Rising From Ruin: The Billionaire's Lethal Roommate
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For two years, I was trapped behind my own eyes, a prisoner in my own skull.
A crazed fan had hijacked my body after a brutal car crash, wearing my skin like a cheap suit.
When my soul finally locked back into my flesh in a cramped hospital room, I realized she had destroyed everything I built.
This parasitic stalker had drained my massive fortune to zero, buying luxury gifts for a mediocre actor and turning me into the internet's most hated woman.
My phone was flooded with death threats, and the hashtag demanding I go to hell was trending at number one.
Even the hospital nurses despised me. One marched into my room, raising her hand to violently slap my pale cheek.
"You psychotic bitch, you make me sick!"
Worse, my sprawling Beverly Hills estate had been foreclosed and sold to a mysterious billionaire named Kasey Dominguez.
I had absolutely nothing left. No money. No reputation. No home.
The sheer violation of watching a psychotic stranger ruin my life while I was locked in the passenger seat of my own mind made my blood boil.
I refused to let her destroy my legacy.
As the nurse's hand descended, my atrophied muscles snapped into action.
I twisted her wrist until the joint popped, grabbed the keys to my freedom, and slipped out into the cold Los Angeles night.
I was going to take my life back, starting with the billionaire who thought he owned my house.
Rising From Ruin: The Billionaire's Lethal Roommate Chapter 1
Her eyes snapped open.
The blurry ceiling tiles slowly sharpened into focus. They were stained yellow with water damage. The harsh, chemical stench of industrial bleach and cheap rubbing alcohol burned the inside of her nose.
Aspen Blair tried to lift her right arm. Her bicep trembled. The muscle felt like wet sand, heavy and useless. Atrophy. She had not used this body in a very long time.
A wall-mounted television buzzed with static in the corner of the cramped hospital room. She forced her stiff neck to turn. The joints popped loudly in the quiet room.
On the screen, a late-night Hollywood entertainment broadcast was playing. Freddy Stanley, an A-list actor with a perfectly sculpted jaw, sat on a talk show couch. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out a single, pathetic tear.
"I can't take it anymore," Freddy said to the camera, his voice shaking. "For two years, Aspen has stalked me. She ruined my sets. She ruined my life. I am exhausted."
A sharp, tearing pain ripped through Aspen's temples.
Memories slammed into her brain. They were not her choices, but she had seen them all. For twenty-four months, she had been trapped behind her own eyes, a prisoner in her own skull. She remembered the Pacific Coast Highway. The screech of tires. The crushing impact of the car crash. That was the moment the darkness had swallowed her, pushing her soul into the passenger seat while an invasive, foreign presence took the wheel, using her face to chase a mediocre actor. The sheer violation of it made her stomach churn.
She clenched her fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. The pain was real. The heavy, grounding sensation of her soul finally locking back into her own flesh sent a shiver down her spine.
She was back.
Aspen looked down at her left hand. A thick IV needle was taped violently into the blue vein on the back of her hand. The plastic tube fed clear liquid into her bloodstream.
She reached over with her right hand. She pinched the plastic base of the needle.
She did not hesitate. With a sharp, upward jerk of her wrist, she ripped the needle out of her flesh.
Blood welled up instantly. Three thick, dark red drops splattered onto the pristine white hospital sheets. She did not even blink at the sting.
She leaned over and grabbed the newest iPhone sitting on the cheap plastic nightstand. The screen lit up. The Face ID scanned her features and unlocked immediately.
The Twitter app was open. A barrage of notification sounds pinged like rapid gunfire. Her direct messages were flooded with death threats. She tapped the trending tab. The hashtag AspenBlairGoToHell sat at the number one spot.
She swiped out of the app. She did not care about the opinions of strangers. She tapped the Bank of America icon.
The screen loaded. She stared at the bold black numbers in the center of the screen.
Available Balance: $0.00.
Her jaw tightened. That parasitic fan had drained her entire liquid fortune to buy movie roles and luxury gifts for a man who was currently crying on national television.
Aspen quickly opened the Safari browser. She navigated to the California public real estate registry. She typed in her social security number.
