Reborn Heiress: The CEO's Revenge Bride

The air in the room was too thin.

Cleora Hart tried to inhale, but her lungs felt like they were filled with wet concrete. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor to her left was the only thing anchoring her to reality, a sharp, electronic countdown.

She turned her head. The movement cost her everything she had left.

Trent Sterling stood by the window, adjusting his cufflinks. The gold caught the sterile hospital light. He looked impeccable, as if he were dressed for a gala rather than a deathbed. He didn't look at her. He was looking at his reflection in the glass.

"It's raining," Cristi Hart said. She was sitting in the visitor's chair, crossing her legs. She stared at her shoes. "My Louboutins are going to get ruined walking to the car."

Trent turned then. He walked to the bedside. His face was a mask of polite concern, the same expression he used when a waiter brought the wrong wine. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the plastic tube taped to Cleora's cheek.

"The liver failure," Trent said softly. "It's aggressive. But we expected that, didn't we? After all those vitamins you've been taking."

Cleora's fingers twitched against the sheets. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the IVs from her arms and strangle him. But her vocal cords were paralyzed. A dry hiss escaped her lips.

Cristi giggled. It was a light, airy sound. "Don't struggle, sis. It speeds up the heart rate. We need that trust fund voting power by midnight."

Trent pulled a document from his jacket pocket. He held it up. A Do Not Resuscitate order.

"You signed it this morning," Trent whispered, leaning close to her ear. "Or at least, your hand did, with a little help."

The monitor's beeping accelerated. It was a frantic, high-pitched warning. Cleora's vision began to tunnel. The edges of the room turned black.

"You were a depreciating asset, Cleora," Trent said. He kissed her forehead. His lips were cold. "Now, you're finally liquidated."

The darkness swallowed the room. Images flashed through the void-her mother's car twisted around a tree, her sketchbooks missing from her desk, the taste of bitter almond in her morning juice.

Then came the sensation of falling.

It wasn't the floaty feeling of death. It was a violent, stomach-churning drop.

Cleora gasped, her lungs expanding so fast it hurt.

She sat up.

The smell of antiseptic was gone. In its place was the scent of sea salt and expensive linen. She stared at her hands, turning them over and over. No IV marks. No yellow tinge of jaundice. She pressed her fingers to her abdomen, where the dull, constant ache of her failing liver had lived for months. There was nothing. Just healthy, warm skin. It was impossible. A hallucination before the end?

She clawed at her face. Her skin was smooth. The lesions were gone. She looked at her hands again. They were shaking, but they were strong.

She scrambled off the bed. The floor moved beneath her feet. A gentle sway.

She wasn't in a hospital. She was in a stateroom. A VIP suite.

The digital clock on the wall glowed red: July 14. Three years ago.

The Hart Family Annual Charity Cruise.

She was alive.

A wave of nausea hit her, a phantom echo of the poison that had killed her moments ago. She gripped the edge of the dresser, her knuckles white. She was breathing. She was here.

Before she could process the miracle, a sound came from the bathroom.

The door handle turned. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of sandalwood and copper.

A man walked out.

He was huge. He wore nothing but a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, but they were mixed with something else.

Blood.

He stopped. His eyes, black as oil, locked onto hers.

Cleora froze. The survival instinct from her previous life kicked in, but her body was slow to react.

The man didn't lunge. He moved with a chilling, deliberate calm that was far more terrifying than rage. He was a predator, but a boardroom predator, not a back-alley thug. His gaze swept the room, cataloging exits, weapons, and her. He assessed her not as a person, but as a variable in a dangerous equation.

His hand went to a sleek, black phone on the counter, not to her throat. He tapped the screen. A moment later, two men in sharp, discreet suits materialized at the stateroom's main door, blocking the only exit.

"You have sixty seconds to explain your presence in my private suite before my security team detains you for corporate espionage," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of heat but full of pressure. "And believe me, the maritime jurisdiction for that is... unpleasant."

Cleora stared into his eyes. She didn't know him. Not personally. But she had seen that face on the cover of Forbes.

Clemente Pennington.

But right now, he wasn't a CEO. He was a wounded animal, one who used lawyers and security details instead of teeth and claws, and he was ready to liquidate the threat.