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 4
He came into the bedroom after one in the morning.
Kirsten lay perfectly still in the dark, feigning sleep. The scent of alcohol and Jasmin's cheap perfume clung to him, a foul combination that made her stomach churn. He moved through the room with a heavy, deliberate tread, shedding his clothes. He went into the bathroom, and she heard the shower turn on. Over the sound of the water, she could just make out the low murmur of his voice on the phone. She heard her name. Jasmin.
He emerged minutes later, a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping from his hair onto the expensive rug. He didn't bother with his side of the king-sized bed. He pulled back the covers on hers and slid in beside her.
His skin was cold, and the touch of his leg against hers made her flinch. A wave of revulsion washed over her, so strong it was a physical force. This was the body that had held another woman just hours ago. This was the man who had signed her death warrant.
His hand settled on her waist, a proprietary gesture, devoid of any affection. It was the hand of a man checking his inventory.
"It's time we had a child," he said into the darkness.
The words were a death sentence.
Kirsten's body went rigid. She grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin. "What did you say?"
He didn't pull away. He simply tightened his grip, his fingers wrapping around her wrist like a manacle. "The prenuptial agreement. Clause eight. My controlling interest in Cooper Holdings is provisional until a legitimate heir is produced."
He spoke as if he were discussing a quarterly report.
"This is business, Kirsten. You knew the terms when you married me. You're a member of this family now. You have obligations."
She stared at the shadowy outline of his face, trying to find a flicker of the man she thought she had married. There was nothing. Only a cold, calculating stranger. In her first life, she had been so desperate for his love that she had embraced this obligation. She had seen it as a way to secure her place in his life, in his heart.
What a fool she had been.
"And if I don't?" she asked, her voice tight.
He let go of her wrist and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Then the agreement is void. Your shares, your settlement, all of it. You'd leave with nothing. I don't think you want that."
It was a threat, delivered with the casual indifference of a man who knew he held all the cards. He didn't want a child with her. He wanted an heir. He needed her womb to secure his empire.
Nausea rose in her throat. She pushed herself into a sitting position, the silk sheets cool against her skin.
A question escaped her lips, a final, desperate test. "Damon... do you even love me?"
The silence that followed was absolute. It stretched for so long that the only sound in the room was the ticking of the antique clock on the mantelpiece. Each tick was a second of her old life dying.
Finally, he spoke, his voice flat. "Love is irrelevant. We're partners, Kirsten. This is part of the deal."
A sound bubbled up from her chest. It wasn't a sob. It was a laugh. A hollow, brittle thing that sounded alien in the opulent bedroom.
The sound seemed to irritate him. He moved suddenly, pulling her back down against the pillows, his body pinning hers. He was all hard muscle and cold intent.
Kirsten didn't fight. She went limp, a corpse in his arms. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? A body. A vessel.
His mouth descended toward hers. She closed her eyes, a single tear escaping and tracing a cold path to her hairline.
Just as his lips were about to touch hers, she spoke, her voice surprisingly clear. "I can't."
He paused, his breath hot against her cheek.
"I've been seeing a specialist," she lied, the words coming easily. "A naturopath. For my health. She has me on a regimen of Chinese herbs to... regulate my system. She said we shouldn't try for a few months. Until the treatment is complete."
He was still for a moment, his body tense with frustration. He was breathing heavily, the desire still thick in the air between them.
Then, with a curse, he rolled off her. He snatched his pillow from the bed and threw it with violent force toward the sofa across the room.
"Damn it," he snarled. "Get me the doctor's report tomorrow. I want to see it."
He stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Kirsten lay in the darkness, her body trembling with the aftershock of his proximity. Her hand crept to the drawer of her nightstand. Her fingers closed around the small, plastic blister pack.
The emergency contraceptive. Her shield. Her secret.
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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.