Bound By Fate: The CEO's Reborn Bride

A bucket of ice-cold water crashed over Chloe Beaumont, ripping her out of the darkness.

The shock of it made her gasp, but the tape over her mouth turned the sound into a strangled, muffled sob. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest. Her arms were bound tightly to the back of a metal chair, the ropes cutting deep into her wrists. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from her ribs.

"Awake already?" A raspy voice emerged from the shadows.

A man in a silver mask stepped forward, gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at a screen.

"Take a good look. The man you love, marrying your own dear sister. Tsk. What a touching wedding."

On the screen, her fiancé Braden was walking down the aisle with her half-sister, June Powell.

A lavish, extravagant wedding. Guests filled the pews-half the elite families, wealthy tycoons, and socialites from high society had turned out. Braden looked into the camera, his voice dripping with tenderness: "June, I want to thank you. Without your support, I wouldn't have achieved any of this. Having your love is the greatest luck of my life..."

Bastards.

Chloe's eyes burned crimson. Tears spilled down her cheeks in a relentless stream.

Only now did she finally understand. Her half-sister had been sleeping with Braden all along. They had conspired together-framed her, slandered her, bled her dry. Tricked her into marrying into a wealthy family, into the hands of a cold, paranoid devil confined to a wheelchair. They'd bled that family dry too, milking it for every penny they could steal. They had embezzled the inheritance her mother had left her. Her sister had stolen her identity, built a career as a designer on Chloe's blood, climbing higher and higher.

The masked man placed the expensive sole of his shoe on top of Chloe's head. His lips curved upward. "Enjoying the view?"

Through a tangle of disheveled hair, Chloe tried desperately to see his face.

"Oh? Still thinking about revenge?" The man laughed coldly. "You think anyone still gives a damn about you? You cheated on your husband-a man worth billions-with God knows who. His family stopped claiming you as their daughter-in-law a long time ago. Your own father has cut all ties with you. He's announced that you are never to set foot in his house again. And your grandfather-the only one who ever loved you? You gave him a heart attack. He collapsed and died on the street. Now? If you die, no one will even come to claim your body."

What? Grandpa, he...

Chloe's bloodshot eyes went wide with horror. A muffled wail escaped her throat as she thrashed wildly, lunging forward and sinking her teeth into the man's hand. She bit down hard.

His eyes turned savage. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the coffee table.

Crack. A deafening thud sent bottles and glasses flying off the table. Liquor soaked into her matted hair. Chloe's face twisted in agony, pale as a ghost, as she crumpled limply to the floor.

The man looked down at her with pure contempt.

Her stepmother. Her half-sister. Her ex-boyfriend. Her best friend. Every single one of them had been feeding on her blood. And her? She had naively believed that after fourteen years of being cast out, she finally had a family. She thought she had been accepted. That she had finally found a new life. She had stupidly believed that once she finished their dirty work and left her so-called husband behind, Braden would come and marry her.

A man stepped into a beam of light falling from the ceiling. He wore a simple black mask that covered the upper half of his face, but his mouth was visible-twisted into a detached, clinical smirk. He methodically wiped a bloodstained blade with a dirty rag. His name was Silas.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "The best part is just beginning."

He set a tablet down on a rusted bucket in front of her. The screen lit up, showing a live feed of a grand wedding. A church filled with white roses, smiling faces, the air thick with happiness. It might as well have been a different world from this warehouse-the damp, metallic stench of rust and blood.

Chloe's heart stopped.

She recognized the groom standing at the altar. The tailored tuxedo. The perfect hair. The nervous, joyful smile stretched across his handsome face. That was Braden Santana. Her fiancé.

Then the bride turned. Her face glowed beneath the cathedral's stained glass windows.

June Powell. Her half-sister. The girl she had loved and trusted like her own flesh and blood.

A scream built in Chloe's throat-pure, raw, the sound of utter betrayal. It hit the inside of the tape and died, reduced to a pitiful, muffled whimper that shook her entire body.

