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 5
The storm broke just before dawn. Pale morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of the guest room.
Gene woke up exactly at six. Her eyes snapped open, clear and focused. The terror of the previous night was gone, locked away behind a wall of cold resolve.
She showered and dressed in a pair of tailored beige trousers and a soft cashmere sweater. She opened her door and stepped into the silent hallway.
Her stomach gave a sharp, hollow ache. She hadn't eaten a single bite of dinner. She needed caffeine.
She walked down the sweeping staircase and headed straight for the massive, open-concept kitchen. Several maids were already prepping breakfast. When they saw Gene walk in, they immediately stopped chopping and looked away, their eyes darting nervously.
Bridget McCoy, the head housekeeper who had served Eleanor for twenty years, stood behind the marble kitchen island. Her arms were crossed over her thick chest.
Gene ignored the hostile stares. She walked directly toward the gleaming espresso machine, reaching for the freshly brewed pot of coffee sitting on the warmer.
Bridget took a heavy step sideways, using her large frame to block Gene's access to the machine. She looked down her nose at Gene with a sneer.
"That pot is Jamaican Blue Mountain," Bridget said, her tone dripping with condescension. "It is brewed specifically for Madam Eleanor and Miss Blair. There is none to spare."
Bridget pointed a thick finger toward the stainless steel sink. Sitting on the counter was a chipped mug filled with lukewarm, instant coffee from the day before.
"That is yours," Bridget sneered.
The maids in the background exchanged quiet, mocking smiles. They waited for Gene to lower her head and take the garbage coffee.
Gene looked at Bridget's smug face. A cold, terrifying calm washed over her. She slowly pulled her hand back from the machine.
She didn't walk toward the sink. Instead, she reached out, grabbed the glass handle of the Blue Mountain coffee pot, and lifted it off the warmer.
Before Bridget could react, Gene tilted her wrist.
The steaming, dark liquid poured directly into the stainless steel trash can. The hot coffee hit the plastic liner with a loud sizzle. The rich, expensive aroma filled the kitchen instantly.
Bridget gasped, her eyes bulging out of her head.
"Are you insane? !" Bridget shrieked. "You stupid bitch, you dumped the Madam's coffee!"
Furious, Bridget shoved both of her heavy hands hard against Gene's shoulders.
Gene was braced for an impact, but the woman outweighed her by fifty pounds. Gene stumbled backward, her shoulder blades slamming hard against the stainless steel doors of the industrial refrigerator.
Before Gene could push herself off the fridge to retaliate, the swinging louvered doors of the kitchen were shoved violently open.
Donte walked in.
He was wearing a black, fitted athletic shirt and sweatpants, his chest rising and falling slightly from a morning run. The moment he stepped inside, his eyes locked onto Gene pinned against the fridge.
The temperature in the kitchen plummeted. The maids stopped breathing. Bridget's face drained of all color, her mouth hanging open in horror.
Donte crossed the kitchen in three massive strides. He stopped right in front of Bridget. The sheer size of him, radiating pure, lethal anger, made the housekeeper shrink back.
"Who gave you the authority," Donte's voice was a terrifying, quiet whisper, "to put your hands on my family in my house?"
Bridget's knees knocked together. "Sir-Mr. Gallagher-she dumped the coffee! I was just-"
"Shut up," Donte cut her off. The command was absolute. "I saw a pathetic employee attacking the wife of my nephew."
Donte didn't even look at her anymore. He turned his head slightly toward the doorway, where his assistant had just appeared.
"Severance is denied," Donte ordered coldly. "Get her off my property in ten minutes. And make sure she is blacklisted in the industry. She will never work in a house on the East Coast again."
Bridget collapsed onto her knees, sobbing hysterically, begging and pleading, invoking Eleanor's name. Donte didn't blink. The security guards walked in and dragged the weeping woman out the back door.
The kitchen was dead silent.
Donte turned his back on the remaining, terrified staff. He walked over to Gene. His dark eyes scanned her shoulders, checking for injury.
Without saying a word, Donte turned to the backup espresso machine. He grabbed a fresh bag of beans, ground them, and tamped the portafilter with practiced, elegant precision.
Three minutes later, Donte turned around. He held out a small porcelain cup of steaming, perfect espresso.
"You don't need to take out the trash yourself," Donte murmured, his voice low and intimate.
Gene reached out to take the cup. Her cold fingertips brushed against his warm knuckles. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. She looked up, her breath catching as her eyes met his deep, endless stare.
A sharp gasp echoed from the doorway.
Eleanor stood there, clutching her silk robe, staring in absolute horror at the sight of the untouchable Donte Gallagher making coffee for the woman she despised.
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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."