Reborn Heiress: The CEO's Revenge Bride
I lay in the hospital bed, every breath feeling like I was inhaling wet concrete. My husband, Trent, stood by the window, more interested in his reflection in the glass than his dying wife.
My sister, Cristi, sat nearby, complaining about how the rain would ruin her expensive shoes on the way to the car.
Trent walked to my bedside and brushed a finger against my oxygen tube.
"The liver failure is aggressive," he whispered. "But we expected that, didn't we? After all those 'vitamins' you've been taking."
I tried to scream, but my vocal cords were paralyzed. Cristi just giggled, telling me not to struggle because they needed my trust fund voting power by midnight. They held up a Do Not Resuscitate order and told me my hand had "signed" it with a little help.
"You were a depreciating asset, Cleora," Trent said, his lips cold against my forehead. "Now, you're finally liquidated."
As the darkness swallowed me, I saw flashes of my life—my mother’s suspicious car crash, my stolen sketchbooks, and the bitter almond taste in my morning juice. I died in a state of pure, helpless rage, realizing I had been murdered by the only people I ever loved.
How could they be so heartless? How could I have been so blind to the monsters living in my own home?
Then came the sensation of falling.
I sat up with a gasp, my lungs burning with fresh, salty air. The hospital was gone. I was in a luxury stateroom on our family’s charity cruise, three years before my death. I was alive, healthy, and back at the beginning.
When a blood-stained billionaire named Clemente Pennington walked out of the suite's bathroom, I didn't run. I looked him in the eye and realized that this time, I wouldn't be the one liquidated. I was going to make them pay for every drop of poison they ever fed me.
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Chapter 2
The pressure in the room was precise. He knew exactly how to apply it to keep her conscious but terrified.
Cleora's vision blurred at the edges, a terrifying reminder of the death she had just escaped. She couldn't die again. Not now. Not when she had a second chance.
She forced her eyes to focus on his torso. A jagged cut ran along his left ribs. Blood was seeping into the white towel.
"Your side," she rasped. Her voice was barely a whisper. "You're bleeding out. If you don't compress that, you'll go into shock in five minutes."
Clemente's eyes narrowed. His posture didn't change, but a flicker of something-annoyance, perhaps even respect-crossed his face.
It was the opening she needed.
"The kit," she choked out, pointing a shaking finger toward the emergency box on the shelf near the bathroom. "Let me."
Before he could answer, a heavy thud sounded against the corridor door. Then the beep of an electronic key card.
"Security check," a muffled voice called out. The lock mechanism whirred.
Clemente's body tensed. He looked at the door, then back at her. His men by the door straightened, their hands moving inside their jackets.
"No," Cleora whispered. "A scene will bring everyone. The captain. The press."
She grabbed his wrist. It was a gamble. A massive one.
She pulled him toward the bed. "Get in."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then understood. He slid under the duvet. Cleora scrambled in beside him. She yanked the sheet up to their chins, then messily pulled the strap of her silk nightgown down her shoulder. She ruffled her hair, making it look wild.
The door swung open. The beam of a flashlight cut through the dim room, sweeping across the floor and landing on the bed.
Cleora screamed.
"Get out!" She shrieked, channeling every ounce of entitlement she had learned from watching her stepmother. "Who gave you the right to barge in here?"
The security guard froze. He saw the tangled limbs, the bare shoulders, the suggestion of intimacy. He saw a man's broad back shielding the woman.
"I... Ma'am, we heard a noise," the guard stammered, averting his eyes. "We were just checking-"
"You're interrupting!" Cleora yelled, throwing a pillow at the door. "Get out before I have your job!"
The guard backed away, face red. "Sorry. My apologies."
The door clicked shut.
Silence returned to the room, heavy and suffocating.
Cleora exhaled, her body sagging against the mattress. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
A cool, metallic object was pressed against her waist.
She looked down. It wasn't a blade. It was the edge of Clemente's phone. He had an article displayed on the screen: a profile of the Hart family, with her picture circled in red.
