Reborn To Ruin My Billionaire Husband
I died on the cold delivery table, bleeding out while the heart monitor flatlined.
Through the blinding surgical lights, I heard my husband Damon's cold, final order to the doctors.
"The child is the priority."
He didn't care about my life. To him, I was just a vessel to produce an heir, a tool to fulfill his prenuptial clause and secure his billionaire empire.
While I took my last agonizing breath, he was already planning his future with his fragile, theatrical mistress, Jasmin.
In my past life, when he first brought her into our home claiming she was a helpless victim, I shattered.
I screamed, threw vases, and played the hysterical wife perfectly.
My desperate pleas for his affection only gave him the exact weapons he needed to ruin my reputation, isolate me, and ultimately force me onto that fatal delivery bed.
Until my very last moment, the suffocating pain in my chest wasn't just physical.
I couldn't understand how the man I loved could treat my death like a simple business transaction.
Why was my absolute devotion rewarded with a carefully calculated execution?
But then, my eyes snapped open.
I was sitting on the edge of my king-sized bed, exactly three years before my death.
From downstairs, I heard Damon's voice echoing in the foyer, bringing Jasmin into our home for the very first time.
This time, the scream building in my chest turned to ice.
I didn't cry or throw a fit.
Instead, I calmly swallowed a secret birth control pill, smiled at his mistress, and dialed the most ruthless divorce lawyer in Manhattan.
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Chapter 1
The pain came first. A phantom agony, sharp and tearing, that ripped through her abdomen.
Kirsten Bishop shot up in bed, a scream caught in her throat. Her hands flew to her stomach, pressing down on the flat, empty space beneath the silk of her nightgown. But the memory was real. The blood. The cold terror. The metallic scent of it filling her lungs.
Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image was seared onto the back of her eyelids: the blinding surgical lights, the frantic beeping of a machine flatlining, a doctor's grim face saying, "We're losing her."
And Damon's voice. Cold. Final. "The child is the priority."
Kirsten's eyes snapped open. The scream died, replaced by a suffocating silence. She wasn't in a hospital. She was in the master suite of the Cooper estate. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Her gaze fell on the digital calendar on the nightstand. October 14th, 2021.
Her heart stopped.
No. It couldn't be. This was three years. Three years before the delivery table. Before she died.
She scrambled out of the king-sized bed, her bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. She stumbled to the full-length mirror, her reflection a ghost she didn't recognize. The face staring back was younger, the lines of exhaustion and grief not yet carved around her eyes. Her body was whole. Unscarred.
It was real. She was back.
Then, she heard it. A voice from downstairs. His voice.
"I'll have Moira get the guest cottage ready. You'll be safe here."
Damon.
The sound of his voice wasn't a memory. It was a physical blow. It traveled up the grand staircase and struck her like a physical force, knocking the air from her lungs. The phantom pain in her belly flared anew, a visceral reminder of his betrayal.
She didn't think. She moved.
Her feet were silent on the plush runner of the stairs as she descended, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stopped at the landing, her hand gripping the cold, ornate balustrade.
And she saw them.
In the grand foyer, bathed in the afternoon light, stood her husband, Damon Cooper. He was shielding a woman. A small, frail-looking woman with wide, terrified eyes and tangled dark hair.
Jasmin Myers.
The woman who had taken everything. She was huddled against Damon, her shoulders trembling almost theatrically. A damsel in distress.
Damon looked up then, as if sensing her presence. His eyes met hers, and his expression hardened instantly. It was a look she knew well from the end. Cold. Wary. He shifted his body slightly, a subtle, protective movement that placed him more firmly in front of Jasmin. He was defending his precious thing from the monster. From his wife.
In her first life, this was the moment she had shattered. She had screamed. Accused. Thrown a vase. She had played the part of the hysterical wife perfectly, and in doing so, had handed him every weapon he needed to destroy her.
Not this time.
The scream building in her chest turned to ice. She felt her fingernails dig into the soft skin of her palm, the sharp, grounding pain a welcome anchor in the swirling chaos of her mind. She forced her feet to move, one step at a time, down the remaining stairs.
Damon's jaw was tight. He was waiting for the explosion. Braced for it.
"There was a fire," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of warmth. "Jasmin lost everything. She'll be staying with us for a while." It wasn't a request. It was a declaration.
