Reborn From Fire: The Ex-wife's Revenge

The underground parking garage of the Manhattan hotel was dim. Only a few fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting long, cold shadows.

Heidi popped the trunk of her black Range Rover. She wore a tailored black trench coat. She lifted her heavy medical bag and set it inside.

A strand of dark hair fell across her face. Without thinking, she reached up with her right hand and tucked it behind her ear. It was a lazy, absentminded gesture.

Less than thirty feet away, Christian stepped out of the back seat of his Maybach.

His eyes swept across the garage and froze.

He saw the back of the woman at the Range Rover. He saw the exact angle of her neck. He saw the way her fingers tucked the hair behind her ear.

His brain short-circuited. Logic screamed that Heidi was dead. Logic screamed she burned to ashes four years ago. But his body moved on its own.

Christian shoved his bodyguard out of the way. He broke into a dead sprint.

His dress shoes slapped loudly against the concrete.

Heidi heard the rushing footsteps. She turned halfway around.

Before she could react, a massive hand clamped down on her wrist like an iron trap. The sheer force of his momentum spun her around. Her back slammed hard against the cold metal of the Range Rover.

Christian pinned her against the car. His chest heaved. His eyes were bloodshot, wide with a desperate, manic panic.

"Heidi," he breathed, his voice cracking.

Inside the tinted windows of the Range Rover, Seraphina looked up from her iPad. Her empathetic abilities flared instantly. She felt a tsunami of grief, regret, and brokenness crashing against the glass.

Heidi stared into Christian's face. He was inches away. She could smell his expensive cologne.

For a fraction of a second, her heart hammered against her ribs. Then, the memory of his voice on the phone echoed in her skull. Let her die.

The warmth drained from Heidi's body. Her eyes turned into chips of ice.

She didn't struggle. She looked at him with absolute, clinical boredom.

"You have the wrong person, sir," Heidi said. Her voice was smooth, carrying a flawless, upper-class British accent.

Christian froze. He stared at her face in the dim light. It was beautiful, sharp, and completely unfamiliar. There was no trace of his wife's soft features.

But the scent. The feeling. He gripped her wrist tighter, refusing to let go. He searched her eyes for a lie.

Heidi frowned slightly. "You are compressing my median nerve. If you don't release my wrist in the next three seconds, you will cause localized ischemia."

Christian blinked. The cold, highly technical medical vocabulary hit him like a bucket of ice water. His Heidi was terrified of needles. She barely knew how to use a band-aid.

The manic light in his eyes died. His shoulders slumped. The absolute devastation that washed over his face was physical.

He slowly opened his fingers. He took a step back, looking like a man who had just been gutted.

"I'm... sorry," Christian whispered, staring at the concrete.

Heidi rubbed her red wrist. She didn't show a single ounce of pity. She opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.

The engine roared to life. The Range Rover backed out and sped toward the exit, the red taillights washing over Christian's pale face.

In the back seat, Seraphina tugged on Heidi's sleeve. "Mommy. That bad man has a thunderstorm in his chest. He's breaking."

Heidi's grip on the steering wheel tightened until her knuckles ached. "Good. He deserves it."

In the garage, Christian leaned against the hood of his Maybach. He buried his face in his hands.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and dropped his hands. His eyes were hard again.

He looked at his assistant. "Run the plates on that Range Rover. Find out exactly who that woman is."