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.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 8
The party planner, a woman with a severe haircut and an air of perpetual stress, was laying out swatches of fabric on the living room coffee table.
"For the sapphire theme, I suggest this deep royal blue velvet for the tablecloths, contrasted with silver..."
Jasmin, who had been hovering nearby, drifted over. She pointed a delicate finger at the velvet. "Oh, no," she whispered, her eyes wide with feigned distress. "That color... it's too dark. It reminds me of the smoke. It might trigger my PTSD."
The planner looked at Kirsten, her expression caught between annoyance and professional deference.
Kirsten didn't even blink. She drew a line through the item on her notepad. "Change it. Use white. Whatever she wants."
Damon walked in at that exact moment, taking in the scene. His face hardened.
"Kirsten, can you show an ounce of compassion?" he boomed, his voice echoing in the large room. "The woman is a trauma survivor."
Kirsten slowly put down her pen and met his furious gaze. "I just agreed to change the color scheme based on her preference. What more do you want from me?"
"It's your tone! Your look!" he said, stalking toward her. "You're looking at her like she's an inconvenience!"
Jasmin immediately began her performance, tugging on Damon's sleeve. "Damon, please don't. Sister has been so kind to me, really..."
The cloying sweetness, the transparent manipulation-it finally broke something inside Kirsten. A laugh, sharp and humorless, escaped her lips.
"You're right, Damon," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "You want compassion? You want me to be kind? I can't. So let's just get a divorce."
The air in the room froze. The planner looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
Damon stared at her, stunned into silence for a beat. Then, his face contorted with rage. "What did you just say?"
"I said," Kirsten repeated, standing up to face him, her voice clear and steady, "let's get a divorce."
He closed the distance between them in two strides and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to look at him. The pressure was immense, bordering on painful. "You don't get to say that. Not over something this petty. You're not going anywhere."
"Petty?" She knocked his hand away, rubbing her aching jaw. "To you, my feelings, my home, my marriage-it's all petty."
He took a deep, steadying breath, the businessman reasserting control over the brute. "I am not getting a divorce. The Cooper name does not get dragged through a public scandal. And believe me, if you try to leave, you will walk away with absolutely nothing."
She almost smiled. He had no idea the papers were already filed. He thought he was still in control.
"I'll see the party through," she said, picking up her purse. "For the Cooper name."
She turned to leave.
"But don't expect me to smile at her." She paused, the stinging imprint of his fingers on her jaw a burning reminder. A cold clarity washed over her. She took a step back, creating distance. "My compassion is a luxury, Damon," she said, her voice low and steady. "And she can't afford it."
She walked out of the house without looking back. In the car, the adrenaline began to fade, and her body started to shake. She touched her jaw where his fingers had been, the skin already tender.
Tears finally fell, hot and fast. Not of sadness, but of release. The weak, pleading woman from her past life, the one who would have begged him to love her, was finally, truly dead and buried.
She pulled out her phone and dialed Eleanor.
"He knows I want out," she said, her voice hard. "He's going to be on his guard. We need to move faster. I want you to start the financial discovery process now. Before he has a chance to hide anything."
"Kirsten, that's aggressive. It will tip him off that this is more than just a threat."
"He won't believe it," Kirsten said with absolute certainty. "His ego is too big. He thinks I'm trapped. He thinks I'd never dare."
She hung up and drove straight to the party planner's office.
"I want to make some changes to the budget," she announced, walking in. "I want to double the order of flowers. And hire the Philharmonic's string quartet. I want this to be the most talked-about party of the season."
It would be a night no one would ever forget. The grand finale of Mr. and Mrs. Damon Cooper. The prelude to his ruin.
You may also like
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.