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 5
The next morning, the kitchen, usually bustling with the cook and her staff, was quiet.
Jasmin was at the large marble island, a pristine white apron tied around her waist. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek and was kneading a ball of dough with a focused, almost pious expression. She looked like a saint in a domestic setting.
Damon stood behind her, his hands covering hers on the dough, his body pressed against her back. He was murmuring instructions, his lips close to her ear. It was an act of such blatant intimacy that it felt like a performance. A performance for an audience of one.
Kirsten stood in the doorway, the sight turning her stomach to acid.
She cleared her throat.
They sprang apart like guilty teenagers.
Jasmin was the first to recover, her face a mask of sweet innocence. "Oh, sister! Good morning! I was just making you some of my organic, gluten-free scones. I heard you have a sensitive stomach." She held one up, a peace offering.
Damon wiped his hands on a dish towel, his expression unreadable. "Jasmin is exploring culinary therapy for her PTSD. I was just making sure she didn't burn the place down."
The lie was so lazy, so insulting, it was almost breathtaking.
Kirsten walked forward and took the scone from Jasmin's outstretched hand. She smiled, a tight, painful stretch of her lips. "How thoughtful of you."
She took a small bite. The taste was cloyingly sweet, a saccharine coating over something bitter and rotten.
"It's delicious," she said, her voice even. She reached out and gently wiped the flour from Jasmin's cheek, a gesture of faux intimacy that made Jasmin flinch in surprise. Damon, however, seemed pleased. He saw it as a sign of acceptance. Of surrender.
Kirsten turned and walked out of the kitchen. As she passed the stainless-steel trash can by the door, she let the half-eaten scone and its napkin drop from her hand. It landed with a soft, final thud.
She didn't look back, but she felt the shift in the room. She felt Damon's eyes on her, his brief satisfaction curdling into suspicion.
She didn't give him time to confront her. She grabbed her purse and was out the door, her car roaring to life in the driveway.
Her first stop was not the office. It was a discreet private clinic on the Upper East Side.
Dr. Julian Caldwell was an old family friend, a man she trusted. He looked over her recent physical.
"You're in perfect health, Kirsten," he said, his kind eyes filled with concern. "But I have to advise you, these emergency pills are not a long-term solution. They're a harsh dose of hormones."
Kirsten met his gaze, her own unwavering. "I know, Julian. But I cannot get pregnant right now. Under any circumstances."
He saw the steel in her eyes and didn't press further. He sighed, took out his prescription pad, and wrote her a script for a low-dose daily birth control pill.
She had the prescription filled at the clinic's pharmacy and took the first pill right there, swallowing it down with a small cup of water. It felt less like taking medicine and more like swallowing a key, locking a door he would never be allowed to open.
As she was leaving, a news report on the waiting room television caught her eye. It was Damon, giving a press conference about a new urban renewal project. He was powerful, charismatic, the master of his universe. A world away from the man who stood in a kitchen making pathetic excuses for his mistress.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Damon.
Where is the doctor's report I asked for? And be home early. Jasmin wants to plant some flowers in the greenhouse. You should be there to help her.
It wasn't a request. It was a test of her obedience.
She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the reply.
Of course.
She slid back into her car, tucking the small packet of pills into a hidden zippered compartment in her makeup bag-a place she knew he would never look.
She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The haunted look was gone, replaced by something harder. Sharper.
She started the engine. It was time to see what new performance awaited her in the greenhouse.
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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.