Reborn From Ashes: Divorcing The Billionaire
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
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Chapter 3
The heavy footsteps stopped. A tall, imposing figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the living room.
Donte Gallagher.
He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the lean, predatory grace of his movements. He was the undisputed head of the Gallagher empire.
His piercing, hawk-like gaze swept over the frozen room. The temperature in the space seemed to drop ten degrees.
Eleanor instantly dropped her furious posture. She pasted on a strained, overly polite smile and hurried forward.
"Donte," she greeted him, her voice tight with forced respect.
Blair shrank back against the sofa, trying to make herself as small as possible. The spoiled brat vanished, replaced by a terrified child.
Alvie straightened his spine the moment he saw his uncle. A flash of deep-seated fear, mixed with bitter jealousy, crossed his face.
Gene stood her ground. She didn't look away. Her eyes met Donte's across the room. His deep, fathomless gaze felt like it was stripping away her armor, seeing straight into the core of her anger.
Donte's eyes flicked over her sharp black suit. For a fraction of a second, a dark gleam of approval flashed in his eyes, so fast Gene thought she imagined it. His face remained an unreadable mask.
He walked slowly to the main armchair and sat down. He crossed his long legs, resting his large hands casually on his knee.
"What is all this screaming about?" Donte's voice was a low, resonant rumble that demanded absolute submission.
Eleanor immediately seized the opportunity. "It's Gene," she lied smoothly. "She has no respect for the rules of this house. She insulted Blair and then tried to physically attack her."
Alvie opened his mouth, wanting to defend Gene to prove his new devotion, but one cold glance from Donte made him snap his jaw shut. He swallowed hard and looked at the floor.
Donte ignored Eleanor completely. He shifted his gaze to Gene.
"Do you have anything to say?" he asked, his tone flat.
Gene held his stare. "Blair insulted me first. Then she tried to slap me. I was simply defending myself."
Blair, feeling emboldened by Donte's neutral tone, decided to play the victim.
"That's a lie!" Blair cried out. Just as a maid approached with a silver tray to refill Eleanor's cup, Blair reached out and snatched a freshly poured cup of scalding hot black tea right off the platter. "I was just trying to offer her some tea to calm her down!"
Blair took two steps toward Gene, holding the hot porcelain cup. As she got close, she deliberately twisted her ankle. She thrust the cup forward, aiming the boiling liquid directly at Gene's arm.
Gene's senses, heightened by the trauma of her past life, caught the malicious glint in Blair's eyes a second before she moved.
Gene didn't step back. She stepped in.
Her left hand shot out, her fingers wrapping like a vice around Blair's wrist. Using Blair's own forward momentum, Gene twisted her wrist and shoved it downward.
The scalding tea splashed violently out of the cup. It missed Gene entirely and soaked directly into the expensive silk of Blair's dress, right over her thigh.
Blair let out a blood-curdling shriek. She dropped the cup-it shattered on the floor-and collapsed onto the rug, clutching her red, burning leg. Tears streamed down her face.
Eleanor screamed and dropped to her knees beside her daughter. The maids rushed in with cold towels. The room erupted into chaos.
Alvie stared at Gene, his mouth slightly open. He was too shocked by her brutal efficiency to even move.
Gene released Blair's wrist, letting her arm drop. She looked down at the sobbing girl.
"Next time you try something," Gene whispered, loud enough only for Blair to hear, "it won't just be hot tea."
Gene turned around, fully expecting the wrath of the family patriarch to crash down on her.
But Donte wasn't angry. He was staring at her. His dark eyes were locked onto her face, and his Adam's apple bobbed once against his throat.
He stood up slowly. The sheer physical presence of the man made the air in the room feel heavy. He walked toward Gene, stopping only when he was inches away. She could smell the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood radiating from his skin.
He looked down at her.
"Good reflexes," Donte murmured. His voice was low, rough, and completely devoid of reprimand.
The words hit the room like a bomb. Blair stopped sobbing. Eleanor froze with a towel in her hand. They stared at Donte in absolute disbelief.