"Resourceful," he said. His voice was devoid of gratitude. "But that doesn't tell me why a Hart heiress is hiding in my room."
"I'm the woman saving your life," Cleora said, her voice steadying. She pushed the phone away with two fingers. It was insane, but she felt a strange calm. "Now let me sew you up."
She got out of bed, retrieved the first aid kit, and returned. Clemente watched her every move. He didn't flinch when she cleaned the wound with alcohol. He didn't make a sound when she threaded the needle.
Her hands moved with practiced efficiency. In her past life, she had treated her own injuries to avoid the family doctor who reported everything to Trent.
"You have good hands," Clemente noted, watching her tie the final knot.
"Survival skills," she muttered. She packed the kit away. "You should leave. Before they come back."
Clemente sat up. He grabbed her left hand. His thumb brushed over the ruby signet ring on her finger. It was the Hart family crest, her mother's heirloom.
He pulled.
"Hey!" Cleora tried to yank her hand back, but his grip was unyielding. He slid the ring off her finger.
"Collateral," he said, slipping the ring into his pocket. "And insurance. You know I was here. You know I was hurt. If that information leaks, I know who to come for."
"That was my mother's," Cleora said, anger finally piercing her fear.
"Then you'll want it back." Clemente stood. He moved to the desk and scribbled a number on a notepad. "Call this when you're back in New York."
He walked toward the balcony door. He paused, looking back at her. His expression was calculating, as if weighing one final variable.
"A word of advice," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "In my world, there are no coincidences. Find out why you were in my room. Fast."
Then he was gone, melting into the night over the balcony railing with the silent grace of a shadow, leaving her alone with the lingering scent of antiseptic and the chilling weight of his warning.
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8.4
Kloe Guthrie dragged her crystal-encrusted wedding gown down the penthouse corridor, exhausted but ready to finally be alone with her new husband, Justen.
But as she passed the presidential suite, a familiar, cloying perfume stopped her. Through the cracked door, she saw Justen brutally thrusting into her cousin, Candyce.
"Like fucking a corpse with Kloe," Justen grunted, his voice thick with lust. "Worth it for the trust fund control, though."
Candyce giggled, mocking Kloe's pathetic gratitude.
Shattered, Kloe stumbled backward in the dark, only to be caught by Julian Larsen—Justen's billionaire best man.
Instead of offering sympathy, Julian trapped her against the wall. He forced her to listen to her husband's cruel mockery, then dragged her into the opposite suite, tearing off her wedding dress and dismantling her dignity piece by piece.
Everything she had believed for four years was a meticulously calculated lie.
She was nothing but a boring prop to the man she loved, a naive fool meant to be drained of her family's immense wealth and laughed at behind closed doors. The humiliation and betrayal burned through her veins like acid.
"You could cry," Julian whispered against her neck, his eyes predatory and dark. "Or you could make him regret he was ever born."
Instead of running from the man cornering her in the dark, Kloe looked at the destroyed remains of her life, grabbed Julian's collar, and pulled him in.
This time, she would make them all pay.
8.4
Elia was an orphan from the rust belt, taken in by the wealthy Chapman family in New York.
To them, she was just a shameful charity case.
The parents shoved her into a dusty storage closet, treating their other daughter Geri like a delicate princess, and mocked Elia as uneducated trash.
When Elia secured her own admission to Manhattan Elite Prep, Geri's jealousy turned vicious.
Geri orchestrated a massive smear campaign, posting anonymously on the school forum that Elia was a violent dropout who sold her body to a sugar daddy to pay tuition.
In the cafeteria, the school's elite dumped dirty milk on Elia's food.
They called her a whore and told her to go back to the streets, while Geri watched from afar with a victorious, innocent smile.
They thought she was just a helpless stray dog who would easily break under their high-society cruelty.
They had no idea she was actually "L", the dark web's most feared hacker, and "The Surgeon", a genius medical anomaly.
They also didn't know she was currently tracking a dying Wall Street billionaire who had stolen her only necklace in a dark alley.
What made these arrogant rich kids think they could destroy a girl who played with international firewalls for fun?