Her primary residence, a sprawling estate in the heart of Beverly Hills, had a new status tag updated three days ago.
SOLD.
She opened a new tab, typing in the property address. A trashy real estate blog popped up instantly as the top result. The headline glared back at her in bold font: "Mysterious Billionaire Kasey Dominguez Takes Possession of Disgraced Actress Aspen Blair's Foreclosed Mansion Tonight."
A cold, dangerous smile curved the corners of her lips. She had nothing left. No money. No reputation. No home. But she knew exactly where to find the man sleeping in her bed.
Heavy, aggressive footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. The rubber soles squeaked against the linoleum floor, moving fast and stopping right outside her door.
Aspen immediately dropped the phone onto the mattress. She closed her eyes, let her head loll to the side, and slowed her breathing. She forced her muscles to go completely limp, mimicking a deep coma.
She waited in the dark.
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Rising From Ruin: The Billionaire's Lethal Roommate of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5
Chapter 6 Ch. 6
Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.1
Elinor's frail daughter, Cece, died in a sterile hospital room while waiting for her father to take her to Disney World.
But her billionaire husband, Derick, never showed up. At the exact moment Cece's heart monitor flatlined, the hospital TV broadcasted Derick affectionately holding the hand of his mistress and he has booked a clearance of the entire Disneyland to celebrate mistress's daughter's birthday!.
When Elinor confronted Derick with their daughter's ashes, he sneered and accused her of hiding the child just to get his attention. Elinor's heart was torn to shreds. How could a father be so blind and ruthless? Did Kamryn use his power to steal the very kidney that belonged to Cece? Why did her innocent baby have to die for their sick affair?
The suffocating grief inside Elinor finally crystallized into a sharp blade. She wiped the blood from her lips, canceled the simple divorce, and began her ruthless revenge.
7.6
I was the fiancée of the Chicago Outfit’s heir, a bond sealed by blood and eighteen years of history.
But when his mistress pushed me into the freezing pool at our engagement gala, Jax didn’t swim toward me.
He swam past me.
He scooped up the girl who pushed me, cradling her like fragile glass, while I struggled against the weight of my gown in the murky water.
When I finally dragged myself out, shivering and humiliated before the entire underworld, Jax didn’t offer a hand. He offered a scowl.
"You’re making a scene, Eliana. Go home."
Later, when that same mistress shoved me down the stairs, shattering my knee and my dance career, Jax stepped over my broken body to comfort her.
I overheard him telling his friends, "I’m just breaking her spirit. She needs to learn she’s property, not a partner. Once she’s desperate enough, she’ll be the perfect obedient wife."
He thought I was a dog that would always return to its master. He thought he could starve me of affection until I begged for scraps.
He was wrong.
While he was busy playing protector to his mistress, I wasn't crying in my room.
I was packing his ring into a cardboard box.
I cancelled my transfer to UCLA and enrolled at NYU instead.
By the time Jax realized his "property" was missing, I was already in New York, standing next to a man who looked at me like a queen, not a possession.
8.6
Today was my father's grand second wedding, but for me, it was the anniversary of my mother's death.
My new stepmother, Marley, who was only four years older than me, cornered me. To establish her dominance as the new Luna, she ordered her servants to force me to my knees and violently ripped my late mother's necklace from my neck.
It was the only memento my mother had left me. Marley sneered, threw it to the ground, and shattered the gems. When I scrambled to pick up the broken pieces, she dug her high-heeled shoe into the back of my hand, mocking me as dirty trash. No one stepped in to help. My father was too busy celebrating his new marriage under the dazzling lights, completely erasing my mother's memory and leaving me to be abused in my own pack.
My heart was full of grievance and despair. Why did my mother's lifelong devotion end with her grave desolate and her daughter humiliated? I swore I would never become a weak, discarded she-wolf whose life depended on a man.
Desperate to escape the suffocating wedding, I ran outside and stumbled right into the chest of a terrifying stranger.
"No one should ever touch what is precious to you."
His golden eyes blazed with fury as sparks instantly shot through my veins. He was Kade Blackwood, the ruthless Alpha of the feared Blood Moon Pack—and my fated mate.
