Reborn As The Ruthless CEO's Wife

The Vera Wang dress felt like a second skin, a cage of silk and lace worth more than the first house she'd ever bought. Evelyn Reed stared at her reflection, a stranger in the opulent bridal suite of the Bel-Air estate. The woman in the mirror was on top of the world. An Oscar winner at twenty-eight. The founder of a thriving production company. And now, the wife of Sean Davenport, the man she'd loved for a decade.

A flatscreen TV mounted on the wall played a live feed from outside. "Hollywood's Princess and the Business Titan: A Fairytale Wedding," the chyron read. A bitter taste coated her tongue, metallic and strange. She dismissed it as nerves.

She traced the diamond on her finger, a weight that was supposed to feel like forever. Ten years. She'd found Sean when he was a nobody, an ambitious assistant with a charming smile. She'd built him up, made him CEO of her company, Reed Entertainment. She'd made him a king. Today, he had made her his queen.

The door clicked open, and her sister, Vanessa, glided in. They were twins, but where Evelyn's beauty was classic and serene, Vanessa's was sharper, hungrier. She wore a blush-pink bridesmaid dress that clung to her curves, a practiced, gentle smile on her face.

"There you are," Vanessa cooed, holding up two flutes of champagne. "One last toast before you belong to him completely."

"Ness," Evelyn said, her voice thick with emotion. She took the glass. "To the future."

"To your happiness, sis. May you have everything you've ever dreamed of." Vanessa's eyes glittered as their glasses clinked.

Evelyn drank. The champagne was crisp, cold, and went down in a single, grateful swallow. The moment the glass was empty, the world tilted. A wave of dizziness washed over her, so intense her knees buckled. The flute slipped from her numb fingers, shattering on the marble floor.

Her breath hitched. A cold dread, colder than the champagne, spread through her limbs. She looked at Vanessa, whose gentle smile had curdled into something icy and triumphant.

"Ness... what..." Evelyn tried to speak, but her tongue was thick, useless. Her body felt like lead, sinking into the plush velvet of the settee.

The door opened again. This time, it was Sean. Her husband. He didn't look surprised to see her collapsed. He simply closed the door, and the heavy, final click of the lock echoed in the silent room.

He walked past her, not even a glance, and went straight to Vanessa. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His thumb stroked her hip in a gesture of lazy, familiar ownership. His eyes, when they finally met Evelyn's, were filled with a chilling greed she had never seen before.

A strangled sound escaped her throat. It was the only sound she could make. "Why?"

Sean's lips twisted into a sneer. "Why? Because I'm tired of being Prince Consort to Queen Evelyn. I'm tired of living in your shadow, taking your charity."

"I gave you everything," she rasped, the words tearing at her paralyzed throat.

"You gave me scraps from your table," he shot back. "Now, I'm taking the whole feast. Starting with Reed Entertainment."

Vanessa knelt before her, her face a mask of twisted pity and pathological jealousy. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her eyes were dry and bright. "It was supposed to be me, Evie. It was always supposed to be me. But you were always better. The prodigy. The star. You didn't just take the spotlight; you swallowed the sun."

The pain in Evelyn's chest was sharper than any physical blow. She had spent her life feeling guilty for her own success, constantly trying to pull Vanessa up with her, giving her roles, sharing her contacts, believing she owed her sister for some cosmic imbalance. All that time, it wasn't gratitude Vanessa felt. It was hate.

"From now on, I am you," Vanessa whispered, her voice trembling with a terrifying ecstasy. "I'll be the one they remember."

"The doctor has already been paid," Sean said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "A tragic, sudden heart attack. So young. So beloved. The world will mourn for weeks."

Evelyn met his gaze, and in the face of his absolute betrayal, a final, defiant surge of energy coursed through her. A low, rattling laugh escaped her lips. "You won't get away with it," she choked out. "You're both too stupid."

Vanessa's face contorted with rage. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on the heavy crystal trophy sitting on the mantelpiece-Evelyn's first acting award. The one she'd won at sixteen.

She snatched it. Sean watched, his expression encouraging.

"You think you're so much better than me?" Vanessa screamed, her voice cracking. "Even now?"

She lunged.

The point of the crystal star was brutally sharp. It plunged into Evelyn's chest, a blinding, searing agony that stole the last of her breath. The white of her Vera Wang gown blossomed with a dark, impossible red.

