Reborn with 10 Billion to Conquer the Apocalypse
She has thirty days. Ten billion dollars. And a quantum space that can swallow anything.
Kinsey Elliott died cold, starving, and betrayed—pushed into a frozen abyss by the uncle who stole her fortune.
Then she woke up.
Back in her penthouse. Back in her perfect body. Back with a silver mark on her wrist that lets her store entire warehouses of supplies in a dimension where time stands still.
The world has thirty days until a global ice age freezes everything.
Her family has thirty days to try to lock her away, steal her money, and have her killed.
And Kinsey? She has thirty days to turn ten billion dollars into an invisible fortress—and burn every last one of them to the ground.
She's not surviving the apocalypse.
She's building it.
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Chapter 1
Kinsey Elliott's eyes snapped open.
Water violently splashed over the edges of the freestanding marble tub as she thrashed upward. She gasped for air, a desperate, tearing sound, her hands clawing at her own throat. Her lungs burned. They felt like they were filled with battery acid, a phantom pain from the toxic rain of the wasteland that still seared her nerve endings.
She scrambled over the slick porcelain edge. Her wet, bare feet hit the polished marble floor, and she slipped. Her kneecap slammed into the hard stone with a sickening crack. A dark purple bruise began to bloom instantly under her pale skin. The pain was sharp, but as she pushed herself up, her body felt... different. Tighter, more densely coiled, humming with a strange, thrumming energy she didn't recognize. The jump had altered her physical baseline.
She didn't care. The sharp, grounding spike of physical pain was a lifeline.
Kinsey crawled toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Her trembling fingers grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and yanked them apart.
Blinding, golden sunlight hit her face. She flinched, throwing a hand over her eyes.
When her vision cleared, she wasn't looking at a frozen, ash-covered wasteland. She was looking at the bustling, vibrant skyline of Manhattan. Yellow cabs looked like tiny insects crawling along the concrete veins below.
Her chest heaved. The erratic hammering of her pulse against her ribs slowly began to steady. She looked down at her left wrist.
The jagged, infected slave brand from the year 2039 was gone. In its place, a faint, glowing silver Mobius strip was embedded in her skin.
She pressed her thumb against the mark.
A deafening hum vibrated in her skull. Instantly, a massive, boundless quantum folding space matrix expanded in her mind. It was cold, sterile, and infinitely empty.
Kinsey pushed herself off the floor. She limped over to the bathroom vanity. Her eyes locked onto the solid gold mouthwash cup sitting next to the sink. She grabbed it. The metal was heavy and cold against her palm.
She focused her mind. Take it.
The gold cup vanished. It didn't blur or fade; it simply ceased to exist in her hand. In her mind's eye, she saw the cup sitting perfectly still on a sterile shelf within the quantum matrix.
A harsh, ragged breath escaped her lips. The future technology was real. She had actually made the timeline jump.
Kinsey looked up. She stared at her reflection in the massive vanity mirror. Her face was flawless. Her cheeks were full, her skin hydrated, her eyes bright. She looked nothing like the starved, hollow-eyed corpse her uncle Clemence had pushed into the freezing abyss fifteen years from now.
A surge of pure, unadulterated hatred boiled in her stomach. It tasted like copper in the back of her throat.
Kinsey balled her right hand into a fist and drove it straight into the mirror.
Glass shattered outward in a violent explosion.
She didn't feel the pain. She only felt the intoxicating rush of impending revenge.
Kinsey turned her back on the ruined mirror. She bypassed the pastel dresses and pulled down a sharp, aggressive black Tom Ford tailored suit.
As she slipped the heavy fabric over her shoulders, her posture changed. The feral, desperate survivor of the wasteland was buried deep. On the surface, she was once again the cold, untouchable heiress of the Elliott family.
She picked up her iPhone from the nightstand. The screen lit up.
Thirty days. Exactly thirty days until the global ice age hit.
Kinsey tapped the screen, dialing the private, encrypted number of her senior account manager at the Swiss Bank.
"Miss Elliott?" The man's voice was groggy. "Do you have any idea what time it is in Geneva?"
"Override Code: Alpha-Seven-Tango-Nine," Kinsey said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any human warmth.
The line went dead silent. The manager's tone shifted instantly to a tone of ice-cold professionalism and absolute deference. "Code verified. How may I assist you, Miss Elliott?"
"Liquidate my entire tech conglomerate trust fund," Kinsey ordered. "All ten billion dollars. Sell it at market price. Right now."
"Miss Elliott, wait!" The manager's voice cracked. "That will trigger hundreds of millions in penalty fees. The SEC will launch an immediate investigation into the sudden dump of shares. The market will panic."
