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 3
The heavy glass revolving doors of the elite Manhattan Michelin-starred restaurant pushed open. Kinsey stepped into the warm, dimly lit lobby. The air smelled of expensive truffles and roasted garlic.
The maître d', a tall man with a sharp, judgmental face, immediately stepped into her path. He looked at her tactical boots and the dust on the hem of her Tom Ford suit.
"Excuse me, madam," he said, his voice stiff and condescending. "We are fully booked for the evening. And we do have a strict dress code."
Kinsey didn't waste a single breath explaining herself. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her limitless Amex Black Card, and slammed it down on the polished mahogany host stand. The heavy metal card made a sharp smack.
The manager's eyes darted to the card. The condescension melted off his face instantly. His spine curved into a deep, subservient bow.
"Right this way, Miss. We have our best table available for you."
He led her to a secluded booth positioned right against the floor-to-ceiling glass. Below her, the glittering lights of Wall Street stretched out like a sea of electric fireflies.
A waiter practically ran over, handing her a leather-bound menu.
Kinsey pushed it away. "Bring me your largest bone-in Tomahawk steak. Rare. And open a bottle of your oldest Domaine de la Romanée-Conti."
She didn't care that the wine cost more than a luxury car.
Kinsey looked out the window. She watched the men in tailored suits and women in designer coats hurrying along the sidewalks. Ants, she thought. In exactly one month, they would all be frozen solid, their expensive clothes useless against the minus-eighty-degree winds. A cold smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.
The waiter arrived with the massive steak. It was charred on the outside, sizzling in hot butter.
Kinsey picked up the heavy steak knife. She sliced into the thick meat. Dark red blood and rich juices pooled onto the white porcelain plate. She put a piece in her mouth. The explosion of fat, salt, and tender protein hit her tongue.
She closed her eyes. The memory of chewing on bitter, frozen tree bark in the wasteland tried to surface, but the rich taste of the beef crushed it.
While she chewed, she pulled out her iPad. She pulled up the blueprints for her off-grid bunker. She used her stylus to circle the critical zones. She needed heavy-duty diesel generators. She needed military-grade reverse osmosis water filtration systems.
"Oh my god, is that Kinsey?"
A shrill, nasal voice cut through her concentration.
Kinsey looked up. One table over, three socialites in tight cocktail dresses were staring at her. Kinsey recognized the one in the middle-Sarah, a trust fund baby who had always hated her.
"I heard she completely lost her mind," Sarah said loudly, intentionally raising her voice so Kinsey could hear. "Selling off all her shares to buy... what was it? Canned beans? She's a total doomsday psycho."
The other two women giggled behind their manicured hands.
Kinsey swallowed her bite of steak. She picked up her crisp, white linen napkin and slowly wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth.
She stood up. She walked over to Sarah's table.
Sarah looked up, a smug smile on her face. "Can we help you, Kinsey?"
Kinsey reached out and picked up the large crystal pitcher of ice water sitting in the center of their table. Without a word, she tilted it and poured the freezing water directly over Sarah's head.
The ice cubes hit Sarah's face. The water ruined her expensive blowout and soaked her silk dress.
Sarah shrieked, jumping up from her chair. "Are you insane?!" she screamed, raising her hand to slap Kinsey.
Kinsey didn't move. She just stared at Sarah. Her eyes were completely dead, void of any empathy or fear. It was the look of a predator deciding whether to snap its prey's neck.
Sarah's hand froze in mid-air. The sheer, suffocating pressure radiating from Kinsey made Sarah's stomach drop. She backed away, trembling.
Kinsey dropped the empty pitcher on the table. It shattered. She walked to the front counter, dropped two thousand dollars in cash for the meal and the tip, and walked out the door.
A black, bulletproof Maybach was waiting at the curb. Kinsey got in.
"The underground exchange," she told the driver.
Twenty minutes later, Kinsey was walking through a series of retinal scanners in a subterranean vault deep beneath Manhattan. The air was frigid and smelled of ozone.
The vault manager, a sweaty, overweight man named Higgins, rubbed his hands together. "Miss Elliott! What kind of portfolio diversification are we looking at today?"
Kinsey tossed her iPad onto his desk. "I want every single solid gold bar you currently have in this facility."
Higgins choked on his own spit. "Miss Elliott, physical gold is incredibly difficult to liquidate. The storage fees alone-"
Kinsey leaned across the desk. Her presence was suffocating. "Do you want the millions in commission fees, Higgins, or should I take my cash to your competitor across the street?"
Higgins swallowed hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Right away, ma'am."
Thirty minutes later, Kinsey stood inside the massive steel vault. Four heavy-duty reinforced carts sat in the center of the room, stacked high with gleaming, heavy gold bars.
"I need to inspect the purity," Kinsey said. "Everyone out. Close the door."
Higgins nodded quickly and ushered the armed guards out. The massive steel door swung shut with a heavy, echoing boom.
Kinsey was alone.
She walked up to the first cart. She placed her hands flat against the cold metal of the gold bars.
She activated the matrix.
The air warped. The carts and the tons of gold vanished instantly, swallowed by the void.
Kinsey let out a slow breath. When the global flood hit and the billionaires retreated to the Ark Olympus, paper money would be toilet paper. This gold was her absolute ticket to the upper echelons of the apocalypse.
She opened the vault door. Higgins looked inside and his jaw dropped. The vault was completely empty.
"I've arranged for my own private armed transport," Kinsey lied smoothly. "The funds are already in your account."
She walked out of the facility and stepped onto the dark Manhattan street.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. The screen lit up in the darkness.
Caller ID: Uncle Clemence.
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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.