"Ah, yes. That look," Silas said, almost conversationally. "The moment the world collapses. That's my favorite part."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They've been planning this for a long time, you know. While you were busy building your company, they were busy building their life over your grave."

On the screen, Braden and June were exchanging vows. They gazed into each other's eyes with a tenderness that made Chloe's stomach clench into a frozen knot.

"He never loved you," Silas continued, each word a tiny, sharp needle piercing her heart. "He loved your money. Your connections. June was always the prize. You? You were just the stepping stone."

Memories came crashing back. Braden asking to review her company's financial statements under the pretext of a "merger analysis." June "accidentally" spilling coffee all over Chloe's laptop the night before a major presentation. The coincidences. The lies. The small betrayals she had dismissed as paranoia. Now they snapped together, piece by piece, into a chilling mosaic of deceit.

"They framed you for insider trading," Silas said calmly. "A few forged emails. An anonymous tip to the SEC. By the time the news breaks tomorrow, your reputation will be destroyed. Your company's stock will plummet. Guess who's going to buy it all up for pennies on the dollar?"

On the tablet, Braden slid a ring onto June's finger. A simple platinum band, set with a flawless diamond. Chloe's breath caught in her throat. She had helped him pick out that ring. He had told her it was an anniversary gift for his mother.

June's bouquet was made of Juliet roses-rare, delicate flowers that Chloe had spent years cultivating in her small private greenhouse. A deeply personal, devastatingly cruel theft.

Silas's phone rang. He answered and put it on speaker.

"Is it done?" Braden's cold, impatient voice filled the cramped space. "Is that bitch dead yet?"

Chloe's blood turned to ice. That was the voice of the man who had kissed her just two days ago and told her, with deep sincerity, that he couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life with her.

"Not yet," Silas replied, a hint of mockery lacing his tone. "The client wants her to suffer a little first. We're at that part now."

A pause. Then Braden's voice softened, taking on a sickeningly sweet, false warmth. "Chloe, my love. If you can hear this, just know it's for the best. You were never good enough for me. Never good enough for our world."

And then, the final blow.

"Oh, and by the way," Braden said, pride swelling in his voice, "June is pregnant. It's a boy. A real heir."

Everything-Chloe's last shred of hope, all the love she had ever felt, everything she had believed she had-turned to dust. Despair pressed down on her, heavy as a living thing, crushing her lungs until she couldn't breathe. But quickly, something else replaced it. Something hot. Something sharp. Something burning.

Hatred.

Pure, all-consuming hatred. It drowned out everything else.

"Take care of her," Braden ordered, his voice turning cold again. "Make it clean."

"Of course," Silas said. "A pleasure doing business with you." He hung up and turned to Chloe. "Your Braden is a petty man. But he's not the only client I have tonight. There's someone else. Someone much more powerful. And they want you gone too."

Chloe stopped struggling. Her body went still, but her eyes-tear-streaked, bloodshot-remained locked on the screen. On the smiling faces. She carved their images into her soul. She burned every detail into her memory.

Silas stepped closer. The gleam of his blade reflected in her eyes.

He leaned in until his lips were near her ear, his warm breath brushing against her skin.

"Your worthless life," he whispered, "is their last wedding gift."

The knife sank into her heart.

The pain was sharp and immediate-then came the cold. A spreading numbness that seeped into her bones. Her vision blurred. The last thing she saw was the screen of the tablet. The last thing she heard was the booming voice of the officiant, echoing through the speakers.

"I now present to you-Mr. and Mrs. Braden Santana!"

The name that should have been hers.

As the darkness swallowed her whole, Chloe Beaumont made a silent, solemn vow.

If there is a next life. If there was any justice left in this universe. She would come back. She would drag every last one of them into a sea of blood and despair. And she would make them pay.

A sharp, persistent knocking ripped Chloe from the cold, endless darkness.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Her senses flooded with information that didn't make sense. The scent of fresh lilies. The feel of soft, high-thread-count silk sheets against her skin. The warmth of sunlight on her eyelids.

