Reborn From Ashes: Divorcing The Billionaire

The thick, rough fibers of the hemp rope bit into Gene's wrists, grinding against her skin until it bled.

She could barely breathe. The heavy stench of gasoline coated the back of her throat, thick and suffocating. Her chest heaved against the concrete pillar she was tied to in the abandoned Brooklyn warehouse.

Ten steps away stood her husband, Alvie.

A masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a rusted metal barrel. The metallic clack echoed in the cavernous space.

"Choose," the kidnapper's voice was a distorted rasp. "The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."

Alvie did not hesitate. He didn't even blink.

He took long, purposeful strides toward the dark corner where Gail crouched, shivering and sobbing. He wrapped his arms around the mistress, pulling her tightly against his chest, shielding her.

Gene's cracked lips parted. She tried to scream his name, but her vocal cords were paralyzed. Only a broken, raspy exhale escaped her mouth.

Alvie guided Gail toward the rusted iron exit door. He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, Gene was already a corpse. She was trash left on the pavement.

The kidnapper let out a low, guttural laugh. He flicked a windproof lighter. The flame sparked. He tossed it directly onto the trail of gasoline soaking the concrete floor.

A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly.

It surged forward, a violent, roaring beast that swallowed Gene whole. The extreme heat vaporized the oxygen in her lungs in a fraction of a second.

The agony of her skin blistering and melting shot straight to her nerve endings. It was a pain so absolute, so blinding, that it shattered her sanity. In the center of the inferno, consumed by a hatred deeper than the flames, Gene lost all consciousness.

Gene violently jerked upward.

She shot up from the California King bed, her hands clawing desperately at the silk duvet like a drowning woman fighting for the surface. She gasped, sucking in massive, greedy lungfuls of cold, air-conditioned air.

Her entire body was drenched in a freezing sweat. Pure instinct took over. Her trembling hands flew to her face, her neck, her arms.

Smooth. Her skin was perfectly smooth. There were no blisters. No charred flesh.

The phantom sensation of burning flesh slowly dissipated, chased away by the gentle breeze of the central AC. She blinked hard, her vision clearing. She looked around the room.

It was the master bedroom of the Upper East Side penthouse. The one she and Alvie had shared four years ago, right after they got married.

Her eyes locked onto the Patek Philippe desk clock on the nightstand. The date glowing on the display was exactly four years in the past. It was the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.

Her legs tangled in the sheets as she scrambled out of bed. She stumbled, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and practically threw herself into the massive marble bathroom.

She gripped the edges of the sink so hard her knuckles turned white. She stared into the mirror.

The woman staring back was young. Vibrant. Her eyes were not yet deadened by four years of a soul-crushing marriage.

Suddenly, the phantom feeling of the fire closing in hit her again. Claustrophobia gripped her throat. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the freezing marble tiles.

Her body shook violently. She lifted her hand and bit down hard on her own knuckles. She bit until the metallic taste of blood bloomed on her tongue. The sharp, physical pain grounded her. It forced the trembling to stop.

Alvie's retreating back. Gail's triumphant smirk. The memories flashed behind her eyelids like a strobe light.

She curled her fingers inward, her manicured nails digging crescent moons deep into her palms.

Gene pushed herself off the floor. She turned on the brass faucet, cupped the freezing water in her hands, and splashed it violently against her face. She scrubbed her skin, washing away the last pathetic remnants of her love for that man.

When she looked up at the mirror again, her eyes were different. She stared at the unblemished skin, processing the profound strangeness of her own reflection. The woman staring back was naive to a laughable degree, and that very naivety had been her epitaph. No, never again. The absolute agony of her past life burned away the fragile, submissive shell she had worn. Her eyes were as cold and unforgiving as a glacial fault line. The decision to destroy them both settled deep in her bones.

She walked out of the bathroom and pulled open the doors of her walk-in closet.

Her eyes swept over the endless row of soft, pastel-colored dresses. Pink chiffon. White lace. Clothes she had bought solely to play the role of Alvie's delicate, submissive wife.

She shoved them all aside.

From the very back of the closet, she pulled out a sharply tailored, jet-black haute couture suit. She stripped off her nightgown and put it on. The structured shoulders and crisp lines felt like armor.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany double doors of the bedroom were shoved open with violent force.

Alvie barged in. He reeked of stale alcohol and blind panic. He was still wearing the rumpled dress shirt from last night's banquet, having clearly sprinted straight from the guest room sofa where he had passed out. His chest was heaving.

When his eyes landed on Gene, standing perfectly whole in front of the full-length mirror, his pupils dilated. He looked at her as if he were staring at a ghost.

He crossed the Persian rug in three massive strides. His hands shot out, gripping her shoulders with a bruising force.

"You're here," his voice shook. It was a frantic, desperate sound. "You're still here."

It was a bizarre reaction. The man who had left her to burn was now looking at her like she was his lifeline.

The moment his skin made contact with hers, Gene's stomach violently churned. The physical revulsion was immediate.

She twisted her body and violently shoved his hands off her.

She took a half-step back, her eyes raking over him with the icy detachment of a stranger. A mocking, razor-sharp smirk curled the corner of her lips.

Alvie froze. He was stunned by the pure disgust radiating from her. The panic in his chest instantly morphed into the angry defensiveness of a man whose authority had just been challenged.

"What the hell is that look for?" he snapped, his voice rising.

In the past, Gene would have lowered her head and apologized. Not today.

"I'm just admiring the scent," Gene said, her voice deadpan. She stared dead at the collar of his shirt. "That niche perfume on your collar. It belongs to Gail, doesn't it?"

Alvie's face turned to stone.

The color drained from his cheeks. Guilt, mixed with a much deeper, irrational terror, flashed in his eyes. He couldn't hold her gaze.

He turned away, his posture rigid and awkward.

"Get downstairs," he ordered, his voice tight. "We're leaving for the Hamptons in ten minutes."

He practically fled the room, leaving the door wide open.