Reborn From Ashes: Divorcing The Billionaire

The thick, rough fibers of the hemp rope bit into Gene's wrists, grinding against her skin until it bled.

She could barely breathe. The heavy stench of gasoline coated the back of her throat, thick and suffocating. Her chest heaved against the concrete pillar she was tied to in the abandoned Brooklyn warehouse.

Ten steps away stood her husband, Alvie.

A masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a rusted metal barrel. The metallic clack echoed in the cavernous space.

"Choose," the kidnapper's voice was a distorted rasp. "The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."

Alvie did not hesitate. He didn't even blink.

He took long, purposeful strides toward the dark corner where Gail crouched, shivering and sobbing. He wrapped his arms around the mistress, pulling her tightly against his chest, shielding her.

Gene's cracked lips parted. She tried to scream his name, but her vocal cords were paralyzed. Only a broken, raspy exhale escaped her mouth.

Alvie guided Gail toward the rusted iron exit door. He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, Gene was already a corpse. She was trash left on the pavement.

The kidnapper let out a low, guttural laugh. He flicked a windproof lighter. The flame sparked. He tossed it directly onto the trail of gasoline soaking the concrete floor.

A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly.

It surged forward, a violent, roaring beast that swallowed Gene whole. The extreme heat vaporized the oxygen in her lungs in a fraction of a second.

The agony of her skin blistering and melting shot straight to her nerve endings. It was a pain so absolute, so blinding, that it shattered her sanity. In the center of the inferno, consumed by a hatred deeper than the flames, Gene lost all consciousness.

Gene violently jerked upward.

She shot up from the California King bed, her hands clawing desperately at the silk duvet like a drowning woman fighting for the surface. She gasped, sucking in massive, greedy lungfuls of cold, air-conditioned air.

Her entire body was drenched in a freezing sweat. Pure instinct took over. Her trembling hands flew to her face, her neck, her arms.

Smooth. Her skin was perfectly smooth. There were no blisters. No charred flesh.

The phantom sensation of burning flesh slowly dissipated, chased away by the gentle breeze of the central AC. She blinked hard, her vision clearing. She looked around the room.

It was the master bedroom of the Upper East Side penthouse. The one she and Alvie had shared four years ago, right after they got married.

Her eyes locked onto the Patek Philippe desk clock on the nightstand. The date glowing on the display was exactly four years in the past. It was the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.

Her legs tangled in the sheets as she scrambled out of bed. She stumbled, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and practically threw herself into the massive marble bathroom.

She gripped the edges of the sink so hard her knuckles turned white. She stared into the mirror.

The woman staring back was young. Vibrant. Her eyes were not yet deadened by four years of a soul-crushing marriage.

Suddenly, the phantom feeling of the fire closing in hit her again. Claustrophobia gripped her throat. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the freezing marble tiles.

Her body shook violently. She lifted her hand and bit down hard on her own knuckles. She bit until the metallic taste of blood bloomed on her tongue. The sharp, physical pain grounded her. It forced the trembling to stop.

Alvie's retreating back. Gail's triumphant smirk. The memories flashed behind her eyelids like a strobe light.

She curled her fingers inward, her manicured nails digging crescent moons deep into her palms.

Gene pushed herself off the floor. She turned on the brass faucet, cupped the freezing water in her hands, and splashed it violently against her face. She scrubbed her skin, washing away the last pathetic remnants of her love for that man.

When she looked up at the mirror again, her eyes were different. She stared at the unblemished skin, processing the profound strangeness of her own reflection. The woman staring back was naive to a laughable degree, and that very naivety had been her epitaph. No, never again. The absolute agony of her past life burned away the fragile, submissive shell she had worn. Her eyes were as cold and unforgiving as a glacial fault line. The decision to destroy them both settled deep in her bones.

She walked out of the bathroom and pulled open the doors of her walk-in closet.

Her eyes swept over the endless row of soft, pastel-colored dresses. Pink chiffon. White lace. Clothes she had bought solely to play the role of Alvie's delicate, submissive wife.

She shoved them all aside.

From the very back of the closet, she pulled out a sharply tailored, jet-black haute couture suit. She stripped off her nightgown and put it on. The structured shoulders and crisp lines felt like armor.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany double doors of the bedroom were shoved open with violent force.

Alvie barged in. He reeked of stale alcohol and blind panic. He was still wearing the rumpled dress shirt from last night's banquet, having clearly sprinted straight from the guest room sofa where he had passed out. His chest was heaving.

When his eyes landed on Gene, standing perfectly whole in front of the full-length mirror, his pupils dilated. He looked at her as if he were staring at a ghost.

He crossed the Persian rug in three massive strides. His hands shot out, gripping her shoulders with a bruising force.

"You're here," his voice shook. It was a frantic, desperate sound. "You're still here."

It was a bizarre reaction. The man who had left her to burn was now looking at her like she was his lifeline.

The moment his skin made contact with hers, Gene's stomach violently churned. The physical revulsion was immediate.

She twisted her body and violently shoved his hands off her.

She took a half-step back, her eyes raking over him with the icy detachment of a stranger. A mocking, razor-sharp smirk curled the corner of her lips.

Alvie froze. He was stunned by the pure disgust radiating from her. The panic in his chest instantly morphed into the angry defensiveness of a man whose authority had just been challenged.

"What the hell is that look for?" he snapped, his voice rising.

In the past, Gene would have lowered her head and apologized. Not today.

"I'm just admiring the scent," Gene said, her voice deadpan. She stared dead at the collar of his shirt. "That niche perfume on your collar. It belongs to Gail, doesn't it?"

Alvie's face turned to stone.

The color drained from his cheeks. Guilt, mixed with a much deeper, irrational terror, flashed in his eyes. He couldn't hold her gaze.

