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 7
The cold air of the underground garage rushed into the Maybach, breaking the suffocating tension. Gene grabbed the lunchbox, stepped out of the car, and walked briskly toward the executive elevators.
Donte stepped out a moment later. Instead of heading to his private elevator that went straight to the chairman's suite, he slid his hands into his pockets and followed Gene.
They stepped into the mirrored elevator car. The doors slid shut. The rapid ascent made Gene's stomach drop. Her nerves, already frayed by the car ride, pulled tighter.
The elevator chimed and the doors opened on the 68th floor. This was Alvie's territory as Vice President.
It was the middle of the lunch hour. The plush, carpeted hallway was entirely empty. The silence was absolute.
Gene walked down the corridor, her heels sinking into the carpet, making no sound. She headed straight for the heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the hall. Alvie's private office.
When she was ten feet away, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The heavy door wasn't fully closed. It was cracked open just an inch.
As she stepped closer, a faint, unsettling noise leaked out into the quiet hallway. She stopped dead in her tracks, holding her breath to listen. Only then could she barely make out the muffled, wet sounds of heavy, suppressed breathing and a sickeningly rhythmic slapping of skin against skin.
Then came Gail's voice, breathy and high-pitched.
"Alvie... what if Gene finds out we're doing this on the leather sofa she bought for your anniversary?"
Alvie let out a rough, arrogant laugh. "Don't talk about that boring bitch. Even if she knew, she wouldn't do a damn thing. She can't survive without my money."
The words hit Gene like a physical blow.
The memory of the fire-the heat, the smoke, the absolute betrayal-crashed down on her all at once. Her PTSD flared violently.
Her vision tunneled. The air in the hallway felt too thin to breathe. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably. The heavy lunchbox slipped from her numb fingers.
It was going to hit the floor. It was going to make a massive noise and warn them.
A split second before the metal hit the carpet, a large hand swooped down and caught it silently mid-air.
Gene gasped and spun around.
Donte was standing directly behind her. He was so close his chest almost brushed her back. He set the lunchbox down on a small side table without making a single sound.
His eyes were fixed on the crack in the door. A look of pure, murderous rage flashed across his face, so dark and violent it made Gene's breath hitch.
He leaned down. His lips were inches from her ear.
"Are you scared?" Donte whispered. His breath was hot against her skin.
Gene bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled. She stared at the door. Her body was locked in a state of frozen panic. She couldn't move her legs. The trauma was anchoring her to the floor.
Donte didn't push her forward. He didn't open the door for her.
Instead, he raised his large, warm hand and placed it flat against the center of her back.
The heat from his palm burned through her blazer. It was a solid, grounding pressure. It was an anchor pulling her back from the flames of her past.
"Push the door open, Gene," Donte murmured, his voice a dark, hypnotic command. "Face your fear. And then destroy them."
The words poured into her veins like liquid courage. The trembling in her hands stopped. The panic in her chest dissolved, replaced by a white-hot, razor-sharp fury.
She stood up straight. The muscles in her back flexed under Donte's hand.
Gene reached out and wrapped her fingers around the cold brass doorknob. Her eyes were dead.
Donte dropped his hand and took one step back, melting into the shadows of the hallway, giving her the stage.
Gene shoved the door hard.
The heavy mahogany door flew open and slammed against the wall with a deafening BANG.
Inside the office, the two bodies tangled on the sofa shrieked in terror.
Alvie scrambled backward, frantically pulling his unbuttoned dress shirt over his chest. "Who the hell-!" he roared.
His voice died in his throat. His eyes bulged out of his head.
Gene stood in the doorway, framed by the hallway light. She looked like an executioner.
Gail screamed, grabbing a throw pillow to cover her bare chest. Her carefully crafted innocent face was twisted in pure horror.
Gene crossed her arms over her chest. She looked at the disgusting mess on the sofa, and a slow, chilling smile spread across her face.
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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."