Reborn To The Wife of a Billionaire with Disabilities

Eileen Wolf opened her eyes. The movement felt like dragging sandpaper across her corneas.

The sour stench of fermented grapes and stale perfume coated the back of her throat. It triggered a violent heave in her stomach. She rolled to the side, her bare shoulder hitting the mattress.

Expensive haute couture dresses lay scattered across the thick wool carpet like discarded rags. Empty liquor bottles caught the dim light, forming a chaotic obstacle course on the floor.

A sharp, stabbing pain pierced the center of her skull. It was a physical intrusion.

Memories that did not belong to her forced their way into her brain tissue. They were the pathetic, desperate moments of a marginalized Hollywood actress. The sheer volume of the data made her vision blur. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, digging her fingernails into her scalp until the pain grounded her.

She pushed herself off the mattress. Her bare feet hit the cold, heavy carpet.

She stumbled toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror near the wardrobe. The face staring back at her was striking, even under the heavy, smeared smoky makeup. The skin was pale, the cheekbones sharp. It was a face built for high-definition cameras, currently ruined by bad choices.

A piercing wail of police sirens cut through the glass.

Shouting voices followed, a chaotic hum rising from the street below. Eileen moved to the window. Her muscles felt stiff, uncoordinated. She hooked a single finger through the blinds and pulled them down just a fraction.

The entrance of the Beverly Hills hotel was swarming.

Dozens of paparazzi crushed against the barricades. Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights, turning the dark street into blinding daylight. She could hear the distinct, aggressive shouts of reporters demanding answers about her cheating scandal.

She let the blind snap shut.

Turning back to the ruined bed, she dug through a pile of discarded silk garments. Her fingers brushed against cold metal. A smartphone was vibrating violently against the mattress.

She picked it up. The screen was a mess of notifications. Hundreds of unread messages stacked on top of each other. The Twitter icon displayed a bright red bubble with a four-digit number. Her name was sitting at the number one trending spot, permanently linked to the words 'hotel' and 'affair'.

Eileen let out a short, dry laugh.

Her chest did not tighten. Her breathing did not accelerate. The hysterical panic that the original owner of this body would have felt was completely absent. She tossed the phone back onto the bed. It landed with a soft thud.

Three heavy, rhythmic knocks struck the solid mahogany double doors of the suite.

The sound was hard. Unforgiving. It carried the weight of someone who did not expect to be kept waiting.

Eileen took a slow breath. The air filled her lungs, expanding her ribcage. She reached down and grabbed a beige trench coat off the sofa. She swung it over her shoulders, wrapping the thick fabric tightly around her exposed slip dress.

She walked to the entryway. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor.

She wrapped her fingers around the cold brass doorknob. She did not check the peephole. She did not hesitate. She turned the lock and pulled the heavy door open.

The harsh, fluorescent light of the hallway spilled into the dark room.

The first thing she saw was a man in a tailored three-piece suit. His silver hair was combed back perfectly. He stood with the rigid posture of a classic British butler.

Her gaze dropped lower.

Past the butler, her eyes locked onto a high-tech, custom-built wheelchair. Sitting in it was a man who radiated absolute zero.

Carlisle Vinson tilted his head up. His gray-blue eyes locked onto hers. They were like frozen Siberian soil. There was no heat in his gaze. No anger. Just a thick, suffocating layer of pure disgust.

Eileen's heart stuttered.

It was a biological reaction, a leftover reflex from the original body's deep-seated terror of this man. But Eileen forced her spine straight. She locked her knees. She met his stare without blinking, refusing to let her chin drop a single millimeter.

Carlisle did not speak.

He simply raised two long, elegant fingers and made a sharp, dismissive flicking motion.

Mr. Ainsworth stepped forward immediately. His face was a blank mask. He pulled a thick, gold-embossed folder from his leather briefcase and held it out toward her chest.

Eileen lowered her eyes.

The bold letters on the cover read: Divorce Settlement Agreement.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward. It was barely a smile. She did not reach for the folder. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest, leaning her shoulder casually against the doorframe. She looked at the two men with a calm, calculating gaze.

Mr. Ainsworth frowned. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened.

"Madam," he said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. "The terms are straightforward. Mr. Vinson is offering a severance package of fifty million dollars, provided you sign immediately and vacate the premises."

Fifty million dollars.

Eileen tapped her index finger against her bicep. She ran the numbers in her head. She calculated the purchasing power of that amount in this world. Then, she calculated her survival rate in Hollywood without the protection of the Vinson family name. The result was zero. The original owner had too many enemies. The breach of contract fees alone would swallow that money in a week.

She uncrossed her arms.

She reached out with two pale fingers and pinched the edge of the heavy folder. She pulled it from the butler's hands. She flipped open the heavy cover, her eyes scanning the first page as if she were actually reading the legal jargon.

Carlisle's jaw clenched.

His disgust deepened, visible in the slight flare of his nostrils. He thought she was exactly what he always knew she was: a gold digger checking the zeros on her payout. He reached for the joystick on his armrest, ready to turn the chair around and leave this toxic hallway.

A loud, sharp crack echoed through the corridor.

Eileen had slammed the folder shut with one hand. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet space. Carlisle's hand froze over his controls.

She took a step forward. The distance between them vanished.

She slapped the heavy folder flat against Mr. Ainsworth's chest. The force of the impact made the older man stumble back half a step, his hands coming up to catch the slipping documents.

Carlisle stared at her. His pupils contracted.

Eileen bent at the waist. She placed both of her hands flat on the metal armrests of Carlisle's wheelchair. She leaned in, bringing her face inches from his. She could smell his cologne-cedar and cold mint.

She stared directly into his gray-blue eyes.

"I'm not signing," she said.

Her voice was crisp. It did not shake. It held no hysteria, only a terrifying, absolute calm.

Carlisle's breath hitched. The muscles in his neck pulled tight. He looked at her as if a stranger had just crawled into his wife's skin. He could not reconcile this dominant, grounded woman with the greedy, erratic creature he had married.

Eileen did not give them time to process.

She pushed off his armrests and stood up straight. She turned her back on them, walking into the walk-in closet. She grabbed a pair of heels and slid her bare feet into them.

She walked back to the door. She grabbed the handle and pulled the suite door shut behind her with a solid click.

She looked down at Carlisle, who was still frozen in his chair. She flashed him a bright, shadowless smile.

"Hubby," she said, the word rolling off her tongue with deliberate provocation. "Let's go home."