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 8
The four hitmen stepped into the cavernous, echoing warehouse. They clicked on their under-barrel tactical flashlights. Four beams of harsh white light sliced through the thick, dusty air, sweeping over the rusted machinery and the abandoned Raptor.
"Spread out," the squad leader whispered into his throat mic. "Target is a spoiled rich girl. She's probably crying in a corner. Find her and finish it."
Fifteen feet above them, Kinsey was hanging upside down.
Her legs were tightly locked around a thick, rusted steel crossbeam. Her core muscles strained, holding her body perfectly still. She didn't breathe. Her eyes were fixed on the men below, cold and unblinking.
One of the hitmen broke off from the group, walking slowly beneath the steel beam. His flashlight beam swept left, completely missing the darkness directly above him.
Kinsey uncrossed her legs.
She dropped from the ceiling like a stone. She fell completely silently.
As she hit the hitman's shoulders, her thighs clamped violently around his neck in a vice-like grip. She twisted her waist with explosive, brutal force.
SNAP.
The sickening sound of the man's cervical vertebrae snapping echoed loudly in the empty building. The hitman didn't even have time to scream. He went instantly limp, dead before his knees hit the concrete.
Kinsey rode the falling corpse to the ground. As he fell, she ripped the suppressed submachine gun from his dying hands. She hit the floor, executed a fluid forward roll, and slid behind a massive, rusted industrial lathe.
"Contact!" the leader yelled.
The remaining three hitmen whipped around. They unleashed a hail of suppressed gunfire at the lathe. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off the heavy iron, the metallic ping-ping-ping deafening in the enclosed space.
Kinsey pressed her back against the cold metal. She closed her eyes. She tuned out the gunfire and focused entirely on the sound of their heavy boots crunching on the gravel floor. Her wasteland instincts mapped their exact positions in her mind.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a heavy steel lug nut she had picked up from the floor.
She hurled it hard across the room. It smashed against a corrugated tin wall thirty feet away with a loud CLANG.
The hitmen's instincts betrayed them. All three guns instantly snapped toward the sound.
In that split second of distraction, Kinsey stepped out from behind the lathe.
She raised the submachine gun and squeezed the trigger. Pfft-pfft.
Two rounds punched perfectly through the center of the second hitman's forehead. A mist of blood sprayed backward into the flashlight beams. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Panic seized the remaining two men. They scrambled backward, desperately seeking cover behind a row of empty oil drums.
Kinsey dropped the empty submachine gun. She drew her Glock 19 in her right hand and kept her combat knife reverse-gripped in her left. She sprinted through the shadows, moving with terrifying speed, flanking their position.
The third hitman backed up, his rifle raised. He didn't see Kinsey slide out from the darkness directly behind him.
Kinsey swung the knife low. The serrated blade sliced cleanly through the thick fabric of his tactical pants and severed his Achilles tendon.
The man let out a high-pitched scream of agony as his leg gave out. He dropped to his knees. Before he could turn, Kinsey drove the blade upward, slipping it perfectly between his ribs and piercing his heart.
She didn't pull the blade out. Instead, she used the leverage of the embedded knife, shoving the impaled man's body forward like a heavy, bleeding meat shield. She drove her shoulder into his back, crashing him directly into the squad leader.
The leader scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with absolute terror. He looked at Kinsey. She was covered in the blood of his men, her face completely expressionless, walking toward him like a demon straight out of hell.
His psychological conditioning broke. He turned and ran toward the exit.
Kinsey raised the Glock. She didn't aim. She just fired.
The bullet shattered the leader's right kneecap. A spray of bone fragments and blood erupted from his leg.
He screamed, a raw, tearing sound, and face-planted onto the concrete. He clawed at the dirt, desperately trying to drag himself away, leaving a thick smear of blood on the floor.
Kinsey walked up to him. She raised her heavy tactical boot and stomped down hard directly onto his shattered knee.
The man shrieked, his body convulsing in agony. Cold sweat poured down his face.
Kinsey crouched down. She pressed the hot muzzle of the Glock against his temple.
"Who hired you?" she asked. Her voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of any adrenaline or anger.
"Screw... you..." the leader spat, coughing up blood.
Kinsey ground her heel deeper into his open wound.
The man shrieked again, sobbing uncontrollably. "Okay! Okay! It was Rocco! Rocco, the boss of the Syndicate! He took the contract from a guy named Clemence!"
Kinsey's eyes narrowed. Rocco. A major Manhattan mob boss.
"Thank you," Kinsey whispered.
She pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, and then there was only silence.
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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.