Alvie's face turned a sickly shade of pale. The fact that his terrifying uncle was praising his wife made his stomach twist with a sickening insecurity.
Gene frowned slightly. She looked up at Donte, her guard instantly rising. This man was dangerous.
Donte didn't look at anyone else. He ordered the butler to call the family doctor, then turned and walked toward the grand staircase leading to his study.
As his foot hit the first step, Donte turned his head slightly. From the corner of his eye, he looked back at the woman standing tall amidst the chaos. A faint, hidden smirk touched the corner of his mouth before he disappeared upstairs.
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7.2
In the roaring flames of the abandoned warehouse, my skin blistered and peeled.
Through the crackling fire, my sister Elara's malicious voice echoed. She told me my husband, Damien, was dead, and it was all my fault.
For years, I had treated Damien like a monster. I fought him, threw tantrums, and desperately tried to escape our marriage, all because I blindly followed Elara's advice.
"Remember, the harder you fight, the more disgusted he'll get."
She texted me things like that, telling me to smash vases over his head and run away, claiming she was protecting me.
In reality, she was poisoning my mind, stealing my valedictorian spot at university, and plotting to crawl into my billionaire husband's bed.
My foolish rebellion cost me everything, ultimately leading to Damien's tragic death and my own fiery end.
As the massive explosion tore my consciousness to shreds, I finally understood who truly loved me and who the real monster was.
I died suffocating on my own agonizing regret, wishing I could tear Elara apart.
Then, a rush of freezing air punched into my lungs.
I opened my eyes to the crisp scent of cedar and mint. I was back seven years ago, on the very night our marriage was supposed to go to hell.
This time, looking at Damien's flawless, unscarred face, I didn't push him away.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and made a silent vow: I would make every single person who ever hurt him bleed.
8.4
Carissa's son was dying in the ICU, and the bone marrow match had just failed.
The billionaire father, Guilford Gates, cornered her with a cruel ultimatum: naturally conceive a "savior sibling" to save their son. But what shocked Carissa more was his family's sudden accusation that she had heartlessly sold her baby to them three years ago.
"You sold your own flesh and blood to us for five million dollars, so your body belongs to the Gates family."
She was dragged into their gilded estate, treated like a filthy, rented womb. Guilford's new fiancée mocked her, the matriarch humiliated her, and Guilford looked at her with pure disgust. When she desperately tried to feed her sick son and accidentally made him vomit, Guilford violently shoved her away and banned her from the room.
Carissa was devastated and entirely confused. She had never seen a single cent of that five million. Driven by a desperate need for the truth, she investigated and uncovered a horrifying reality: her own father and stepmother had secretly trafficked her baby to the billionaire behind her back, leaving her to bear the ultimate blame.
Looking at the bank transfer record bought with her son's life, the last shred of Carissa's vulnerability died.
She signed the conception contract without asking for a single penny. She was going to use the Gates family's immense power to destroy the blood relatives who sold her, and she would survive this hell to take back her son.
8.2
I went to a private clinic for a routine physical, only to find out I was pregnant.
It was impossible. I took my birth control every single day. But when the doctor tested my pills, they turned out to be high-purity vitamin placebos. My billionaire husband, Denton, had been systematically replacing my medication.
Yet, on our anniversary, he brought my sister Beverly home, demanding a divorce so he could marry her. When I refused to sign a settlement that left me with nothing, he froze my accounts and blacklisted me across New York.
My own father disowned me. When an old friend offered me a job just so I could afford prenatal care, Denton launched a ruthless financial attack to bankrupt his firm.
Then, Beverly got into a car crash. Denton's bodyguards dragged me off the street and forced me into a hospital trauma room. Beverly was hemorrhaging, and I was the only blood match.
I cried and begged Denton to stop, desperately trying to protect my fragile pregnancy without exposing my baby to the monster who controlled my life.
"Please, my body can't handle this. Don't do this to me!"
But he just looked at me with pure disgust and ordered his men to strap me to the chair, forcing the needle into my vein while threatening to kill me if his mistress died.