"I don't care about the penalties," Kinsey said, rubbing the silver mark on her wrist with her bloody thumb. "I want every single cent converted to liquid cash in my offshore accounts within twenty-four hours. If you fail, I will ruin you."
She ended the call before he could argue.
The shrill ring of the penthouse's private elevator doorbell pierced the silence.
Kinsey walked to the security monitor. The screen showed the family's chief legal counsel, Mr. Vance, standing outside her door. He was clutching a thick stack of legal documents, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses nervously.
Kinsey unlocked the heavy oak door and pulled it open.
Vance puffed out his chest, trying to project authority. "Kinsey, your uncle Clemence sent me. Your recent erratic behavior is deeply concerning to the board. You need to sign this supplementary agreement relinquishing your voting rights to the trust, for your own good."
He shoved the papers toward her.
Kinsey didn't blink. She grabbed the thick stack of papers. With one violent, fluid motion, she ripped the contract in half. Then she ripped it again.
"What are you doing?!" Vance gasped, his face turning red.
Kinsey threw the shredded paper directly into his face. The white confetti rained down over his expensive suit.
"Get out of my sight," Kinsey said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
Vance's face twisted in anger. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "You've lost your mind. I'm calling Clemence right now to initiate emergency protocols-"
"Go ahead," Kinsey interrupted. She leaned in, her eyes locking onto his. "And while you have him on the line, tell him about the townhouse in Long Island. The one on Elm Street. Where your mistress, Chloe, is currently raising your three-year-old illegitimate son."
Vance froze. The color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, pale gray. His fingers went numb. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered against the marble floor.
"How..." Vance choked out, his chest heaving.
"I know everything, Vance," Kinsey said. "Now pick up your trash and get in the elevator before I destroy your life."
Vance scrambled to pick up his phone. He stumbled backward, looking at Kinsey as if she were a demon. He practically fell into the elevator, mashing the button to close the doors.
Kinsey stepped over the torn pieces of paper on the floor. She grabbed her car keys. It was time to start buying.
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7.6
After an exhausting fourteen-hour flight, Katia returned to her Upper East Side penthouse, expecting the quiet comfort of the life she had built.
Instead, she found a pair of familiar red stilettos in the foyer and her fiancé, Caleb, tangled in their bedsheets with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.
She didn't scream or cry. She simply took off her three-carat engagement ring, threw it at his bare chest, and demanded he buy out her half of the penthouse by Friday.
Seeking to numb the sickening disgust, she got blackout drunk and crashed at a luxury hotel, accidentally stumbling into the wrong suite.
Thinking the imposing man inside was a high-end escort hired by her friend, she threw him over her shoulder and spent a wild night with him.
The next morning, she left five thousand dollars on his nightstand with a lipstick-stained note.
"Good Job."
For six years, she had funded Caleb's dreams and built his startup from the ground up, only to be treated like a lifeless ATM.
With ruthless precision, she spent the next two months systematically bankrupting his company, cutting off his venture capital, and erasing his life's work.
She felt no heartbreak, only a cold, calculating need to cleanse herself of his betrayal.
But when Katia finally returned to corporate headquarters to co-lead a massive merger, she literally crashed into the new Vice President.
Strong arms caught her waist, and the sharp scent of cedarwood and whiskey hit her like a freight train.
"You came back," Jackson whispered, his eyes burning as he stared at the woman who had treated him like a cheap gigolo.
9.0
Adaline Poole thought she had escaped her family's toxic corporate grip by moving to London and adopting a stray cat named Monty.
But when she returns to her empty apartment, her father delivers a chilling ultimatum: he has kidnapped the cat and will euthanize it by morning unless she accepts an arranged marriage with Barron Cooke, a notoriously elusive billionaire.
Her entire family becomes complicit in her sale. Her mother demands she secure their elite status, and her brother secretly spies on her social media to feed Barron her every move. Horrified to discover Barron is a thirty-three-year-old "fossil" twelve years her senior, Adaline resorts to sabotage. She goes to a Soho club, takes a scandalous photo with a frat boy, and sends it to the old billionaire to disgust him into canceling their upcoming dinner.
But her rebellion backfires horribly when the frat boy spikes her drink with a powerful narcotic. As her body burns with a terrifying, feverish heat, she collapses in a dark corridor. Stripped of her phone and betrayed by her bloodline, she is left utterly defenseless as a predator approaches to drag her away.
Suddenly, the heavy fire door is kicked open by a towering, terrifyingly handsome stranger who effortlessly neutralizes her attacker.
