Reborn Heiress: Reclaiming My Monster Billionaire

The pain didn't roll in. It detonated. A solid, white-hot wall of agony slammed into Ginny all at once, ripping a wet, shredded gasp from the back of her throat. Her spine arched against the concrete pillar, every nerve screaming before her brain could even name the source. She yanked at the restraints. Rusted iron chains, thick as her thumbs, bit deep into the delicate skin of her wrists. The metal ground wetly against bone. Blood, warm and slick, pulsed down her forearms. She was pinned upright in the gutted heart of an abandoned industrial warehouse. Shattered skylights yawned overhead. The air hung thick and stale, layered with the stench of cold motor oil, damp rot, and the copper tang of her own blood pooling at her feet. Ginny forced her eyes open. A thick, warm drip crawled from her hairline, past her brow, stinging her lashes and smearing her vision into a crimson blur. Through that red fog, a silhouette emerged. The sharp, deliberate click of designer stilettos struck the concrete like hammer taps. Coretta glided into the pale shaft of moonlight bleeding through the broken roof. She wore a pristine cream haute couture trench coat, the fabric liquid and flawless. Not a single mote of dust dared cling to it. Her golden hair was swept into an immaculate chignon. Her mouth curved into a soft, angelic smile—the exact same one she used while posing for photographs at charity galas. Coretta stopped directly in front of her. That melodic, practiced laugh spilled from her glossed lips. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, she lifted one foot and drove the needle-sharp heel of her stiletto straight down onto Ginny's right hand. Bones crunched. The sound was sickeningly wet and loud in the cavernous emptiness. Ginny's jaw locked. Her teeth clamped together with such brutal force that blood flooded her gums. She refused to scream. Not a single sound. Her vision swam, black spots dancing, but she held Coretta's gaze. She stared up at the woman she had called her sister for ten years. The mask of the devoted, perfect sibling had dissolved entirely, revealing the twisted, ugly sneer beneath. Coretta crouched. The pristine hem of her coat skimmed the filth-slick floor. She pulled a hunting knife from her pocket. The blade gleamed dull and cold. She pressed the flat of the steel against Ginny's cheek, letting the chill seep into her skin. "Still playing the tough girl, Ginny?" Coretta whispered, her voice a silken hiss. Ginny jerked her head away and thrashed against the pillar. The chains shrieked, clattering off the corrugated metal walls. The iron teeth sank deeper, carving raw furrows into her wrists. Blood slid hot and fast down her arms. She couldn't break free. Heavy footsteps echoed from the blackness behind Coretta. A man stepped into the murky light. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders. A silver lighter glinted in his hand as he raised it to his mouth and lit a thick cigar. The orange ember flared, illuminating a sharp, angular jaw and cold, empty eyes. Brant. Ginny's stomach dropped like a stone. All the air left her lungs in a single, violent rush. Her chest constricted so savagely she thought her ribs might splinter. This was the man she was supposed to marry. The man she loved. Brant walked forward. He didn't spare her a glance. His arm coiled around Coretta's waist, yanking her flush against his chest. He lowered his head and captured her mouth in a deep, ravenous kiss. Ginny's throat sealed shut. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't look away. Brant pulled back from Coretta and finally, leisurely, turned his gaze down to Ginny. His eyes were flat. Utterly devoid of anything resembling human feeling. "I only needed the core code, Ginny," he said. His voice was steady, businesslike. "You were the key to the vault. Nothing more." The words hit her harder than the chains, harder than the shattered bones in her hand. Her breath hitched, ragged and broken. Scalding tears flooded her eyes, spilling over her lashes, carving pale tracks through the blood smeared on her cheeks. They dripped off her chin, staining the torn fabric of her shirt. Coretta tracked the tears. Her jaw tightened. The smug satisfaction in her eyes curdled into something uglier—a sharp, venomous jealousy. Even beaten, drenched in blood, and chained like an animal, Ginny still possessed that face. The kind of face that made men stop breathing. Coretta's grip on the knife whitened her knuckles. She slashed downward in a single, vicious arc. The razor edge split the skin of Ginny's left cheek from cheekbone to jaw. The wound gaped open, a dark, wet mouth that instantly gushed hot blood. It sheeted down her neck, soaking into her collar. The physical shock severed the emotional cord in Ginny's chest. The tears stopped cold. Ginny looked at Coretta. A low, rasping vibration started deep in her throat. It grew, swelling into a hollow, echoing laugh that bounced off the steel walls. It was a chilling sound. Utterly unhinged. Coretta's face flushed a violent, mottled red. She pulled back her arm and slapped Ginny hard across the face. The crack echoed. Ginny's head snapped sideways, blood spraying from her split lip. Brant vanished into the shadows. He returned seconds later, a heavy red plastic jug swinging from his hand. He set it down beside Coretta without a word. Coretta unscrewed the black cap. She hoisted the jug and tilted it forward. A thick, amber cascade splashed over Ginny's head. It plastered her dark hair to her scalp, flooded into her eyes, soaked through her clothes. The sharp, chemical reek of gasoline scorched her nostrils, flooded her throat, made her gag and choke. Coretta dropped the empty jug. It bounced hollowly on the concrete. Brant plucked the cigar from his mouth. He pulled a heavy windproof metal lighter from his pocket and flicked the lid open with his thumb. A bright, thin blue flame shot up. He didn't pause. He tossed the lighter onto the gasoline-soaked floor at Ginny's feet. The ignition was instant. A roaring wall of orange fire erupted upward with a deafening whoosh. The heat slammed into Ginny's face like a physical fist. Coretta and Brant turned their backs. Their laughter floated back, thin and musical, barely audible over the roar of the flames. The heavy iron exit doors boomed shut. The deadbolt clanked into place. The fire slithered up Ginny's legs. The cheap fabric of her pants melted and fused into her blistering skin. The agony was absolute. It erased every other sensation. Her flesh sizzled and cracked. The cloying, sweet-rotten stench of her own burning body filled her nostrils. She threw her head back, throat straining, and stared up through the shattered skylight. Black smoke coiled upward, swallowing the cold pinpricks of stars. If I get another life, the thought branded itself into her dying mind, I will tear you both apart. Piece by piece. The superheated air seared her windpipe. Her lungs seized. No more oxygen. The flames climbed higher, swallowing her chest, her throat, her face. Her vision collapsed into absolute black. Her heart slammed against her ribs one final, violent time. Then, it stopped. The blistering heat vanished. The crushing weight of the chains dissolved. A strange, featherlight buoyancy lifted her. Ginny looked down. She was floating ten feet above the concrete floor, suspended in the thick, black smoke, staring at her own charred, burning body.