She forced her eyes open.

Not a grimy warehouse ceiling, but an ornate, cream-colored one with intricate crown molding. She sat up with a jolt, her hands flying to her chest. There was no wound. No blood. Just smooth, unbroken skin beneath an expensive silk pajama top.

The knocking came again, more insistent this time, followed by a voice. A sickeningly sweet voice she had prayed she would never hear again.

"Chloe? Are you awake? We're running out of time!"

It was June Powell.

Chloe froze. Pure, undiluted hatred, the last thing she had felt before dying, surged through her veins like a jolt of electricity. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not with fear, but with a chilling, predatory rage.

The door clicked open and June swept in, using a keycard. She was a vision of sisterly concern, her face a perfect mask of worry. "Oh, you're finally awake! I was getting so worried."

Chloe stared at her. June looked... younger. The triumphant cruelty Chloe had last seen on the tablet screen was gone, replaced by the familiar, feigned innocence she had known for years. Six years younger, to be exact.

Her eyes darted to the full-length mirror across the room. She saw her own reflection: younger, healthier, her face free of the terror and pain that had been etched upon it in her final moments.

June walked to the edge of the bed, her expression softening into manufactured sympathy. "You can't be having second thoughts now, Chloe," she said, her voice a gentle coo. "I know you don't want to marry Damian Montgomery."

The name hit Chloe like a physical blow. Damian Montgomery.

It all came rushing back. The arranged marriage. The powerful, reclusive CEO. The rumors that he was a monster.

Today. Today was her wedding day. Her wedding to Damian.

This was the day it had all started. The day June had convinced her to jilt Damian at the altar, to run away with Braden, setting in motion the chain of events that led to her ruin and death.

She had been reborn.

She was back. Six years in the past, on the single most pivotal day of her life.

The knowledge didn't bring joy. It brought a cold, terrifying clarity. A sense of purpose so sharp it felt like a shard of ice in her chest.

June continued her script, oblivious to the storm raging behind Chloe's eyes. "He's a monster, Chloe. A cripple in a wheelchair. Everyone knows what happened to his last three fiancées. They all ended up in mental institutions. You can't marry him."

June placed a comforting hand on Chloe's arm. "Braden is waiting for you," she coaxed. "He loves you. He has a car waiting downstairs. You should run away with him. I'll help you. I'll cover for you."

In her past life, Chloe had clung to those words like a lifeline. She had believed June was her savior, her only ally in a world that terrified her.

Now, she saw the predatory glint in June's eyes, the barely concealed eagerness for Chloe to self-destruct. The touch of June's hand on her arm felt like a viper's bite. Chloe flinched away, pulling her arm back as if it had been burned.

June looked momentarily surprised by the sharp, instinctive rejection.

Slowly, deliberately, Chloe swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her mind was racing, processing the miracle of her return, the impossible second chance she had been given.

She remembered the consequences of her past choice. Jilting Damian had disgraced both the Powell and Montgomery families. Running to Braden had made her an outcast, completely dependent on him and June, making her the perfect, helpless target for their schemes.

This time, there would be no running.

This time, there would be a wedding.

June, misinterpreting her silence as fear, pressed on. "Don't be afraid, Chloe. It's the right thing to do. Your happiness with Braden is all that matters."

Chloe looked up, meeting June's gaze directly. A slow, predatory smile touched her lips for the first time. It was an expression so foreign, so cold, that it made June take an involuntary step back.

The script for this day was about to be rewritten. And Chloe was holding the pen.

"Chloe, what's wrong?" June asked, her voice laced with a forced concern that couldn't quite mask her unease. Chloe's smile was unnerving. "Are you listening to me?"

Chloe stood up, her movements fluid and deliberate, a stark contrast to the hesitant, almost apologetic way she used to carry herself.

"I was just thinking, June," Chloe said, her voice smooth as glass. "You've always given me such... devoted advice."

Before June could process the biting sarcasm in her tone, Chloe's hand whipped through the air.

CRACK.