"Please... help me," Adaline begs, deliriously throwing her burning body into his arms.
She has absolutely no idea that the handsome savior she is clinging to is Barron Cooke himself.
8.1
Terminally ill.
Betrayed by her husband.
Abandoned by the only family she had.
Ariel died with nothing... and no one.
But fate gives her a second chance.
Reborn three years before her death, she walks away from the man who ruined her life-and takes back everything they stole.
Her love.
Her identity.
Her power.
Now, the cold billionaire who once ignored her can't take his eyes off her.
The brother who abandoned her starts to regret.
Too late.
Because this time, Ariel isn't the woman who begs.
She's the one who makes them kneel.
9.0
Once a pampered princess, Alaina now clutched a deactivated American Express card, staring out at Central Park. Her family’s fortune was gone, her life, over.
Her family's Hamptons estate, a four-generation legacy, was seized by Dyer Capital. The name hit her: Hardin Dyer, the poor boy she’d once scorned, had returned.
Hardin marched in, serving a divorce agreement. He'd orchestrated her family's downfall for revenge, giving her 24 hours to vacate his property. Penniless, her father faced prison, needing $50 million. Her mother forced her to beg Hardin, who sneered, offering the money for her body. Alaina ripped up the contract.
Hours later, her father had a heart attack. Desperate, she became "Lexi," a club girl enduring humiliation. In the Viper Room, Hardin's lackeys demanded she lick whiskey off his shoe for $10,000. Hardin watched. Outside, her brother Ashton's hand was threatened for a $3 million debt. Spirit shattered, Alaina returned, knelt on broken glass, offering to sign. But Hardin declared her family "dead," offering $10 million for her body, commanding her to use her mouth.
In a furious act of defiance, Alaina threw whiskey in his face, snatched the check, and fled. Yet, when he finally took her, a searing, foreign pain and blood on the sheets revealed a shocking truth: he had never touched her three years ago. Why had he let her believe such a monstrous lie?
8.2
Trapped in a deadly fire at my own engagement party, my lungs burned as I reached a shaking hand out to my fiancé for help.
He stopped and looked right at me through the thick smoke. But instead of saving me, he wrapped his jacket tightly around my stepsister and ran, leaving me to burn.
I barely survived. But when I woke up in the hospital, my father and stepmother didn't even ask about my injuries.
They threw a stack of legal documents right onto my bed.
"Sign the papers, Avah. Step aside. Jaclyn is far better suited to be Kain's wife."
My fiancé then stormed into the room, publicly humiliating me with false rumors of an illegitimate child and threatening to bankrupt my company.
Four years of swallowing my pride to be the perfect, obedient pawn for our family business, all for nothing.
They threw me to the wolves without a single second of hesitation, expecting me to just lower my head and cry like I always did.
But the fire had burned that pathetic version of me away.
I ripped out my IV, letting the blood drip onto the sheets, and tore their contracts straight down the middle.
"The engagement is over."
I threw my million-dollar ring right at my ex's chest, then picked up the phone to call my trust lawyer. They wanted to take everything from me, so I was going to make them bleed.
7.2
Dr. Kylee Mcdonald was a brilliant medical examiner whose life was defined by cold, mechanical precision.
But that perfect control shattered when her phone rang in the middle of an autopsy.
It was her best friend, Dana, whispering their old college distress code.
"Curtain call."
By the time Kylee and Detective Justice kicked down Dana's door, she lay dead on her couch, her skin a horrifying cherry-red from cyanide.
The crime scene was clumsily staged to frame a billionaire suitor, but soon, every single suspect linked to Dana turned up violently dead.
Internal Affairs pointed the finger at Kylee, accusing her of using her medical expertise to become a vigilante serial killer.
But the encrypted truth Kylee uncovered was far more chilling.
Dana had been severely abused by her boyfriend, and driven to the edge, she manipulated him into murdering their tormentors before executing him and taking her own life.
To avoid a public scandal, the police chief buried Dana's brilliant, terrifying manifesto.
Kylee's flawless mind short-circuited. She was a genius at reading the dead, so why had she been completely blind to the living hell her best friend endured right in front of her?
Three days later, while attending a formal gala to numb her grief, a nearby apartment building exploded in flames.
As Kylee examined the charred bodies pulled from the rubble, she realized the male victim was strangled long before the fire started.
She looked at the surviving mother, whose baby had just died in the blast, but the woman's eyes were completely, terrifyingly empty.
The alarm bells in Kylee's meticulously ordered brain began to chime, signaling that a new, deadly script had just begun.