Reborn Heiress: Revenge On My Wedding Day

The beep of the heart monitor was the only thing louder than the silence in the room. It was a rhythmic, mocking countdown. Aria tried to lift her finger. Just one. Just the index finger of her right hand. Nothing happened. Her brain screamed the command, sending frantic electrical impulses down her spine, but the connection was dead. Her body was a heavy, useless sack of meat and bone that no longer belonged to her. She was trapped behind her own eyes. The door to the private suite in the Swiss clinic swung open. The sound was smooth, expensive, like everything else in this place that was designed to make death feel like a luxury vacation. Jordan walked in. He looked impeccable. Of course he did. He was wearing that navy custom suit from Milan, the one Aria had bought him for his thirty-second birthday. He adjusted his cufflinks as he approached the bed, his movements fluid and unbothered. Chloe followed him. The air in Aria's lungs, what little she could control, seemed to freeze. Chloe was wearing Aria's dress. The vintage Givenchy Aria had saved for the anniversary gala. It hung a little loose on Chloe's hips, but she wore it with a terrifying confidence. They stood over Aria. Jordan didn't look sad. He didn't look like a grieving fiancé watching his soon-to-be wife succumb to a mysterious, rapid-onset neurological decline. He looked bored. "It's done," he said softly. He wasn't talking to Aria. He was talking to the air, or maybe to Chloe. He held up a blue folder. "The trust transfer cleared the offshore routing about ten minutes ago. We're liquid, Aria. Completely liquid." Pain blossomed in Aria's chest. It wasn't the heartbreak. It was physical. A searing, chemical burning that started in the center of her heart and began to crawl up her throat. The neurotoxin was making its final ascent. Chloe giggled. It was a light, airy sound that made Aria want to vomit. "She looks so peaceful," Chloe said, leaning over Aria. Her perfume-Aria's perfume-clogged Aria's nose. "Do you think she knows? About the wine?" "It doesn't matter," Jordan said. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from Aria's forehead. His touch was cold. "She drank it. She signed the papers. She was the perfect little asset right until the end." The wine. The engagement toast. Seven days ago. Aria's heart monitor began to speed up. The beep-beep-beep accelerated into a frantic warning. "God, that noise is annoying," Jordan muttered. He reached over and silenced the alarm. The silence that followed was heavy. He turned to Chloe, grabbed her waist, and pulled her into him. He kissed her. Right there. Right over Aria's dying body. It was a wet, hungry kiss, full of the passion he hadn't shown Aria in two years. Aria tried to scream. She tried to curse them to hell. All that came out was a wet, rattling wheeze. Jordan pulled away from Chloe and pulled a silver lighter from his pocket. He picked up the document on the bedside table-Aria's Living Will. The one that said she wanted no life support. He flicked the lighter. The flame danced in his eyes. He touched it to the corner of the paper. "Goodbye, Aria," he whispered. He dropped the burning paper onto the sheets near Aria's feet. The heat didn't register. The darkness did. It started at the edges of Aria's vision, an encroaching vignette of black ink. The cold was absolute. It wrapped around her bones, squeezing the last bit of warmth from her marrow. She made a promise to the darkness. If there was anything after this, she would destroy them. The blackness swallowed Aria whole. Aria gasped. Her body jerked upright, violently, like a puppet yanked by strings. Air rushed into her lungs, burning and sweet. She was drowning in oxygen. Her hands flew to her throat, clawing at the skin, searching for the intubation tube, for the constriction of the poison. Smooth skin. No plastic. No tape. She was sweating. Cold, sticky sweat soaked through the silk of her pajamas. Aria looked around. This wasn't the clinic. The walls weren't sterile white. They were a soft, warm gray. The floor-to-ceiling windows didn't show the Alps. They showed the jagged, steel skyline of Manhattan bathed in the golden light of early morning. Her bedroom. She scrambled for the phone on the nightstand. Her fingers were shaking so hard she dropped it twice on the carpet. She snatched it up, tapping the screen. June 12. The numbers stared back at her, innocent and horrifying. June 12. The Merger Gala. The day of the wedding. The day she drank the wine. She stumbled out of bed. Her legs felt weak, but they worked. She ran to the bathroom and gripped the edges of the marble sink. The woman in the mirror was pale, her eyes wide and bloodshot, but she was alive. There were no dark circles of decay. No paralysis. She turned on the cold water and splashed it on her face. The shock of the temperature made her gasp again. Real. This was real. A knock on the bedroom door made Aria freeze. She stared at the reflection of the door in the mirror. Her muscles locked up. The handle turned. Kane Holt walked in. He was holding a tray. A simple white mug and a plate of toast. He wore a white t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest and gray sweatpants. His hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it. Her husband. The man everyone called the trophy. The man she had ignored for three years while she tried to please a family that wanted her dead. He stopped in the doorway. Aria stared at him. She really looked at him for the first time in forever. He wasn't just standing there; he was occupying the space with a stillness that felt heavy. He saw Aria's face. He saw the water dripping from her chin, the terror in her eyes. His posture changed instantly. It was subtle. His shoulders squared, his weight shifted to the balls of his feet. The tray in his hand didn't wobble, but his grip on it tightened. "Aria?" His voice was deep, gravelly. It sounded like safety. Aria opened her mouth to speak, to say his name, but her throat clicked shut. The memory of the poison was too fresh.