Her vision tunneled. The last thing she saw was Sean pulling Vanessa into a deep, passionate kiss, their bodies silhouetted against the light from the window. Two vipers, celebrating over her cooling corpse.

Her consciousness frayed, dissolving into darkness. But one thought remained, burning like a solitary, eternal star in the void.

If there is another life... I will make you pay.

Then, the darkness cracked open.

Pain. And cold. An endless, suffocating cold seeped into the deepest recesses of her soul. Evelyn's consciousness flickered like a wisp of embers in this dark, silent universe. She died once more, the memory of the crystal trophy turning into a ghostly, agonizing pain in her chest.

No. I will not simply disappear. I will not, not after what they did.

This thought, a desperate, silent scream, ignited something. A fierce, primal will to survive. For revenge.

Suddenly, a tremendous and irresistible force seized her. It was as if she had been swept into a cosmic undercurrent, pulling her from a calm void into something dense, heavy, and terrifyingly real.

The cold took on a tangible form, a brutal shock. Water filled her lungs, a suffocating pressure. She was drowning. Instinct took over. She struggled upwards, her limbs clumsy and unfamiliar, desperately searching for a surface she couldn't see.

Just as she was running out of strength, a hand suddenly gripped her wrist. It was incredibly strong, and with a single powerful movement, it yanked her upwards.

She surfaced, gasping for breath, coughing up seawater that burned her throat. The night air was a shock to her body, sharp and cold, stinging her wet skin. She trembled violently; her body felt so foreign to her.

A voice pierced the chaos, deep and devoid of warmth. "Who sent you?"

Evelyn struggled to open her heavy eyelids. Above her, against the faint light of the distant city, came a man's face. It was a masterpiece of sharp angles and austere beauty-a resolute jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes so deep they seemed to devour light. There was not a trace of worry in them. Only suspicion.

He dragged her from the side of what she now realized was a luxury yacht and tossed her onto the smooth teak deck like a sack of flour. She lay there like a trembling, gasping pile of rubble, struggling to comprehend. This wasn't the bridal suite. The scent wasn't roses and champagne, but sea salt and diesel.

And this body... it wasn't hers. It was smaller, more delicate. The hands she used to support herself were weak and feeble, and her nails were unkempt.

Then, memories flooded back. Not her memories. They surged into her mind like a chaotic torrent-a girl named Cassandra. The unwanted daughter of the Laurent family. A social outcast, oppressed by a cruel stepmother, Melissa, and a lonely stepsister, Ashley.

The memory becomes clearer, focusing on the past few hours. Melissa forces Cassandra to wear a tight-fitting dress. A glass of something that tastes slightly bitter. The purpose is clear: to be submissively sent to a powerful, older man as part of a business deal. An arranged marriage.

But Cassandra resisted. In a final, desperate act of defiance, she leaped from the yacht into the dark, icy water. She chose death over submission.

In her death, Evelyn found a new life.

A strange, burning warmth began to gather in her veins, dispelling the chill of the ocean. It was an unnatural flame that stung her skin and sent shivers down her spine. It was the drug. Melissa's drug was still flowing through the body's systems.

She looked up at the man who had saved her. He stood above her, tall and intimidating in a perfectly tailored dark suit. His scent-a fresh, crisp fragrance like cool air and expensive linen-pierced the fog in her mind. It was the only thing that could quell the burning fire within her.

Another man, thinner and wearing glasses, strode over and draped a thick blanket over her shoulders. He leaned closer and spoke to the taller man in a low, urgent tone.

Cassandra-fragments of words were captured. "...Cassandra Laurent...The Laurent family...An arranged marriage..."

Her heart, this new and unfamiliar heart, pounded violently against her ribs. She stared at her savior's cold, handsome face. He was more than just some random savior. He was the very man Cassandra had been trying to escape.

Damian Blackwood.

His gaze, which had initially held only suspicion, now turned icy cold. He no longer looked at her as a person, but as a problem; a defective product.

The heat intensified, transforming into a dizzying, nauseating wave. Her body was no longer in her own control. It yearned to be near him, to be near the coolness he exuded. It was a base and humiliating instinct she couldn't resist.

She tried to stand up, to create some distance between them, to regain a semblance of dignity. But her legs were as weak as water. She staggered, leaned forward, and fell straight into his arms.

His arms rose automatically, supporting her, his hands gripping her upper arms tightly. The touch was electric. A pure, unadulterated pleasure coursed through her body, so intense that she couldn't help but gasp. The fire in her veins roared, demanding more.

