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 3
Eleanor Faulkner's office was on the 50th floor of a skyscraper in Midtown, with a view that swallowed Central Park whole. The room was minimalist, all glass and steel, reflecting a woman who dealt in hard, clean facts.
"The Cooper family trust is ironclad," Eleanor said, her perfectly manicured fingers skimming over the financial statements Kirsten had provided. "We'll never touch Damon's inheritance. But his earnings, the assets acquired during the marriage... that's a different story. We can argue for fifty percent of the marital estate."
Kirsten sat opposite her, her posture ramrod straight. "I just want what I'm entitled to. And I want out. Quickly."
Eleanor leaned back, her sharp, intelligent eyes assessing Kirsten. "Most wives in your position want to drag it out. They want retribution. They want to make him pay, not just in dollars, but in time and misery."
Kirsten's hand went to her wedding ring, a cold, heavy weight on her finger. "I don't want his retribution money, Eleanor," she said, her voice tight with an emotion that went beyond simple anger. "I just want a clean break. I need to get out of that house before this situation destroys me completely."
The strange intensity in her voice made Eleanor pause, but her professional mask didn't slip. "To expedite things, and to give us leverage on alimony, we need proof of infidelity. Concrete proof. Photos, videos, texts. Something a judge can't ignore." She pushed a slim folder across the polished desk.
Kirsten took it. The image of Jasmin, draped in Damon's coat, leaning against his shoulder, flashed in her mind.
"I'll get it," she said, her voice as cold as the glass walls around them.
Leaving the law firm, the city felt different. The towering buildings no longer felt like monuments to ambition, but like cages. Her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Thea Coleman.
"Kris, what the hell is this I'm hearing?" Thea's voice was a shriek. "Moira called my housekeeper. You let some homeless girl move into your house? Have you lost your mind?"
Kirsten watched the blur of yellow cabs streak past her window. "It's a strategy, Thea. I need them to get comfortable. I need them to think I'm weak."
"Weak? Kirsten, he's walking all over you!"
"Let him," Kirsten said. "The higher he thinks he is, the harder he'll fall."
When she pulled back through the gates of the estate, the sound of laughter drifted from the back garden. It was a light, feminine giggle, followed by Damon's low chuckle.
Her stomach twisted. She parked the car and walked around the side of the house, her heels sinking slightly into the soft grass. She pushed open the wrought-iron gate to the rose garden and froze.
The scene was sickeningly domestic. Damon was lounging on a chaise, and Jasmin was sitting on his lap. Not beside him. On him. She was feeding him a strawberry, her fingers brushing his lips. His hand rested possessively on her waist, his thumb stroking the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.
Kirsten's breath hitched. The air, thick with the scent of roses, suddenly felt unbreathable. It was the same feeling she'd had on the delivery table, the feeling of her lungs refusing to work.
Jasmin saw her first. She let out a theatrical gasp and scrambled off Damon's lap, her cheeks flushing.
Damon shot to his feet, his face darkening into a thunderous scowl. He looked at Kirsten not with guilt, but with pure annoyance, as if she were an intruder who had stumbled upon a private moment.
"Why are you sneaking around?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.
The accusation was so absurd it was almost funny. "This is my garden, Damon. I live here." She looked at the crushed strawberry staining Jasmin's fingertips, the bright red smear like a drop of blood.
"Jasmin suffers from severe PTSD," Damon said, stepping in front of her again, that familiar, protective stance. "She needs companionship. Don't twist this into something sordid."
Kirsten almost laughed out loud. PTSD? Was that the new term for adultery?
"I understand," she said, her voice dripping with an irony he completely missed. "Psychological trauma often requires... physical comfort."
Jasmin seized her cue, her eyes welling up with tears. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing suddenly shallow. "Damon, I... I feel an attack coming on..."
Instantly, Damon's attention shifted. He turned his back on Kirsten, wrapping his arms around Jasmin, murmuring soothing words into her hair. He was completely oblivious to his wife standing just a few feet away.
Kirsten watched them, a tableau of betrayal. Her own husband comforting his mistress.
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her phone. She angled it just so, shielded by a large rose bush. There was no flash, no shutter sound.
Just the silent capture of a perfect, damning image.
She lowered the phone, turned, and walked back into the house. She opened her encrypted chat with Eleanor Faulkner.
She attached the photo.
Then she typed two words.
Got 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.