Reborn Heiress: Reclaiming My Monster Billionaire

Ginny's hands trembled violently. She raised her shaking fingers to her face and pressed the pads against her cheeks. Smooth skin. No gaping knife wound. No blistered, charred flesh. She dragged her fingertips down to her jaw, her neck, her collarbones. Whole. Unbroken. She looked down at her lap. She was wearing a cheap, neon-pink sequined slip dress. The scratchy synthetic fabric bit into her thighs. The sight of it sent a cold spike of recognition straight through her skull. A loud, derisive snort came from the front seat. Ginny's head snapped up. In the rearview mirror, the driver—Silas—was staring back at her. His thin lips curled into a sneer. His eyes dragged over her cheap dress with undisguised contempt, the kind of look a man gives a piece of garbage stuck to his shoe. He shook his head slightly and returned his gaze to the road. Ginny reached up and yanked down the sun visor. She flipped open the vanity mirror. A clown stared back. Her face was caked in a thick, chalky mask of cheap foundation three shades too pale. Heavy, smudged black eyeliner ringed her eyes like a raccoon. Her lips were slathered in sticky, neon-pink lipstick that clashed violently with the dress. The whole effect was grotesque. Deliberately grotesque. The memories slammed into her brain with the force of a physical blow. She was eighteen again. This was the day she'd been brought from the trailer park to the Steele family estate in Silicon Valley. Coretta had sent a "professional makeup artist" to the motel where Ginny had spent the night. The woman had painted this hideous mask onto her face and handed her this trashy dress, cooing that it was the height of high-society fashion. Ginny, desperate and naive, had believed her. She'd walked into the Steele mansion looking like a cheap streetwalker, and the entire staff—led by Coretta—had laughed her straight out of the room. It had been the opening salvo of her social destruction. Ginny's hands dropped to her lap. Her fingers curled inward. Manicured nails drove so deep into her palms that the skin split, and a tiny bead of blood welled up. She closed her eyes. She focused on that sharp, grounding sting. Drew a slow, cold breath deep into her lungs, held it for three heartbeats, and let it hiss out through her teeth. She shoved the burning rage, the phantom heat of the fire, the image of Bedford's blood-streaked face into a tight, locked box at the center of her chest. When she opened her eyes again, the panic was gone. Her dark irises were flat, cold, and razor-sharp. She lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles hard against the back of Silas's leather headrest. "Pull over at the rest stop one mile ahead." Her voice was low, stripped of emotion. Silas glanced in the rearview mirror and rolled his eyes. "Can't do it. Madam Anjanette's waiting. We're on a schedule." Ginny leaned forward. She closed the distance until her face was inches from the back of his seat. She let the presence she had cultivated over ten years of cutthroat corporate warfare bleed into the confined space of the car. It was a cold, crushing weight, undeniable and absolute. "I said," she whispered, her tone dropping into something low and lethal, "pull the car over. Now." Silas's hands jerked on the steering wheel. A deep frown creased his forehead as his brain scrabbled to process the shift. The whiny, uncertain girl from this morning was gone. In her place sat something cold, heavy, and terrifyingly authoritative. It made no sense. A trailer-park rat shouldn't sound like a CEO who'd buried her enemies. A sudden, icy chill shot down his spine. The fine hairs on his neck stood rigid. He looked again in the mirror. The dress was still ridiculous, but her eyes—her eyes belonged to a killer. The sheer oppressive weight of her stare locked his throat. His survival instincts screamed louder than his pride. His foot moved without permission. The brake pedal dipped. The heavy Maybach slowed, tires crunching over gravel as it pulled off the highway and rolled into the parking lot of a public rest stop. The car barely came to a stop before Ginny shoved the heavy door open. The cheap heels pinched her toes as she stepped out into the blazing California sun, but she didn't stumble. She slammed the door with a solid, final thud and strode briskly toward the low brick restroom building. Inside the car, Silas slapped the steering wheel and cursed under his breath, wondering what the hell had just crawled into his backseat. Ginny pushed through the heavy glass door. The cloying scent of cheap pine disinfectant hit her nose. She walked straight to the row of stainless-steel sinks, shoved her hands under the motion-sensor faucet, and let the cold water blast over her skin. She cupped her palms, brought the freezing water up, and splashed it violently onto her face. She hit the soap dispenser. A glob of pink industrial soap puddled in her hand. She scrubbed. She dug her fingers into her pores, breaking down the thick, greasy foundation, the sticky lipstick. The water swirling into the basin turned a muddy, grayish-pink. She rinsed. Three times. Until the water ran clear. Ginny yanked a rough brown paper towel from the dispenser and pressed it hard against her face, soaking up the moisture. She lowered the towel and looked up into the mirror. Water dripped from her chin. Her skin was scrubbed raw, slightly pink from the friction, but completely clean. Her true face stared back at her.