As I dragged my bleeding, cramping body out of the hospital into the freezing snow, my last shred of hope died.
I touched my stomach and made a vow: I would disappear, and I would make them all pay.
7.2
Azura Briggs was just a broke college student working freezing valet shifts to pay her adoptive mother's crushing medical debt.
Her desperate life shattered the night a bulletproof Maybach violently cornered her in an alley, and a ruthless billionaire kidnapped her by mistake.
After a harrowing escape, Azura was forced to take a humiliating "plus-one" gig at a high-end gala just to survive. But her date turned out to be the billionaire's arrogant nephew, who promptly abandoned her to the wolves. Cornered by a sleazy executive and his psychotic wife, Azura was publicly slapped, her dress torn, and left bleeding on the floor while hundreds of elites watched in disgust.
Just as she prepared to fight to the death, the crowd violently parted. Hunter Mcintosh, the terrifying man who had kidnapped her days ago, dropped to his knees in the broken glass and wrapped his bespoke jacket around her trembling shoulders.
Azura was completely paralyzed. Why was the monster who threatened her life now destroying billionaires just to protect her?
But the illusion of safety didn't last. Trapped in his Maybach hours later, Hunter threw a draconian employment contract at her feet.
"Sign it, and her care is covered. Forever."
He knew exactly how to break her. He was offering to pay off her mother's debt, but only if she signed her life away to become his personal assistant. With no other way out, Azura picked up the heavy pen.
9.5
Blaire's mother gave her a ruthless ultimatum: find a husband today, or never call her mother again.
Desperate to escape the suffocating control and disastrous blind dates, Blaire agreed to a fake marriage with a stranger she met through an old woman.
She thought she was marrying a dirt-poor salesman drowning in mortgage debt.
They lived in a rundown Queens apartment and split the living expenses fifty-fifty.
He drove a sputtering Toyota Camry, established extreme territorial rules, and treated her like a gold-digging biohazard.
When she accidentally tripped and spilled hot soup on him, he didn't help her up, instead accusing her of using pathetic tricks to seduce him.
Her own mother even crashed their apartment, ruthlessly mocking his pathetic financial state and calling him a total loser.
Blaire endured his coldness and extreme germaphobia, genuinely pitying him for his stressful, low-paying job.
She refunded his money and defended his dignity, refusing to take advantage of a struggling man.
But she couldn't understand why this supposedly broke guy possessed such a lethal, commanding aura, or why an incredibly expensive cashmere blanket mysteriously appeared on her when she was freezing on the couch.
Until her brother called with a shocking warning.
"Blaire, the name on your marriage certificate belongs to the notoriously secretive billionaire CEO of New York's top financial syndicate!"
Blaire laughed out loud, completely unaware that behind the bedroom door, her "broke" husband was frantically ordering his PR team to bury his true identity.
8.7
I was trapped in a greasy diner by my own mother.
She was forcing me to marry my abusive cousin because he had paid her twenty thousand dollars.
To escape, I used a contract marriage app and begged a complete stranger to marry me at City Hall that very day.
Ethan drove a cheap Ford and wore a plain suit. I thought he was just an ordinary guy needing a fake wife.
When my mother found out, she brought thugs to destroy my flower shop—my only home and livelihood.
To protect Ethan from her endless extortion, I shielded him and screamed that he was bankrupt and drowning in credit card debt.
My mother fled in disgust, and Ethan took me into his apartment for the night.
But out of trauma and habit, I locked my bedroom door, muttering that he must be old and desperate.
He stormed out into the freezing night, leaving me terrified that I had ruined my only lifeline.
I didn't understand why he was so furiously offended, completely unaware that my "broke" husband was actually the most ruthless billionaire in New York, and I had just trampled his massive ego.
The next morning, his face was a mask of ice as he dragged me back to City Hall to annul the marriage and get rid of me.
"Annulment. Now," he demanded.
But the clerk just popped her gum and slid a pink paper across the counter.
"State law changed. Mandatory thirty-day cooling-off period."