainment for the entire restaurant—the pathetic girl dumped for a better model. By the time I walked out into the rain, I had lost my boyfriend, my home, and the funding for my secret medical research project.
I was an orphan with no safety net, facing an eviction notice and a ruined career. I had given Gavin everything, and he had discarded me like a broken tool. The injustice burned in my chest, a hot, sharp rage that replaced my tears.
Desperate and freezing, I ducked into a coffee shop where I met Colton Bentley, a reclusive billionaire in a wheelchair. After I defended him from a cruel date, he offered me a contract: a marriage of convenience and a seven-figure payment to act as his shield. I signed the papers that night, ready to use his wealth to rebuild my life. But as I watched my new husband navigate his penthouse, I noticed his "paralyzed" legs tense with a strength that shouldn't exist.
7.8
On the day she married, Alina unknowingly took the place of the Hayes family's daughter and became Kellan's wife, the richest man in town who was rumored to be disfigured.
Everyone mocked their doomed marriage, expecting misery and disgrace.
Instead, Alina revealed brilliance no one expected-a renowned jewelry master, financial genius, and medical prodigy.
The woman the Hayes family ignored was actually the heiress they should have treasured.
As regret consumed them and her ex begged for another chance, Kellan stood beside her, now devastatingly handsome.
"Alina and I are perfect together. Stay away from my wife."
8.8
Alaia Dudley spent her life playing the devoted partner, completely unaware that her fiancé Austen was sleeping with another woman.
She thought the worst he could do was break her heart, until she found herself pinned to a cold operating table.
Austen held her down with a cruel smirk while a scalpel sliced through her sternum.
They cracked her chest open while she was still fully conscious.
The agonizing pain of her heart being cut out burned into her nerve endings.
She realized then that to him, she was never a lover—just a spare organ, a boring piece of wood to be discarded the second his true love needed it.
She died in excruciating agony, choking on her own blood while the man she loved walked away with her heart.
Until her last breath, she didn't understand why she had to suffer so brutally.
Why did she waste her life begging for a monster's attention? Why did they get a happy ending while she was carved up like an animal?
But then, ice-cold water flooded her lungs, and Alaia violently broke the surface of her bathwater.
Her trembling fingers touched her smooth, flawless chest. No scars. Her heart was still beating.
The date on her phone glared back at her: it was exactly five years ago.
Tonight was the exact night Austen first took his mistress to a hotel room.
This time, she wouldn't just expose them. She would use Wall Street's most terrifying tyrant as her personal weapon to strip them of everything they had.
7.9
Cora Foster was a brilliant archaeologist, but a jagged burn scar across her face made the world treat her like a contagious monster.
During an elite excavation of a Gilded Age crypt, touching an ancient artifact triggered a terrifying memory. She remembered being Seraphina Beaumont, a socialite brutally buried alive by her vain, cruel sister, Isolde.
When the team pried open the crypt's pristine mahogany casket, they cheered, believing the mummified corpse inside was Seraphina. But Cora recognized the onyx hairpin and the angular jawline. It was Isolde. The sister who had stolen her life, mocked her agony, and left her to suffocate in the dark. Her colleagues scoffed at her forensic proof, dismissing her as a scarred, delusional liability.
Worse, the ruthless billionaire funding the expedition, Julian Montgomery, was the spitting image of Alistair—the man Seraphina had deeply loved. Why was Julian staring at her ruined face with such intense, inexplicable recognition? And why did Isolde take Seraphina's most precious silver ring to the grave?
Driven by a century of agonizing grief, Cora secretly pried the tarnished ring from the mummy's stiff, dead fingers and dropped it into her pocket.
"What are you looking at, Foster?"
Julian's deep voice vibrated inches from her ear, his cold, predatory eyes locked directly onto her half-open pocket.