Like a drowning person grabbing a life raft, she clung tightly to his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his expensive suit jacket.

Damian Blackwood's jaw tightened. A strange expression-disgust, or confusion?-flickered across his face, then vanished, leaving only a mask of cold self-control.

Evelyn Reed is dead.

She is now Cassandra Laurent. And she has fallen into the hands of the devil himself.

Damian's hands gripped her arms like steel clamps, holding her firmly while keeping her at a distance. He tried to push her away, but her drug-numbed body resisted him; every cell in her body screamed, yearning for the comfort that only his closeness could provide.

Assistant Owen Hayes spoke again, his voice low and efficient, like a whisper. "Mr. Blackwood, and she is Cassandra Laurent. From the Laurent family. Our marriage prospectus."

Damian's gaze sharpened, turning from icy to piercing. He scrutinized her from head to toe, a hint of disdain flashing in his dark eyes.

He uttered a short, emotionless sound. "Hmph. Is this their grand plan? To fake a suicide to get my attention?" His voice was deep and booming, filled with pure contempt.

"She seems to be trying to escape, sir," Irwin clarified, as professionally as ever. "The Laurent family is searching for her anxiously."

These messages did nothing to soften Damian's expression. On the contrary, they hardened it further. He hated trouble. He hated being disobeyed. He had agreed to the marriage for pragmatic reasons-to appease the family board and solidify business alliances. The bride herself was merely a factor considered afterward, a name on the contract. A name that was now causing him immense trouble.

He recalled the file on Cassandra Laurent. Plain-looking. Timid. Socially disastrous. Unremarkable. This desperate, persistent creature was more pathetic than he had imagined.

He made a swift and decisive decision. He looked at Owen, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Cancel the engagement. Send her back to the Laurent family. I don't deal with defective goods."

Irving nodded. "Yes, sir." He reached for his phone, preparing to call security.

The words "send her back" pierced the drug-induced fog in Cassandra's mind. Back to Melissa. Back to that gilded cage. The thought was more terrifying than drowning.

At the same time, the drug's effects reached their peak. Her last shred of self-control evaporated. A primal panic gripped her as she sensed Damian was about to push her away completely.

She tightened her arms around him, burying her face in his hard chest. The clean, cool scent of his shirt was like an anchor in a burning sea. A broken sound, half sob, half pleading, escaped her lips: "No...please...don't send me back."

These words hung suspended in the cold night air. Damian and Owen both froze. This was not the reaction of a cunning manipulator. This was a raw, unadorned plea from a person in genuine agony.

Damian's body stiffened. He could feel the heat emanating from her, a violent tremor engulfing her petite frame. He looked down at the top of her head, her dark, damp hair clinging to her scalp. When she looked up at him, her eyes were unfocused, her pupils dilated. This wasn't acting.

Damian tried to break free again, but she clung to him like a vine, her hands groping over his jacket, trying to pull him closer and absorb his coolness. One of her hands hooked onto a button on his shirt, the frantic, clumsy movement saying more than any scream.

Irving held his breath. He had worked for Damian for ten years and had never seen anyone touch him so casually, let alone with such desperate intimacy.

Damian's patience finally snapped. A dangerous fire ignited deep within his eyes. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her to lift her head. His voice was like an icy blade.

"Woman, do you know what you're doing?"

The stinging pain from his clenched fingertips brought a brief moment of clarity. But for Cassandra, whose senses were numbed by drugs, his touch was merely another source of relief from the burning sensation. She moved closer to him, her body instinctively seeking more. Her lips parted slightly, her hot, shallow breath brushing against his skin. She was so close that he could even feel her heat brush against his lips.

Damian's breath caught in his throat. A strange, unfamiliar current surged through his body, and it wasn't just anger. It was something else entirely. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

He looked into her eyes and saw his own reflection, cold and stern. He saw a face he didn't recognize, beautiful yet bewildered, pleading for something she couldn't express. She weakly shook her head, answering his question silently. She had no idea what she was doing.

He should have pushed her away. He should have handed her over to his security personnel and gotten rid of this mess completely.

He didn't.

He muttered a curse under his breath, released her chin, then slid one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her back. He effortlessly lifted her off the deck.

She was light and fragile in his arms, her body still burning hot against him. He didn't say another word to Owen, turned and strode into the cabin, his long legs quickly shortening the distance to his private suite.