Instead of crying, Elia calmly pulled out her phone.
Within seconds, she breached the school's server, locking every screen in the building onto a blood-red skull.
As Geri's own recorded voice plotting the fake rumors blasted through the PA system, Elia grabbed her bag, stepping back into the shadows to reclaim what was hers.
7.3
Betrayed by the man she loved. Katrina Donovan's death was supposed to be the end. Instead, when Katrina opens her eyes, she isn't in heaven-She's in Rachel Sterling's body. The very woman who stole her lover, harvested her heart. The villain everyone hates.
Now trapped in the life of her enemy, Katrina must pretend to be the spoiled, manipulative heiress while hiding the truth that would destroy them all.
Worse-Owen Blake, the cold and powerful billionaire adopted son of the Sterling family, watches her every move. He despises "Rachel", believes she destroyed the only innocent girl he ever cared about. He doesn't know the girl he mourns... is standing right in front of him.
With hatred burning in her veins, Katrina swears she will not waste this second chance. She will expose the lies. Reclaim what was stolen. Make every person who carved out her heart beg for mercy.
But revenge is dangerous-Especially when the only man who might uncover the truth is the one who wants her dead.
8.3
One million dollars for one hundred days.
For Elena, a street-smart girl facing a mountain of debt, the offer from the mysterious Vance empire sounds like a miracle. The job is simple: use a high-tech "neural sync" to impersonate Lira, the beloved sister of tech-tycoon Alexander Vance, for a series of high-profile events.
But as the contract progresses, the "handshake" between their minds turns into a stranglehold. Elena begins to see memories that aren't hers. She feels a hunger for power that belongs to a dead woman.
When the synchronization hits a lethal 99%, the terrifying truth emerges: Elena wasn't hired to be a mimic. She was brought to be a biological host.
With a ghost clawing for control of her brain and a cold, brooding corporate assassin, Alexander, watching her every move, Elena must navigate a web of digital hauntings and billionaire secrets. From the neon streets of London to a high-stakes explosion in Malta, she has one goal:
Delete the ghost before the ghost deletes her.
8.4
For five years, I was Brogan Walton’s shadow—a contract companion kept behind closed doors, hidden away because of a cruel, fabricated rumor about my genetic health. I lived for the moments he looked my way, even if those moments were cold and transactional.
Everything shattered when he returned from London early, tossed a legal document onto the table, and coldly announced the termination of our contract. He didn't just want me gone; he wanted me erased, offering a severance package to ensure I never spoke of the life I’d traded for his protection.
As I signed the papers, my chest burned with the familiar, suffocating agony of my failing heart. I watched him check his watch, his impatience a blade in my back. When the door slammed shut, I finally collapsed, clutching the pill bottle that was my only lifeline, realizing I was dying—and he didn't care.
I wasn't a lover or even a person to him. The next day, I saw her—Kori Barnett, the new CEO, the woman Brogan actually loved. She looked identical to me, down to the curve of her smile. I was never a Cinderella; I was just a cheap, disposable stand-in he’d groomed to be a mirror for his true obsession.
Broken and discarded, I walked into the office, dropped my badge on the desk, and finally walked away. But as I stepped onto the street, I realized the nightmare wasn't over. A predator from his past was waiting for me, and when I looked at Brogan for help, he simply rolled up his window and drove away. I realized then that I had nothing left to lose. I took a deep breath, gripped the knife in my pocket, and decided that if I was going to die, I wouldn't go down as his victim.
9.1
She lost her job, her love, and her home until the man who fired her offered her a lifeline... in the form of a contract marriage.When loyal secretary Natasha Hills is wrongly accused of corporate betrayal, she's cast out by billionaire CEO Bruce Stamford and left broken by the sudden disappearance of her scheming boyfriend. But everything changes when Bruce, desperate to fulfill his dying grandmother's last wish, proposes a marriage of convenience.Their deal is strictly business... until emotions blur, secrets unravel, and enemies close in. In a world of power, lies, and betrayal, can fake vows turn into real love before everything crashes down?