Reborn To Ruin My Cheating Fiancé

Isabella forced her eyes open. The heavy dose of sedatives still pumped through her veins, turning her blood to sludge. Her vision swam. The ceiling of the Waldorf Astoria penthouse blurred into a smear of gold and white. Her mouth tasted like old copper and dry cotton. She tried to swallow, but her throat muscles refused to obey. A loud, violent crash shattered the silence. The heavy mahogany double doors of the suite burst open. They slammed against the walls with a force that made the floorboards vibrate. Perry Finch, Manhattan's most notorious gossip reporter, stood in the doorway. Behind him, a swarm of cameramen pushed their way into the private space. "Over here! Get the shot!" Perry yelled. A blinding storm of camera flashes erupted. The harsh white light struck Isabella like physical blows. She flinched, her pupils contracting painfully. Her hands, heavy and uncoordinated, fumbled blindly over the mattress. She grabbed the edge of the thick white duvet and pulled it up to her chin, her chest heaving as panic spiked her heart rate. The mattress shifted violently. Ivor Craig, her childhood sweetheart and fiancé, jolted awake beside her. He blinked against the strobe lights, his face pale. In a split second, he scrambled backward against the headboard and yanked a white terrycloth bathrobe over his bare chest, clutching it shut as if he were the one in danger. Perry marched right up to the edge of the mattress. He shoved a black microphone inches from Isabella's face. "Isabella! Care to explain why you're betraying your family's merger?" Perry's voice was a loud, grating bark. "Why are you in bed with your sister's man?" Isabella opened her mouth. Her vocal cords felt like sandpaper. She needed to tell them she was drugged. She needed to say she didn't know how she got here. But only a pathetic, broken wheeze escaped her lips. Ivor suddenly jumped to his feet. He stood on the mattress, pointing a shaking finger down at her. "It was her!" Ivor shouted, his voice cracking with perfectly feigned hysteria. "She drugged my drink downstairs! She dragged me up here! She seduced me!" The cameras pivoted instantly. The lenses zoomed in on Ivor, capturing his wide eyes and his defensive posture. He looked exactly like a traumatized victim. Isabella stared at him. The air left her lungs. Her heart felt like it had been dropped into a bucket of ice water. This was Ivor. The man who had kissed her forehead yesterday. Now, he was looking at her with cold, calculated disgust. The rapid clicking of high heels echoed from the hallway. Kaylie French appeared in the doorway. She wore a simple, pristine white dress. She stopped dead in her tracks. Kaylie slapped both hands over her mouth. Her shoulders shook. Her eyes turned red in a matter of seconds, and a single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek, catching the camera flashes. The paparazzi swarmed her like sharks smelling blood. Perry shoved his microphone toward the weeping girl. "Kaylie! As the true heiress of the Conrad family, how does it feel to see this?" Perry demanded. Kaylie let out a breathy, trembling sob. "She..." Kaylie choked on her words, looking at the cameras. "She already stole my life for twenty years. Why... why did she have to steal the only man I ever loved?" Bile rose in Isabella's throat. The injustice burned in her chest, hot and suffocating. She pushed her palms against the mattress, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to black her out. She forced her weak legs over the edge of the bed. She had to stand up. She had to rip that fake crying mask off Kaylie's face. Before Isabella's feet even touched the carpet, Ivor leaped off the bed. He rushed across the room and stood squarely in front of Kaylie, shielding her with his body. The reporters closed in on Isabella. They formed a tight, suffocating circle around the bed. "You're a parasite, Isabella!" one photographer yelled. "Fake heiress! Slut!" another screamed, the flash blinding her right eye. Isabella lunged forward. Her fingers clamped around Ivor's forearm. Her nails dug into his skin. "You texted me," Isabella rasped, her voice finally breaking through the dryness. "You told me to come to room 804. Show them your phone, Ivor." Ivor looked down at her hand. He adjusted his left shirt cuff with his free hand-his nervous tell. Then, he violently ripped his arm out of her grasp. He reached into his bathrobe pocket and pulled out a sleek black smartphone. He held the screen up to the cameras. "Look at this!" Ivor yelled. "Look at the messages she sent me! She threatened to ruin Kaylie if I didn't sleep with her!" The cameras clicked frantically, capturing the fabricated text thread. Isabella stared at the glowing screen. The words weren't hers. The entire reality was inverted. She was trapped in a cage of lies, and the bars were made of flashing lights. Kaylie gently pushed past Ivor's shoulder. She took a step toward Isabella. She leaned down, pretending to offer a hand to help Isabella up from the edge of the bed. As Kaylie's face drew close, hidden from the camera lenses by the angle of her hair, her crying expression vanished. Instead of offering a helping hand, Kaylie's manicured fingers clamped onto Isabella's bare forearm. Her sharp acrylic nails dug viciously into the soft, vulnerable skin, twisting with calculated cruelty. Kaylie maintained her sorrowful, weeping mask for the flashing lenses, her shoulders trembling, but her lips barely parted as she mouthed the words silently, forming the syllables with unmistakable malice. Go to hell. The physical sting of her nails was nothing compared to the venom in her eyes. A surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline flooded Isabella's veins. The drug-induced fog vanished, replaced by a blinding red rage. Isabella raised her right hand. She swung her arm with every ounce of strength she had left, aiming her palm directly at Kaylie's smug cheek. Before her hand could make contact, Ivor lunged. He slammed his open palms into Isabella's shoulders. He pushed her backward with brutal force. Isabella's feet tangled in the thick duvet. She lost her balance. The room tilted violently. She fell backward, her arms flailing in the empty air. The back of her skull slammed into the sharp, solid edge of the mahogany nightstand. A sickening crack echoed in the room. Pain, sharp and blinding white, exploded behind her eyes. Her vision flashed out. A warm, thick liquid immediately pooled at the back of her hair and began sliding down the side of her neck. Kaylie let out a piercing, theatrical scream. She threw herself backward, burying her face into Ivor's chest. The reporters didn't stop. They didn't call for help. They stepped closer. The camera lenses hovered just feet away from Isabella's face, documenting the dark red blood soaking into the white carpet. Isabella lay on the floor. Her breathing grew shallow. The faces of Ivor and Kaylie blurred together above her, looking down with cold satisfaction. The sound of the camera shutters faded into a dull roar. From the Manhattan streets far below, the faint, desperate wail of an ambulance siren pierced the glass windows. The darkness rushed in, pulling her under.