Reborn To Win Back My Billionaire Husband

The night before filming began, the Hamilton estate was quiet, but the air was thick with tension. In the living room, Cordelia sat under a single lamp, reviewing the production schedule. Her phone was on the side table, plugged in and charging.

She was so focused, she didn't hear Chandler come down the grand staircase.

He was heading to the kitchen for a glass of water, a habit when he couldn't sleep. As he passed the living room doorway, a faint glow caught his eye.

Her phone screen lit up with a notification. It was there for only a second, but he saw it.

A message from: C.M.

Chace Mack.

A cold, hard knot formed in his stomach. He said nothing, continuing to the kitchen, his movements measured and silent. He filled a glass with water, his mind racing. When he walked back, he saw her pick up the phone. Her expression didn't change. She typed a brief reply, her thumbs moving quickly, and then her finger swiped across the screen. Deleting the conversation.

She thought she was being clever.

Cordelia's heart was pounding. Chace had started texting her, testing the waters. Thinking of you. Remember that time in the Hamptons? She knew they were traps, designed to be discovered. She'd been giving short, noncommittal replies-That was a long time ago. I'm busy.-and then deleting the thread immediately. She wouldn't give him the ammunition.

She didn't know the real trap had already been sprung.

After she went upstairs, Chandler retreated to his home office. He sat in the dark for a long moment, then opened his laptop. He sent a single, encrypted message to his head of security.

"I need access. Now."

Months ago, during the worst of her public meltdowns, he'd had a discreet monitoring software installed on her phone. He'd told himself it was to protect the family, to track her spending, to make sure she wasn't doing anything that would harm Case. The software had been recording silently in the background, a ghost in the machine, but he'd never used it to read her messages. Until now.

A portal opened on his screen, a mirror of her phone's data. He ignored her texts, her emails. His gut told him the real conversation wasn't happening there. He found what he was looking for in a hidden folder: a secondary, encrypted messaging app he'd never seen before.

His heart began to beat a slow, heavy drum against his ribs. He clicked it.

The backup logs loaded. A conversation between 'CDH' and 'C.M.'

His blood turned to ice.

C.M.: Did he buy it? Does he suspect anything?

CDH: He's on edge, but the plan is working. He's too proud to think he's being played.

C.M.: The money, Delia. When can I expect the first transfer?

CDH: Soon. The reality show is the perfect cover. Everyone will be watching my "redemption tour." No one will be watching the accounts.

Chandler read the words over and over, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his desk. His vision blurred.

It was a lie. All of it. A sophisticated hack, a plant by Chace and Annalise, who knew he might be watching. They had created a digital ghost to confirm his worst fears.

But Chandler didn't know that.

To him, this was the truth. This was the smoking gun. The desperate kiss, the apology to their son, the defiant stand against her sister-it was all an act. A brilliant, cold-blooded performance in the greatest scam of his life.

A wave of nausea and pure, undiluted humiliation washed over him. He had almost, for a fleeting moment after that therapy session, started to believe her.

He slammed the laptop shut. He stood up, his movements stiff, and walked out of the office and up the stairs. He stopped outside her bedroom, the polished wood of her door cool under his palm.

He wanted to burst in. To throw the laptop on the bed and watch her perfect, serene mask crumble. To hear her deny it, to watch her lie to his face.

But he stopped.

He thought of the cameras that were already being set up downstairs. He thought of Case, asleep in his room down the hall.

And a colder, more patient rage took hold. A public humiliation was too quick. He wanted to watch her build her new empire of lies. He wanted to see the hope in her eyes as the public started to love her.

He wanted to let her get to the very top, just so he could be the one to push her off.

He pulled his hand back from the door and returned to his own room, where he sat in the dark until morning.

The next day, the house was buzzing. The film crew had arrived. The director, a sharp woman named Kenna Weaver, and the lead cameraman, Forrest Wright, greeted Cordelia with professional smiles. She was a gracious host, composed and ready.

Chandler came down the stairs, dressed for work in a flawless charcoal suit. He walked past the crew, past the cameras, and paused beside her.

He leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper meant only for her.

"Good luck on your performance," he said, his breath cold against her ear. "I'll be watching."

The hatred in his voice was so raw, so palpable, it made her flinch. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She had no idea what had happened overnight, what had changed.

She only knew that the man who had been a confused, hurting husband yesterday was now her executioner.