The sound of the slap was sharp and loud in the quiet, opulent suite. June stumbled back a step, her hand flying to her cheek, her eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated shock.

"You... you hit me?" she sputtered, her brain struggling to catch up. The weak, pliable Chloe she had known her whole life had just struck her.

"Did I?" Chloe feigned surprise, examining her own hand as if it had acted of its own accord. "My hand must have slipped. I'm just so terribly stressed about the wedding, you see."

The stinging sensation in her palm was a grounding force. It was real. This was all real. And it felt deeply, primally satisfying.

June's shock quickly curdled into rage. The mask of the concerned sister fell away, revealing the venomous creature beneath. "How dare you! After everything I'm doing to help you!"

"Help me?" Chloe let out a laugh, a cold, humorless sound that made the hairs on June's arms stand up. "Help me ruin my own reputation? Help me disgrace the Powell and Montgomery families? Is that your idea of help, June?"

Just as June opened her mouth to shriek, the suite door swung open.

Arthur Powell, the stern patriarch of the family, stood in the doorway, his face a thundercloud of impatience. "What is all this shouting about? The ceremony starts in an hour!"

The change in June was instantaneous. Her face crumpled, and she burst into theatrical sobs, rushing to her grandfather's side like a wronged child.

"Grandpa, Chloe's gone mad!" she cried, pointing a trembling finger at Chloe. "She wants to call off the wedding! And when I tried to reason with her, she... she hit me!"

Arthur Powell's furious gaze landed on Chloe, who stood calmly by the bed, her expression unreadable. Before he could unleash his legendary temper on her, Chloe's own face crumpled. She mirrored June's act, but with a subtlety and depth of pain that June's performance lacked. After all, she'd had six years to study the master.

"Grandpa," Chloe's voice trembled, thick with unshed tears. "That's not what happened."

She took a shaky breath, looking up at him with wide, wounded eyes. "I was just saying how nervous I was to marry Mr. Montgomery... and June... she started insisting I run away."

She expertly twisted June's own words into a weapon. "She said Mr. Montgomery was a monster and that I should abandon the wedding for another man. She even said she'd help me escape."

"I told her that was insane," Chloe continued, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down her cheek. "I told her I would never, ever disgrace our family like that. And that's when she got angry. She grabbed my arm, and I... I got scared. I just pushed her away. I didn't mean to slap her so hard."

Arthur's expression shifted. His anger at Chloe flickered, replaced by a sharp, cold suspicion directed at June.

June saw the tables turning and panicked. "She's lying! Grandpa, you know I would never say such things!"

But Chloe's performance was flawless. Her story was one of a daughter's loyalty and duty under pressure. June's (real) plan, when laid bare, sounded like reckless, selfish sabotage. To a man like Arthur Powell, obsessed with family honor and reputation, there was no question which version was more believable.

"Is this true, June?" Arthur asked, his voice dangerously low. "Did you encourage your sister to jilt the groom on her wedding day?"

June was trapped. Admitting it would be admitting to treason against the family. Denying it was useless; Chloe's story was more plausible, and her own hesitation was damning.

Arthur saw the flicker of guilt in her eyes and his face hardened. He knew his granddaughter's jealous nature all too well.

"You foolish, shortsighted girl!" he bellowed, his rage now redirected entirely at June. "Do you have any idea what a scandal that would cause? Get out of my sight! Now!"

June stared, horrified, as her grandfather sided with Chloe for the first time in her life. Humiliated and furious, she fled the room, her sobs now genuine.

Arthur turned back to Chloe, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Get ready," he commanded gruffly. "Do not disappoint me."

He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Chloe stood alone in the silent room. The first battle was won. She let out a slow breath, the adrenaline beginning to fade. But as she turned, her eyes landed on the pristine white dress bag hanging on the wardrobe.

A jolt of cold dread went through her. She remembered.

Inside that bag was not a wedding dress. It was an instrument of humiliation. The hideous, scandalous black gown that June and her mother had prepared for her, designed to make her the laughingstock of New York.