His Dead Lover In A New Body

Briana's eyes snapped open. The pungent, suffocating stench of cheap cigars and stale sweat invaded her nostrils. Her chest heaved, pulling in jagged breaths that burned her lungs.

She tried to push herself up, but a sharp, biting pain sliced into her wrists. Thick nylon ropes bound her hands together. Her muscles screamed in weak protest as she collapsed back onto the lumpy, damp mattress.

Suddenly, a memory violently hijacked her brain. It wasn't the motel room. It was the suffocating darkness of a chemical waste pool. The toxic liquid filling her throat. The burning in her eyes. The absolute certainty of her own death two years ago.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body convulsing as the phantom sensation of drowning clawed at her throat.

Then, another set of memories crashed into her skull. A girl. A different life. A father who sold her to clear a gambling debt. She was Imogen Montgomery, but she was trapped inside the body of a girl named Briana. Her brows twisted in agonizing confusion.

The sound of running water in the bathroom abruptly stopped.

The door creaked open. A heavy-set man named Preston waddled out, humming a vile, off-key tune. Briana's pupils dilated until her eyes were almost entirely black.

Preston rubbed his meaty hands together as he approached the bed. His greedy, wet eyes dragged over her body like physical slime. Briana forced her eyes shut, holding her breath, playing dead.

His rough, calloused fingers brushed against her cheek. Bile surged up Briana's throat. Her stomach violently contracted. She jerked her head away from his touch, her survival instinct overriding the lingering paralysis.

Preston cursed, a harsh, guttural sound. He reached down to rip the collar of her shirt.

Briana's right hand scrambled blindly under the thin pillow. Her fingers brushed against something hard and jagged. It was a remnant from a shattered beer bottle left by the previous occupant, carelessly swept under the edge of the mattress.

She gripped it. The sharp edge sliced deep into her palm. The warm, sticky slide of her own blood shocked her nervous system awake. She didn't hesitate.

With a feral grunt, she drove the jagged glass straight into Preston's shoulder.

Preston let out a high-pitched, pig-like squeal. He stumbled backward, clutching his shoulder as dark blood spilled over his fingers.

Briana didn't waste a second. She twisted her wrists, dragging the bloody glass edge frantically against the nylon ropes. The friction burned her skin, but the fibers snapped.

The moment her hands were free, she swung her legs off the bed and planted her heel squarely into Preston's kneecap.

The heavy man collapsed like a felled tree, crashing into the nightstand and sending a cheap lamp shattering to the floor.

Briana scrambled to her feet. The room spun, but she threw herself at the door. Her bloody hands slipped on the doorknob. She twisted it, but it wouldn't budge. Deadbolted from the outside.

Behind her, Preston roared. He pushed himself up, grabbing the heavy base of the broken lamp. He hurled it at her back.

Briana dropped to her knees. The lamp smashed against the doorframe inches from her head. She reached up, her bloody fingers finding the deadbolt. She flicked it open.

She yanked the door open and threw herself into the freezing hallway. The cold air hit her sweat-drenched skin like a physical blow.

"Get her!" Preston screamed from inside the room.

At the far end of the corridor, two massive men in cheap black suits snapped their heads toward her. Their eyes locked onto her like predators.

They charged. Briana's lungs burned. She grabbed the heavy housekeeping cart parked against the wall and shoved it forward with every ounce of strength she had left.

The cart slammed into the first bodyguard. Bottles of bleach and detergent exploded across the carpet.

Briana didn't look back. She sprinted for the stairwell.

The motion-sensor lights were dead. She plunged into the darkness, her feet flying down the concrete steps. On the final landing, her foot caught the edge. Her ankle twisted with a sickening pop. Pain shot up her leg, white-hot and blinding.

Heavy boots pounded on the stairs behind her. They were closing in.

She bit down on her lip until she tasted copper. She forced herself up, dragging her injured leg, and shoved open the heavy glass doors of the motel lobby.

The Los Angeles rain hit her like a wall of ice. The downpour instantly soaked her thin clothes, plastering them to her shivering skin. She ran blindly into the street, her vision blurred by the freezing water.

"Grab the bitch!" a voice roared over the thunder. The bodyguards were less than ten feet behind her.

Panic exploded in her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

A pair of blinding headlights tore through the curtain of rain. A massive black Maybach was speeding straight toward her.

Briana threw her hands up to shield her eyes. Her wet sneakers slipped on the slick asphalt. She lost her balance and pitched forward, falling directly into the path of the car.

Tires shrieked against the wet road. The Maybach slammed to a halt a mere foot away from her body.

The rear door swung open. A large, black umbrella bloomed in the rain.

A man stepped out. His expensive leather shoes splashed into a puddle. Briana scrambled to her feet, her survival instinct pushing her forward. She crashed headfirst into his solid chest.

The impact bruised her nose. Instantly, the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne enveloped her. It cut through the smell of rain and blood, hitting her brain with a violent wave of familiarity.

The bodyguards stopped dead in their tracks, shouting threats.

