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.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 6
Morning light filtered through the smog over Wall Street.
Clemence sat behind the massive mahogany desk in the Elliott Conglomerate CEO's office.
He grabbed a priceless Ming dynasty vase from his desk and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces.
"Freeze her accounts! I want every cent she has locked down!" Clemence roared, spit flying from his lips.
The Chief Financial Officer stood in front of the desk, wiping cold sweat from the back of his neck with a handkerchief. "Sir, we can't. The funds were routed through multiple Cayman Island shell companies. The money is completely untraceable. It's gone."
Before Clemence could scream again, his private cell phone buzzed. It was a text from a rival hedge fund manager.
Looks like your niece is having a fire sale, Clemence. Thanks for the cheap shares.
Clemence snatched the phone. He pulled up the live market data.
Kinsey was dumping her remaining twenty percent stake in the Elliott Conglomerate. But she wasn't just selling it on the open exchange-she had split the shares into thousands of micro-packets and was leveraging dark pool brokers to execute off-market OTC trades. She was offering them directly to the Elliott Conglomerate's most aggressive corporate rivals at a massive forty percent discount, entirely bypassing SEC circuit breakers.
Clemence's vision blurred. The room spun. If those shares were quietly absorbed by rival firms, he would lose his majority voting power before the public market even realized what happened. He would be ousted from his own company.
"Buy them," Clemence gasped, clutching his chest. He yanked at his tie, loosening it frantically. "Trace those dark pool transactions and outbid them! Buy every single share she drops. Don't let the rivals get them!"
"Sir," the CFO stammered, his face pale. "We don't have the liquid cash. The company accounts are stretched to the limit."
"Then mortgage the R&D tower in Silicon Valley!" Clemence screamed, slamming his fists on the desk. "Do it now!"
With trembling hands, Clemence signed the emergency collateral documents, effectively draining the last drop of blood from his own company to buy back Kinsey's shares. The billions of dollars were wired directly into Kinsey's offshore accounts.
Miles away, Kinsey sat on the sun-drenched balcony of her penthouse. She watched the numbers in her bank account skyrocket. A slow, cruel smile touched her lips.
She didn't let the money sit for a second. She immediately converted her enemy's blood into her own armor.
She dialed the number for the largest industrial fuel supplier in Texas.
"I need high-purity industrial charcoal and polar-grade anti-freeze diesel," Kinsey said. "Enough to power a heavy facility for ten years."
The supplier hesitated at the astronomical volume, but the moment Kinsey wired the full payment upfront, he promised to load a private freight train immediately.
Next, she called a massive agricultural broker in the Midwest.
"I want five hundred heads of Angus cattle, a thousand free-range chickens, and three hundred Berkshire pigs," Kinsey ordered. "Live delivery."
The broker, assuming she was opening a massive slaughterhouse chain, eagerly agreed to have the convoy arrive in three days. Kinsey typed in the delivery address: the abandoned industrial park in upstate New York.
Back in the Wall Street office, Clemence's phone rang. It was the bank, calling to inform him that his credit lines were officially maxed out. He was financially ruined.
He looked at his reflection in the dark computer screen. His face was swollen, his empire was crumbling, and it was all because of her. The greed in his eyes morphed into pure, unadulterated murderous intent.
He pulled a specialized, encrypted laptop from his safe. He logged into a hidden deep-web forum. He navigated to a specific sub-board run by a notorious underground syndicate.
Clemence transferred five million dollars in untraceable Bitcoin into an escrow account.
He typed out the contract: Target: Kinsey Elliott. Must look like an accident. No ties back to me.
He hit send.
At that exact second, back in the penthouse, Kinsey was drinking a cup of black coffee. Suddenly, a cold chill ran down her spine. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It was the hyper-tuned survival instinct she had developed in the wasteland-the physical sensation of being hunted.
She set the coffee cup down. Her eyes narrowed.
Kinsey walked to the hallway. She pressed her hand against a seemingly blank section of the oak paneling. A hidden biometric scanner read her palm, and a concealed weapons vault slid open.
The cold, metallic smell of gun oil filled the air.
Kinsey reached in and pulled out a matte-black Glock 19. Her movements were mechanical, flawless. She ejected the magazine, checked the spring, and pressed 9mm hollow-point rounds into the clip one by one. The sharp click-clack of the metal was soothing to her.
She slammed the magazine home and racked the slide. She slid the gun into a concealed tactical holster strapped to her inner thigh.
She threw on a dark, windproof trench coat to hide the weapon. It was time to go receive her livestock. And if someone was coming for her, she was ready to welcome them to hell.
You may also like
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.