Reborn Heiress: Escaping The Cheating Fiancé

Christabel forced her swollen eyes open.

Blood dripped from her forehead, blurring her vision. The heavy stench of rust and decay filled the abandoned medical facility, making her stomach churn.

Through the red haze, she saw Hilary.

Her cousin stood there in a pristine white Chanel haute couture suit. The crisp fabric was a stark contrast to the grime and blood covering the concrete floor.

Christabel's heart contracted violently. The pure hatred burning in her chest made it hard to breathe.

Hilary took a step forward. The sharp heel of her stiletto pressed directly onto Christabel's broken fingers.

A muffled groan tore from Christabel's throat. The pain shot up her arm like a bolt of electricity. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper, refusing to give Hilary the satisfaction of a scream.

Hilary leaned down. Her perfume, sickeningly sweet, invaded Christabel's nose.

"Derrick is dead," Hilary whispered, her voice dripping with fake pity. "His plane went down an hour ago. No survivors."

Christabel's pupils dilated. Her lungs stopped working. The air in the room vanished.

Hilary laughed. She threw a stack of newspapers directly at Christabel's face.

The sharp edge of the thick paper sliced across Christabel's cheek. A fresh line of heat and pain bloomed on her skin.

The bold headlines screamed about the Sanders family's bankruptcy and liquidation.

Christabel commanded her arms to move. She wanted to tear the papers. She wanted to wrap her hands around Hilary's throat.

But her limbs were dead weight. Her muscles refused to twitch. A wave of absolute, crushing helplessness drowned her.

Hilary sneered. She turned on her heel and walked away.

The heavy, rusted iron door slammed shut. The booming sound echoed in the empty room, sealing Christabel in complete darkness.

Christabel closed her eyes. The faces of her parents and her brother flashed in her mind. They died trying to protect her.

A single tear mixed with blood slid down her cheek.

Her breathing grew shallow. Her heartbeat slowed to a crawl. In the final second before her consciousness faded, a silent, vicious curse echoed in her mind.

Then, a violent sensation of falling ripped through her.

Christabel gasped loudly. Her eyes snapped open.

Blinding light from a vintage crystal chandelier stabbed her eyes. She instinctively raised her hand to block the glare.

She froze.

Her hand moved. Her fingers were whole. No broken bones. No blood.

She felt the smooth, cool touch of silk bedsheets beneath her fingertips. The texture was so real it sent a violent shiver down her spine.

Suddenly, an unnatural, burning heat flared in her lower abdomen. It rushed through her veins like liquid fire.

Christabel's breathing turned ragged. A layer of cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

She forced herself to sit up. She looked around the massive room. The velvet curtains, the gold-accented furniture.

This was the presidential suite at the Grand Hotel on the Upper East Side.

The memories hit her like a physical blow to the chest.

She was eighteen. This was the night Hilary tricked her into coming here. The night she was drugged. The night Jaylon brought reporters to catch her in bed with a stranger, destroying her reputation forever.

The hatred swallowed the drug-induced haze.

Christabel dug her fingernails deep into her thigh. The sharp pain cleared her mind for a fraction of a second.

She stumbled off the bed. Her legs felt like jelly. She practically crawled into the marble bathroom.

She turned the cold water on full blast. She scooped the freezing water and splashed it onto her face, over and over again, trying to drown the fire in her blood.

She gripped the edges of the sink and looked in the mirror.

The girl staring back had flawless skin. No scars. No blood.

A chilling smile stretched across Christabel's face. It was a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

The biting cold temporarily suppressed the unnatural heat in her veins. She pinched her own arm ruthlessly, using the sharp sting to force her trembling, jelly-like legs to stand straight. Relying on sheer willpower, she dragged her heavy body forward.

She took a deep breath, fighting the heavy panting of her lungs. She walked out of the bathroom.

Her eyes locked onto the half-empty glass of champagne sitting on the nightstand.

A soft click came from the hallway.

Christabel's muscles tensed. She quickly backed into the heavy shadows behind the door, holding her breath.

The electronic lock beeped. The door handle slowly pressed down.

A man wearing a baseball cap slipped into the room. He held a professional camera with a massive flash attachment.

Christabel recognized him instantly. Gary. The tabloid reporter Jaylon hired.

Her eyes turned dead and cold. She reached out and grabbed the heavy brass statue sitting on the console table next to the door.

Gary raised his camera, aiming it at the large bed. He frowned when he saw the tangled sheets but no girl.

He took two steps forward.

Christabel stepped out from the shadows. She raised the brass statue high above her head.

With brutal precision, she brought it down hard against the back of his neck.

Gary didn't even make a sound. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed onto the thick carpet like a sack of rocks. The camera hit the floor with a dull thud.

Christabel kicked his leg away with a cold stare. She bent down, grabbed the camera, and popped the memory card out. She shoved it into the hidden pocket of her dress.

The drug surged again.

Her knees buckled. She slammed her hand against the wall to keep from falling. Her fingernails scraped against the expensive wallpaper.

She knew Jaylon would come up soon to check on the situation. She didn't have much time.

She grabbed Gary by the collar of his jacket. Gritting her teeth against the weakness in her limbs, she dragged his heavy body into the massive walk-in closet.

She pulled off his leather belt and strapped his wrists and ankles together. She ripped his tie off and shoved it deep into his mouth.

She closed the closet door.

Christabel walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. She pulled the heavy drapes back just an inch. The street below was clear. No paparazzi yet.

She turned and walked toward the suite's private bar.

She pulled a sealed bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. She was going to make Jaylon a special drink.

Heavy, rushed footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

Christabel heard Jaylon's hushed, eager voice through the thick wood of the door.

The curtain on her revenge was rising.