The man's assistant, standing by the driver's door, smoothly drew a black handgun from his holster. The metallic click of the safety coming off echoed louder than the rain. The bodyguards froze.

Briana weakly tilted her head up. The streetlights illuminated the man's face. Sharp jawline. Cold, ruthless eyes.

Her heart stopped. Clark Ellis.

Her bloody fingers tangled weakly into the silk tie resting against his chest, clutching at the fabric as her vision swam. The last thread of her adrenaline snapped. The world went black.

Briana's body went entirely limp, sliding down Clark's chest.

Clark's arm shot out instinctively, his large hand gripping her waist to keep her from hitting the wet asphalt. His jaw tightened as he felt the warm, wet smear of blood and rain transfer onto the expensive wool of his heavy trench coat.

Jairo, standing by the driver's side, took a step forward to take the girl off his boss's hands. But he stopped short.

Briana's fingers, slick with rain and blood, were tangled into the dark silk tie at Clark's chest. The knot had been pulled askew during her collision with him. Even in unconsciousness, her grip was locked tight, her knuckles white.

Clark looked down. The sudden, persistent pressure against his throat made him freeze.

He stared at her pale, rain-streaked face. In her semi-conscious state, Briana let out a soft, pained whimper. It was a specific, broken sound. A sound Imogen used to make when she had nightmares.

Clark's entire body went rigid. The muscles in his arms locked. His dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of absolute disbelief breaking through his icy exterior.

Without a word, he ripped off his heavy, blood-smeared trench coat and wrapped it tightly around her, completely shielding her from the rain and any prying eyes. Only then did he reach up and forcibly pry her stiff fingers from his tie, one by one. As the fabric came free, he saw the dark stain of her blood had seeped through the wool of his coat and bloomed against the chest of his bespoke suit jacket beneath.

Jairo watched in stunned silence but quickly pulled open the rear door. Clark ducked inside, pulling the unconscious girl onto the leather seat beside him.

The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the roar of the storm. The sudden blast of the car's heater made Briana's body violently shudder.

Her heavy eyelids fluttered open. The world was blurry, but it quickly focused on the sharp, unforgiving line of Clark's jaw. The tension in her muscles uncoiled slightly. She was safe. For now.

The heat in the cabin was stifling. Clark reached up and impatiently yanked his tie loose, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

As the fabric parted, the sharp, masculine lines of his collarbone were exposed. The faint, rhythmic pulse at the base of his throat caught her attention. It was a hypnotic, steady beat of life in a night that had been filled with nothing but death.

Briana's pupils dilated so fast her eyes physically ached. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest heaved. That pulse. That exact spot at the hollow of his throat. Something buried deep in her fractured memory surged up-a flash of sunlight through a bedroom window, her lips brushing that exact place on his skin in another life. Before she could stop herself, her bloody, trembling fingers reached out, inexplicably drawn to the radiating warmth of his skin, a desperate instinct to anchor herself to the most powerful presence in the room.

"Don't touch him," Jairo's voice barked from the driver's seat, sharp as a whip.

Briana flinched, snatching her hand back.

Clark's head snapped toward her. His eyes, previously clouded with a strange, unguarded vulnerability, were now pitch black and lethal. He had seen exactly where her fingers had been reaching-the place no one touched. The place he only ever allowed one woman to kiss.

No stranger would reach for that exact spot. No one.

His hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw in a bruising grip.

Pain flared in her face, snapping her fully awake. She stared into his eyes, her stomach dropping into an endless void of ice.

"What is your name?" Clark demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in the small space.

Briana's brain fired on all cylinders. If he knew she was Imogen, he would know she was a freak. A ghost in a stranger's body.

She forced her eyes to well up with tears. She let her lower lip tremble. "Briana," she choked out, making her voice sound small and pathetic.

The name hung in the air.

The dangerous intensity in Clark's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a disgust so profound it made Briana's chest physically ache.

He released her jaw as if her skin burned him. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped her blood off his fingers.

"Drop her at the diner on the next block. Have a detail keep eyes on her," Clark ordered Jairo, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Panic seized Briana. She couldn't lose him. He was the most powerful man in the country. He was her only weapon against Kathleen.

She lunged forward, her bloody hands grabbing his sleeve. "Please! They'll kill me!"

Clark ripped his arm away. "Don't push your luck." The temperature in the car plummeted.

Briana instantly changed tactics. She shrank back, pulling her knees to her chest, curling into a tight, trembling ball against the leather door. She let out a soft, pathetic sob, playing the role of a broken, abused street rat to perfection.

It was a cheap act, but her eyes-wide, stubborn, and terrified-locked onto his. Clark looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw, visibly irritated by the strange pull he felt toward those eyes.

The Maybach glided to a stop at a desolate intersection in downtown LA. The locks clicked open. The freezing wind howled into the cabin.

Briana knew when to retreat. She swallowed her pride, whispered a trembling "Thank you," and dragged her throbbing ankle out of the car.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her.

The second the Maybach pulled away, the pathetic fear vanished from Briana's face. Her expression hardened into cold, calculating stone.