8.8
Clara supported her boyfriend Leo for four years, paying his rent and buying his headshots while working dead-end extra gigs.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, she caught him in their bed with Veronica, a wealthy producer's daughter who constantly stole Clara's roles.
Leo mocked Clara as a "pathetic, poor stepping stone" who was just there until he got his foot in the door.
Veronica threatened to ruin Clara's career forever.
Clara dumped him, packed her bags, and impulsively entered a contract marriage with a cold stranger she met at City Hall.
But her nightmare wasn't over.
When her mother suddenly needed a $200,000 emergency brain surgery, Clara was forced to take a demeaning extra gig to survive.
There, Veronica and her starlet friend cornered Clara.
They mocked her cheap clothes, ridiculed her new wedding ring as fake glass, and intentionally poured scalding coffee on her feet.
"Well, maid, you better clean that up."
Veronica laughed, forcing Clara to her knees to wipe up the burning liquid while snapping photos.
Clara swallowed her burning humiliation, secretly recording their abuse on her phone.
She endured the pain, desperate for the $300 day rate to save her mother's life, feeling entirely crushed by their overwhelming wealth and power.
What she didn't know was that outside the soundstage, her new contract husband—the man she thought was just a struggling, broke tech worker—was sitting in a sleek black Maybach.
He watched his wife kneeling on the floor, and his dark eyes filled with a lethal, terrifying rage.
7.4
I was only fifteen when my venomous family orchestrated my doom by forcing me into an arranged marriage with mafia heir Javier Velasquez.
On our wedding night, Javier paraded strippers into our suite to show his absolute contempt, turning me into the ultimate joke of the underworld overnight.
But being a joke was a luxury compared to what came next.
Three years later, Javier needed to be a widower to marry into a heavily armed family and secure their backing for a coup.
He didn't grant me the mercy of a bullet.
Instead, he dragged me to an abandoned underground safehouse, locked me in the damp, rotting dark, and told the world I had been assassinated.
For six months, I starved in that dungeon, surviving only on the desperate hope that my family was safe.
Then, on the day of his lavish new wedding, a cruel maid kicked a plate of spoiled food onto my floor and delivered the final, fatal blow.
"Annabel is dead. Pined away and died of a broken heart two weeks ago."
My gentle mother was dead, all because she actually believed his lie about my tragic murder.
Driven by pure agony and an all-consuming hatred, I shattered crates of smuggled chemical solvents and struck a match, letting the roaring inferno turn their bloody wedding into my funeral pyre.
I thought the fire was the end.
But when I opened my eyes, the suffocating smoke vanished, replaced by the biting chill of a Long Island winter.
I was standing in the snow, back on the exact day my descent into hell began.
This time, the terrified girl was dead, and I would use their own ruthless rules to tear their empire apart.
9.0
Eileen woke up in a trashed hotel room, her head pounding with the pathetic memories of a despised Hollywood actress.
Outside the window, paparazzi were already screaming about her manufactured cheating scandal, but the real nightmare was waiting at her door.
Her paralyzed, billionaire husband, Carlisle Vinson, looked at her with pure disgust while his butler shoved a divorce settlement at her chest.
"Mr. Vinson is offering a severance package of fifty million dollars, provided you sign immediately and vacate the premises."
The original owner had left her an absolute mess.
Her trusted assistant had sold her room number to the press to frame her, and a playboy had scammed her out of her entire two million dollar life savings.
If she signed those papers and lost the Vinson family's protection, the breach of contract fees and her enemies in the industry would swallow her alive in days.
Eileen felt a cold fury override the original owner's lingering panic.
Why should she take the fall and be thrown out on the streets while the parasites who set her up lived out their wealthy fantasies?
She had died once, and she wasn't about to waste her second chance playing the victim.
Eileen slammed the heavy divorce folder shut right against the butler's chest.
"I'm not signing," she said with a terrifying, absolute calm.
She stepped behind her husband's wheelchair, ready to shield him from the cameras, secretly cure his dead legs, and make everyone who betrayed her bleed.
