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 6
Eleanor stomped into the kitchen, her heels clicking furiously against the tiles. She saw the empty space where Bridget usually stood, her face twisting with rage, but she didn't dare question Donte.
Instead, she marched straight toward Gene.
"Since you have so much free time," Eleanor hissed, shoving a sleek, insulated lunchbox into Gene's hands, "you will take this back to Manhattan. Alvie is at the corporate office working through lunch. You will deliver this to him."
Eleanor lifted her chin, playing the role of the commanding matriarch. "It's your duty as a wife to repair the damage you caused last night."
Gene stared down at the expensive lunchbox. The thought of seeing Alvie made her skin crawl. She opened her mouth to tell Eleanor to throw the box in the trash.
"I'm heading to the Wall Street headquarters," Donte's voice cut through the tension.
He set his empty espresso cup on the marble counter. He picked up a linen napkin and slowly wiped his hands, his eyes fixed on Eleanor.
"She can ride with me," Donte stated. It wasn't an offer.
Eleanor's jaw dropped. She had planned for Gene to take the public train back to the city as a punishment. The idea of Gene riding in Donte's personal vehicle was unthinkable.
"Donte, you don't have to-" Eleanor started to protest.
Donte simply stared at her until she closed her mouth. Eleanor forced a tight, bitter smile and nodded, shooting Gene a look of pure venom.
Ten minutes later, Gene walked out the front doors. A massive, armored black Maybach S680 idled by the fountain.
The driver opened the rear door. Gene took a deep breath and slid into the cavernous, leather-scented backseat.
Donte was already sitting on the opposite side. He held an iPad in one hand, scrolling through financial reports. His profile was carved from stone, completely unreadable.
The heavy door slammed shut. The thick acoustic glass sealed them inside, cutting off the sound of the wind and the gravel. The privacy partition between them and the driver was already raised.
The Maybach glided smoothly onto the highway. The silence inside the cabin was thick and heavy.
Gene shifted uncomfortably. She pressed herself against the door panel, trying to maintain a physical boundary. She didn't trust Donte. His protection felt too heavy, too calculated.
Donte's eyes flicked from his screen to the space between them. He noticed her pressing against the door. His jaw tightened slightly.
Suddenly, a massive delivery truck swerved violently into their lane.
The driver slammed on the brakes. The Maybach's tires screeched.
The massive deceleration threw Gene forward and sideways. She let out a sharp gasp as she lost her balance completely, tumbling across the wide leather seat.
Donte dropped his iPad. His arm shot out with terrifying speed.
He caught her mid-fall. His large hand wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her hard against his chest to stop her from hitting the partition.
Gene's cheek slammed into the solid wall of his chest. The impact knocked the breath out of her. Instantly, her senses were overwhelmed by the heat of his body and the intoxicating, sharp scent of cedarwood and male musk.
Through the thin fabric of her sweater, she could feel the heavy, steady thud of his heart. His palm burned hot against the curve of her waist.
The Maybach stabilized, resuming its smooth speed.
But Donte didn't let go.
His arm remained locked around her waist. In fact, his fingers flexed, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer.
Gene's heart skipped a beat. A sudden, terrifying heat flushed her cheeks. She pushed her hands flat against his chest, trying to pry herself away.
Donte slowly released his grip, letting her slide back to her side of the seat. His eyes were dark, tracking the faint blush spreading across her neck.
"Are you hurt?" his voice was a low, gravelly rasp.
"No," Gene said quickly. She smoothed down her sweater, her hands trembling slightly. She forced herself to look out the window. "Thank you."
Donte didn't look away from her. His gaze drifted down to the insulated lunchbox sitting on the floorboard. A cruel, mocking smirk touched his lips.
"Do you really think a home-cooked meal is going to fix a broken man?" Donte asked, his tone lazy but piercing.
Gene snapped her head to look at him. The embarrassment vanished, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.
"I don't think it will fix anything," Gene said flatly. "I'm just taking out the trash."
Donte's eyes flared with sudden, intense interest. He leaned toward her, invading her space, the sheer size of him making the massive backseat feel claustrophobic.
"If it's trash," Donte whispered, his voice dark and dangerous, "you should make sure it's destroyed completely. Do you need my help?"
Gene stared into his endless, predatory eyes. Before she could answer, the Maybach slowed to a halt. The door was pulled open by the driver. They were in the underground garage of the Gallagher corporate tower.
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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."