Inside the car, Clark stared at her shrinking figure in the rearview mirror. "Run a full background check on her," he ordered Jairo.

Briana stood under the dripping awning of a closed shop. The wind bit through her wet clothes. She needed a safe place to think.

She turned her head and saw the neon sign of a cheap, 24-hour diner glowing through the rain. She pushed through the greasy glass doors.

The cashier glared at her bloody, soaked appearance. Briana ignored him, limping straight to the darkest booth in the back corner, her mind already spinning a web.

The diner smelled of rancid frying oil and burnt coffee.

Briana slid into the cracked vinyl booth. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to press them flat against the sticky table. She dug into the pocket of her wet jeans. Her fingers brushed past the cheap, cracked-screen smartphone that had belonged to this body's previous owner-dead battery, useless until she could find a charger-and closed around a crumpled, blood-stained twenty-dollar bill.

A heavy-set waiter approached, his nose wrinkling at the sight of her. Briana slid the bill across the table.

"I need to borrow your tablet," she said, her voice raspy. "Just for five minutes."

The waiter eyed the blood, then the money. Greed won. He pulled a cracked iPad from his apron and shoved it toward her.

Briana wiped her bloody fingers on a napkin. She connected to the diner's unsecured Wi-Fi and opened the browser.

Her fingertips hovered over the glass screen. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. She typed in the name: Imogen Montgomery.

The loading icon spun. Every second felt like glass grinding against her nerves. She prayed her parents were safe.

The page loaded. The top headline felt like a physical punch to her gut.

Two-Year Anniversary of Montgomery Heiress's Tragic Drowning.

She clicked the article. A massive photo filled the screen. It was her cousin, Kathleen, dressed in custom black couture, weeping beautifully at a memorial service.

Rage, hot and blinding, surged through Briana's veins. Her knuckles turned stark white as she gripped the edges of the tablet.

She scrolled down frantically, searching for any mention of her parents.

She found a financial piece from six months ago. Montgomery Couple Steps Down Due to Severe Grief. Niece Kathleen Johnston Assumes Full Control of Montgomery Group.

The article mentioned her parents had retired to a private, highly secure sanatorium in Switzerland, refusing all visitors.

Briana stopped breathing. Her lungs seized. Sanatorium? It was a prison. Kathleen had locked them away to steal the company.

She opened a new tab and pulled up Kathleen's social media. The screen exploded with photos of Kathleen dripping in Montgomery diamonds, attending galas, drinking champagne on yachts.

The most recent photo was posted yesterday. Kathleen was standing in front of the massive iron gates of the Ellis Manor. The caption read: Looking forward to the future. The comments were flooded with congratulations on her upcoming engagement to Clark Ellis.

A wave of nausea hit Briana so hard she gagged. The betrayal tasted like battery acid in her mouth.

She slammed the tablet face-down onto the table. The loud smack echoed in the quiet diner.

The waiter jumped. "Hey! Break it and you buy it, psycho!" he yelled, marching over.

Briana slowly lifted her head. She locked eyes with the waiter. The sheer, murderous intent radiating from her gaze made the man stop dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face, and he quickly backed away.

Briana took a deep, shuddering breath. She had nothing. No money, no identity, no power. If she went after Kathleen now, she would be crushed like an insect.

She needed a weapon. A weapon so terrifying that Kathleen would beg for mercy.

Clark Ellis's cold, ruthless face flashed in her mind. A crazy, desperate plan began to form in her head.

She handed the tablet back to the waiter and ordered a black coffee. The bitter liquid burned its way down her throat, grounding her.

She grabbed a pen from the table and pulled a napkin toward her. She began writing down the debts Doyle owed, the names of the men chasing her, and the timeline of Kathleen's takeover.

The bell above the diner door jingled.

Three men in leather jackets walked in. They smelled of cheap beer and weed. Their eyes scanned the room and locked onto Briana sitting alone in the corner.

They swaggered over. The leader, a guy with a neck tattoo, leaned over her table. He reached out to grab her chin. "Rough night, sweetheart?"

Briana didn't even look up. Her hand shot out. She drove the ballpoint pen straight down into the back of his hand, pinning it to the table.

The man screamed, a wet, tearing sound, and yanked his hand back. Blood spurted onto the napkin.

The other two men cursed, reaching into their jackets for switchblades.

Suddenly, blinding high beams flooded the diner windows. Two black Range Rovers slammed into park right outside the glass doors.

Four men in immaculate black suits stepped out and pushed into the diner. The lead security guard didn't say a word. He simply stepped forward and let his suit jacket fall open, revealing the cold, black steel of a handgun holstered snugly under his arm. The thugs' bravado vanished instantly. They stumbled backward, their faces draining of color, and scrambled out the back door in sheer terror.

The lead security guard walked up to Briana's booth. He didn't look at the blood on the table. "Mr. Ellis wants to see you."

Briana looked down at her napkin, a cold, sharp smile stretching across her lips. She stood up and walked out into the rain.