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 9
The estate was ablaze with light. Hundreds of candles flickered, and the blue and silver decorations transformed the grand ballroom into a glittering ice palace.
Kirsten stood at the entrance, a statue carved from obsidian in a black velvet gown. She greeted each guest with a perfect, practiced smile, her posture regal, her eyes empty.
The air was thick with whispers. The guests, New York's elite, moved between the champagne bar and the caviar station, their eyes darting from Kirsten, the gracious hostess, to Jasmin, the guest of honor.
Jasmin, in a virginal white dress, clung to Damon's arm, looking fragile and overwhelmed. Damon paraded her around the room, introducing her to business partners and society matrons, his hand never leaving the small of her back. He was presenting her. Anointing her.
Kirsten watched them, the stem of her champagne flute threatening to snap between her fingers. But her smile never wavered.
The party reached its peak. The string quartet quieted. Damon stepped onto the small stage, a microphone in his hand. A hush fell over the room.
Kirsten stood near the back, her heart beginning to pound a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. The show was about to begin.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," Damon's voice resonated through the ballroom. "Tonight is not just a celebration of a birthday, but the celebration of a new beginning."
He smiled, a brilliant, public-relations smile.
"I am proud to announce the formation of the Jasmin Myers Foundation, a new branch of the Cooper Holdings charitable arm, dedicated to providing aid and support to the survivors of natural disasters."
Polite, enthusiastic applause filled the room. Damon beckoned for Jasmin to join him on stage. She went, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she hugged him.
Then, he reached into his jacket pocket. He produced a flat, dark blue velvet box. He opened it.
The gasp from the crowd was audible.
Inside, nestled on a bed of white satin, was a necklace. A cascade of diamonds culminating in a sapphire the size of a robin's egg. It was the Cooper Sapphire, a legendary stone that had been in his family for a century.
Kirsten felt the blood drain from her face. She remembered Gwenda Cooper, the family matriarch, showing her the necklace once. "The Cooper Sapphire," Gwenda had said, her voice crisp and formal, "is passed down the patriarchal line, always intended for the wife of the heir." To her.
Now, in front of two hundred people, Damon lifted the priceless heirloom from its box. With a look of profound tenderness, he fastened it around Jasmin's neck.
It was a coronation. And an execution.
Every eye in the room flickered toward Kirsten. She could feel their gazes on her-a mixture of pity, morbid curiosity, and thinly veiled contempt. She was a public spectacle. The wife being replaced in real time.
She lifted her chin. Her back, which had begun to slump, straightened into a rod of steel.
On the stage, Jasmin touched the sapphire at her throat, her eyes finding Kirsten's in the crowd. A small, almost imperceptible smile of triumph touched her lips.
Kirsten met that victorious gaze and gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if in approval.
Damon eventually made his way through the crowd to her, a glass of champagne in his hand. He had the look of a man expecting a scene.
"A brilliant speech, Mr. Cooper," she said, raising her glass to his in a mock toast.
His brow furrowed, his plan to provoke her into a public meltdown clearly failing. "You're not upset?"
"It's your foundation. Your money," she said, her voice light. She drained her glass. "Why would I be upset?"
She turned and walked away from him, heading for the cool air of the terrace. The night breeze felt good on her heated skin. In a shadowy corner, she overheard two women she vaguely knew from a charity board.
"I give it six months," one whispered. "He'll have her out on the street with nothing."
Kirsten didn't hide. She stepped out of the shadows and smiled at them. "You're probably right," she said, her voice pleasant. "But you have it backwards. I'm the one showing him the door."
The women froze, their faces a comical picture of shock. Kirsten left them there and pulled out her phone.
She texted Eleanor.
Tomorrow morning. First thing. Serve him.
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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.