Kirsten didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the woman he was protecting. She walked onto the cool marble of the foyer, each step a deliberate act of defiance against the tidal wave of hate and grief threatening to pull her under.
She stopped a few feet from them.
Jasmin flinched, her pale lips parting. "Mrs. Bishop," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of sound. "I'm so sorry to intrude..."
Kirsten met her gaze. She saw the flicker of calculation behind the manufactured fear. In her past life, that look had goaded her into a rage. Now, it only fueled the ice in her veins.
She offered a small, polite nod. Nothing more.
Damon's brow furrowed. This was not the reaction he had anticipated. The silence stretched, thick with his confusion. "You don't object?" he asked, his tone laced with suspicion.
Kirsten finally turned her gaze to her husband. She looked directly into his cold, gray eyes. "It's your charitable project, Damon. Why would I object?"
She turned away before he could respond, her movements measured and calm. "Moira," she called, her voice steady, betraying none of the tremor she felt inside.
The housekeeper, who had been hovering by the dining room entrance with a silver tray, startled. "Yes, Mrs. Bishop?"
"Please have the guest cottage prepared for Miss Myers. See that she has everything she needs."
Moira's eyes widened in shock. The tray in her hands tilted precariously. Even Jasmin couldn't hide the flash of surprise that crossed her face before she quickly masked it with another wave of pathetic gratitude.
Kirsten walked toward the hallway leading to the kitchen, her back straight and rigid. She could feel Damon's eyes on her, a heavy, scrutinizing weight.
The moment she was out of his line of sight, her composure cracked. Her hand flew to the wall to steady herself, her knuckles white. She leaned her forehead against the cool plaster, dragging in a desperate breath. The air felt thick, suffocating. His gentle murmurs to Jasmin drifted down the hall, each soft word a fresh stab to her heart.
She would not die on that table again. She would not let him kill her.
Pushing off the wall, she walked into the vast, empty kitchen. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely grasp a glass from the cupboard. She filled it with ice water from the dispenser and drank it all in one long, desperate gulp, the cold a shock to her system.
"You're acting strange today."
Damon's voice came from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, studying her with an unnerving intensity.
Kirsten set the glass down with a soft click. She didn't turn to face him. "I've just had a moment of clarity, Damon. That's all."
He was about to say something else, but Jasmin's voice, frail and needy, called his name from the living room.
"Damon?"
He didn't hesitate. He turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the cavernous kitchen.
She watched him go, the back of his expensive suit a symbol of the man she never truly knew. Her hand drifted to her left ring finger. She twisted the heavy diamond wedding band, round and round, until the skin beneath it was raw and red. A perfect, endless circle of lies.
She pulled out her phone, her fingers surprisingly steady as she opened the browser.
In the search bar, she typed: "Top divorce lawyer Manhattan."
A list of names appeared. She clicked on the first one, a woman with a reputation for being a shark. The number was right there.
Her thumb hovered over the call button.
She pressed it.
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7.1
For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big.
On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe."
Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero."
Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends.
"She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy."
Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder.
I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number.
"Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."
9.1
June woke up transmigrated into the body of a ruthless billionaire's toxic, disposable wife.
Before she could even process the massive Beverly Hills mansion, a cold system voice announced she had exactly five minutes of lifespan remaining.
To survive, she was forced to bind with the system and strictly maintain the original owner's "brainless, abusive drama queen" persona to earn hours to live.
She was forced to violently slap hot coffee out of a terrified maid's hands and physically spank her manipulative five-year-old stepson.
When she tried to escape this nightmare by throwing divorce papers at her terrifying husband, Isaac Walton, he simply ripped them to shreds.
Every time she tried to be reasonable or show a hint of kindness, the system tortured her with agonizing cardiac pain, cementing her status as the most hated monster in the family.
The most absurd part happened when she threw a hysterical, system-mandated tantrum over a gossip magazine, and Isaac's icy demeanor suddenly melted.
He gently touched her hair, offering the one thing she desperately needed.
"Stop crying. I'll handle it."
Just as a spark of hope ignited in her chest, the system's critical death warning exploded in her skull: accepting his sympathy would instantly deduct thirty days of her life.
To stay alive, June had no choice but to violently slap away the only hand reaching out to save her, forcing herself to play the greedy villain while her husband's gaze turned dangerously dark.
9.3
Ginny was chained to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, bleeding and betrayed by the two people she trusted most.
