Reborn To Love My Billionaire Husband

Juliana Hunter finished applying the last touch of lip gloss, gazing at the reflection in the powder box mirror, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"Darling, I'm already on my way." Her thumb slid across the screen to send this message. "Our new life is waiting for us!"

The recipient is Aidan Sterling. Her lover. Her future.

Inside the cabin, luxurious leather and tranquility form a soft inner liner, sharply contrasting with the raging storm outside. Raindrops hit the car window, and the wipers swung wildly in front of me, producing a hypnotic rhythm.

The phone vibrated again. The name that lit up on the screen made her stomach tighten impatiently: Cole McIntyre. Her husband.

Without thinking, she pressed the reject button.

His face flashed through my mind—always cold, always expressionless. Their marriage had always been just a transaction, trading his new wealth for her family's old reputation. For two years, they shared a vast estate, yet had never shared a bed; In a spacious restaurant where you can hear echoes, they politely share a dinner together. She had enough.

Aidan was waiting for her. He understands her, he loves her. He is not an ice-like humanoid statue.

Driver Mike Kowalski glanced at her through the rearview mirror. His knuckles gripped the steering wheel tightly, turning pale, and his face was unusually pale.

"Is everything okay, Mike?" Her voice was light and elusive.

"It's just raining, Mrs. McIntyre." He muttered, his gaze quickly shifting back to the slippery, pitch-black road. "The road is very slippery."

That sentence hung in the air, weighing heavily on a certain unspoken fear.

They were approaching a sharp bend on a secluded country road. In the pouring rain, a beam of car headlights suddenly lit up, growing larger and larger at an astonishing speed. A semi-trailer truck was charging straight at them, its rear frantically swinging across the center lane.

Mike screamed—a raw, terrifying voice. He slammed the steering wheel hard and crashed heavily into the car door.

The car did not respond.

"Brake!" He shouted hoarsely. "The brakes have failed!"

Juliana's world suddenly shrank into a blinding point of light. Aidan's handsome face flashed through her mind, then, strangely, was replaced by Cole's shadow—those gray eyes, cold and sharp.

Then, the impact came.

Metal tears through metal, a piercing screech. The world spins wildly, transforming into a violent kaleidoscope made from shattered glass and darkness. The scent of the expensive perfume she sprayed on her wrist spread, releasing a nauseating sweetness amid the murky gasoline and rain.

The final feeling was a crushing weight, a pain that devoured her, and then—a void.

A strange and ethereal calm enveloped her. She floats.

Below, she saw wreckage. The luxury sedan—her temporary cocoon—became a pile of twisted metal, coiled around the front of the truck. She saw her body collapsed in the back seat, a blood-red stain spreading across her pale silk dress. Her eyes were open, hollow and lifeless.

She wanted to scream, but couldn't make a sound. She is a ghost, silently witnessing her own death.

As the scene fades, a powerful and invisible force pulls her through space. She suddenly found herself standing in the library of McIntyre Manor. The air is filled with the scents of old books, leather, and whiskey.

Cole stood with his back to her, his broad shoulders stiff under the custom suit jacket. He was on the phone, his whole body like a fully drawn bow.

A hoarse, metallic, distant voice came through the receiver: "...... We couldn't save her, Mr. McIntyre. We sincerely apologize. ”

The phone slipped from Cole's hand, slamming heavily onto the Persian carpet, shattering the screen into thousands of spiderweb-like cracks.

He didn't move at all. For a whole minute, he stood like a sorrowful statue, completely still.

Then, a roar tore from his throat—not a cry, but a low, throat-like pure roar of pain, like a mortally wounded beast.

Juliana's ghostly form shrank back slightly. She had never seen him show any emotion, let alone anything like this.

He spun around abruptly, the look of destruction on his face unfamiliar to her. He slammed his fist onto the massive rosewood desk, the sound like a gunshot. His knuckles cracked, blood instantly gushing out, dripping onto the neatly arranged documents.

He staggered toward the wine cabinet, his movements stiff and uncoordinated. His trembling hand clumsily fumbled for a crystal whiskey decanter. He poured a glass, the amber liquid spilling from the rim, then desperately downed it in one gulp.

Alcohol has no effect. He let out a frustrated roar and smashed the entire decanter bottle against the wall. Bottles shattered, crystal shards flew like rain, and wine splattered all over the walls.

His frenzied gaze fell on the wedding photo above the fireplace.

He staggered over, reached out his hand, and traced the curve of her smile in the photo with his bloodstained fingers. The glass was cold beneath his fingertips.

A tear slid down his plaster-like cheek. Then another drop.

"Jules ......"

It was a broken whisper, soaked in regret and a love so deep it made one's heart race. He used to call her Juliana.

Her soul trembled. This man—the cold, distant husband she was eager to escape from—was breaking down for her.

An invisible chain locked her to him. She could not drift toward the gardens she longed to see, nor could she cross the hall to seek solitude. Wherever he went, she was pulled along, like a helpless satellite, trapped in the gravity of his sorrow. She became the invisible witness to his private hell, forced to follow him, watching him pace like a trapped beast through the empty mansion, his silent and desperate grief echoing in every room.