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 6
Chandler crossed the terrace in two strides. He wrenched the heavy iron chair from the door's track, the metal scraping against the tiles with a harsh shriek. Then he swept her off the ground. His movements were rough, almost violent, yet his arms held her securely against his chest.
She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. The small puppy, still clutched in her hands, let out a soft whine.
Chandler's eyes flickered down to the dirty, wet animal. His brow furrowed in disgust, but he said nothing. He didn't pry it from her grasp.
He carried her through the apartment and into the elevator, bypassing any staff who might see them. The elevator descended to the silent, cavernous underground garage.
He gently placed her in the back of his Maybach, the plush leather seats a stark contrast to her soaked, shivering body. He cranked the heat, and the warm air blasting from the vents felt like a miracle.
He was soaked too, his expensive suit ruined, but he ignored his own discomfort. He pulled a thick cashmere blanket from a compartment and wrapped it tightly around her, his motions clumsy but effective.
Carolyn huddled under the blanket, her body shaking so hard her teeth chattered. The puppy wriggled, trying to get closer to the warmth.
Chandler slid into the seat beside her and slammed the door shut. The enclosed space was suddenly filled with the sound of his harsh, ragged breathing.
"Are you insane?" he suddenly roared, turning on her. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a wildness she'd never seen. "You dare hang up on me again?" His voice was shaking with a terrifying, barely leashed fury. "Your life belongs to me, and I don't permit you to die. Do you understand?" It was the sound of a man on the verge of losing control.
The force of his anger made her flinch. Tears welled in her eyes. "You were busy with her. I heard her. I heard you."
Her quiet, simple answer struck him like a physical blow. The anger drained from his face, replaced by a ghastly, pale shock. He remembered the call. He remembered Eugenia's manufactured panic, his own voice soothing her while Carolyn's voice was swallowed by the static.
He stared at her, his chest heaving. A pained, choked sound came from his throat.
Silence descended in the car, thick and heavy, broken only by the hum of the heater and the distant, muffled echo of the storm still raging above ground.
Carolyn watched the play of emotions on his face. The cold, ruthless mask was gone. In its place was raw, undisguised regret.
She reached out a trembling, ice-cold hand and lightly touched his arm.
He flinched, then turned to look at her. His expression was a tangled mess of emotions she couldn't begin to decipher.
"I thought," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "that you were more worried about her not being able to breathe."
His pupils dilated. With a guttural groan, he lunged forward, pulling her, the blanket, and the puppy into a crushing embrace. The force of it knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn't struggle. She melted against him, soaking in his warmth, his scent, his solid presence.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her cold skin. She felt the slight tremor running through his body.
She closed her eyes, pressing her face against his damp shirt, and nodded against his shoulder.
The puppy in her lap poked its head out and licked Chandler's hand. This time, he didn't pull away.
After a long moment, he loosened his grip. He shrugged off his wet suit jacket and tossed it aside. He pulled at his tie, then undid the top few buttons of his shirt, as if he couldn't get enough air.
Carolyn watched him, her heart doing a slow, painful flip in her chest.
He stared out the windshield at the dark concrete of the garage, his jaw set. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath and pulled her closer, letting her rest her head on his shoulder.
"You're cleaning that dog," he grumbled, his voice rough. But his hand came up to gently rub her back, a gesture of pure, unthinking comfort.
Carolyn nestled against him, a tiny, genuine smile touching her lips for the first time. "Okay."
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.