Her fiancé, Brant, and her adopted sister, Coretta, had just slashed her face open. Brant coldly admitted she was nothing but a disposable key to a vault, right before he tossed a lighter onto the gasoline-soaked floor.
As Ginny burned alive in the roaring inferno, the heavy iron doors were violently smashed open. Bedford Parks—the notoriously ruthless, germaphobic "monster" of Silicon Valley whom Ginny had always feared—charged straight into the flames. Ignoring the blistering heat, he shielded her charred body with his own. A massive steel beam collapsed, snapping his spine.
"I love you."
He coughed up blood, whispering his final words against her blackened skin before dying to protect her.
Hovering as a ghost, Ginny's soul screamed in agonizing realization. She had spent her life terrified of Bedford, yet he was the only one who truly loved her, while her supposed family laughed at her gruesome murder.
Suddenly, a blinding white light swallowed the warehouse.
Ginny gasped for air, opening her eyes to find herself sitting in the back of a luxury Maybach. She was eighteen again, wearing the humiliating clown makeup Coretta had tricked her into wearing on the day she was brought back to the wealthy Steele estate.
Ginny stared at her reflection, her dark eyes turning cold and sharp.
This time, she would tear her betrayers apart piece by piece, and she would protect her "monster."
8.6
For two years, I was trapped behind my own eyes, a prisoner in my own skull.
A crazed fan had hijacked my body after a brutal car crash, wearing my skin like a cheap suit.
When my soul finally locked back into my flesh in a cramped hospital room, I realized she had destroyed everything I built.
This parasitic stalker had drained my massive fortune to zero, buying luxury gifts for a mediocre actor and turning me into the internet's most hated woman.
My phone was flooded with death threats, and the hashtag demanding I go to hell was trending at number one.
Even the hospital nurses despised me. One marched into my room, raising her hand to violently slap my pale cheek.
"You psychotic bitch, you make me sick!"
Worse, my sprawling Beverly Hills estate had been foreclosed and sold to a mysterious billionaire named Kasey Dominguez.
I had absolutely nothing left. No money. No reputation. No home.
The sheer violation of watching a psychotic stranger ruin my life while I was locked in the passenger seat of my own mind made my blood boil.
I refused to let her destroy my legacy.
As the nurse's hand descended, my atrophied muscles snapped into action.
I twisted her wrist until the joint popped, grabbed the keys to my freedom, and slipped out into the cold Los Angeles night.
I was going to take my life back, starting with the billionaire who thought he owned my house.
7.1
For six years, I played the pathetic, wolfless Omega to honor the dying wish of the late Alpha who protected me.
But on our sixth anniversary, my fated mate, Alpha Kian, was photographed looking tenderly at his mistress.
When he finally stormed into our penthouse, he didn't apologize. Instead, he threw a fifty-million-dollar check onto the bed.
"Take the money and accept my rejection obediently, or I'll show you what happens when you defy an Alpha."
To force my compliance, he terminated all trade agreements with my best friend's pack, pushing them to the brink of bankruptcy. He accused me of blackmailing his grandfather into our marriage, entirely blind to the fact that his beloved mistress was actually a banished, feral Rogue.
I had spent six years swallowing my pride, drinking toxic herbs to suppress my true White Wolf scent, and enduring his absolute disgust just to keep his pack safe.
Why did I bleed for a man who despised my very existence?
I looked at the blood money, and the suffocating sorrow in my chest was instantly replaced by white-hot fury.
I didn't take a single cent. Instead, I submitted the rejection papers myself, dropped my pathetic disguise, and walked out into the freezing rain.
A towering warrior with a black umbrella dropped to one knee before me in the mud.
It was time to stop hiding and return home as the billionaire heir of the legendary Silvermoon Pack.
9.3
Penelope's wedding day should have been perfect-until she found her best friend in her fiancé's bed.
Running from the ruins of her future, she fell into one night with a stranger whose touch felt like safety. No names. No future. Just escape.
Until two pink lines changed everything.
Years later, Penelope returns with twins, a stronger heart, and no plans to fall in love again. But fate traps her in close quarters with a ruthless billionaire... who happens to be the man from that unforgettable night. He doesn't know she's the bride who disappeared. He doesn't know the children are his.
Old enemies want revenge. Old secrets refuse to stay buried.
And the man who swore he would never love... kneels.