He turned away, his posture rigid and awkward.

"Get downstairs," he ordered, his voice tight. "We're leaving for the Hamptons in ten minutes."

He practically fled the room, leaving the door wide open.

Gene grabbed her black Hermès Birkin bag and followed Alvie's path. Her high heels clicked against the cold concrete floor of the underground parking garage, a steady, rhythmic sound like a ticking metronome.

The driver opened the door of the black Bentley. Gene slid into the backseat. She moved all the way to the opposite side, pressing her shoulder against the door panel, putting as much physical distance between herself and Alvie as the leather seat allowed.

Alvie got in a second later.

During the two-hour drive to Long Island, the silence in the car was suffocating. Alvie shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat three times, attempting to start a conversation to smooth over the disastrous morning.

Every time he opened his mouth, Gene simply closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the window. Her absolute, freezing indifference choked the words right out of his throat.

The Bentley finally slowed down, turning through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Gallagher family estate in the Hamptons. The tires crunched over the gravel before stopping smoothly in front of the grand fountain.

Gene pushed her own door open before the driver could reach it.

She stepped out and inhaled a deep breath of the crisp, salty ocean air. She straightened her spine, pulling her shoulders back. She walked toward the heavy oak front doors-the same doors that had represented nothing but humiliation in her past life.

The butler pulled the doors open.

Inside the sprawling, opulent living room, Eleanor Gallagher sat on a velvet sofa. The matriarch was surrounded by a circle of wealthy socialites, sipping tea from delicate porcelain cups.

Blair, Alvie's younger sister, was leaning against the marble fireplace. The moment she saw Gene walk in wearing the sharp black suit, Blair let out a loud, exaggerated scoff.

Eleanor placed her teacup on the saucer with a sharp clink. Her brows pulled together in a deep frown. Her eyes dragged up and down Gene's outfit with pure disdain.

"You look like a black widow heading to a funeral," Eleanor snapped, her voice carrying across the room. "Is this how you dress for a family gathering?"

The socialites sitting around the coffee table raised their silk handkerchiefs to their mouths, hiding their cruel little smiles. They waited for the poor, commoner daughter-in-law to cower.

The old Gene would have stammered an apology and run upstairs to change.

The new Gene stopped in the center of the room. She met Eleanor's harsh glare head-on. A slow, mocking smile spread across her face.

"I am dressed for a funeral, Eleanor," Gene said. Her flawless Upper East Side accent-a polished remnant of the elite Swiss boarding school she had attended on a full scholarship-was sharp and precise, her tone dripping with ice. "I'm mourning the rapid decline of the Gallagher family's taste."

The living room went dead silent.

Eleanor's eyes widened in absolute shock. Her mouth parted slightly. She couldn't believe the weak, pathetic woman standing before her had just spoken back.

Blair pushed off the fireplace, her face twisting with rage. She pointed a manicured finger right at Gene's face.

"You ungrateful gold digger," Blair spat. "You're nothing but a leech! You're only allowed in this house because of that ironclad prenup!"

Gene didn't flinch. She took one step forward, closing the distance. Her eyes were sharp as scalpels.

"A leech?" Gene tilted her head. "That's an interesting word coming from someone who maxed out three credit cards last month and had debt collectors calling the corporate office."

Blair's face flushed a violent, blotchy red.

The socialites shifted in their seats, their eyes darting between Blair and Gene, hungry for the scandal.

Eleanor slammed her hand down on the glass coffee table. She shot up from the sofa.

"Shut your mouth!" Eleanor shrieked. "Apologize to your sister immediately and go to your room!"

Gene let out a dark, humorless laugh. She looked around the room at the sea of fake, horrified faces.

"The only people who need to apologize are the parasites living off a name they do nothing to build," Gene said coldly.

Blair let out a furious scream. She lunged forward on her stilettos, raising her right hand high in the air, aiming a vicious slap right at Gene's cheek.

Gene's eyes narrowed. Her muscles coiled instantly. She planted her feet, ready to dodge and strike back.

But before she could move, a large, powerful hand shot out from her periphery.

The hand clamped down around Blair's wrist in mid-air, stopping the slap dead in its tracks.

Gene turned her head in surprise. It was Alvie. He had been standing silently near the entryway the entire time.

Alvie's jaw was clenched so tight the muscles ticked. The veins on the back of his hand bulged as he shoved Blair's arm away with brutal force. Blair stumbled backward, her heels skidding on the rug.

"Are you out of your mind? !" Eleanor gasped, clutching her chest. "You're attacking your own sister for this outsider?"

Alvie's breathing was erratic. The terrifying images from his dream-the stock plummeting, his life ruined after Gene left him-flashed behind his eyes.

"She is my wife," Alvie yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "She is not an outsider!"

Eleanor and Blair stared at him like he had lost his mind.

Gene narrowed her eyes. Her internal alarms were blaring. This wasn't love. This was a sick, twisted form of control.

Alvie turned to Gene. He reached out, trying to place his hand on the small of her back, attempting to play the role of the protective husband in front of the crowd.

Gene sidestepped him immediately. She didn't try to hide her revulsion.

Alvie's hand hung suspended in the empty air. His face flushed with a mix of deep embarrassment and rising anger. He gritted his teeth and shot a lethal glare at Blair.

Blair cradled her wrist, her eyes welling with angry tears. She opened her mouth to scream again.

Suddenly, the heavy, measured sound of footsteps echoed from the grand entryway.

The chaotic living room instantly fell into a suffocating silence. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Everyone froze, their eyes fixed on the arched doorway.

The heavy footsteps stopped. A tall, imposing figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the living room.

Donte Gallagher.

He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the lean, predatory grace of his movements. He was the undisputed head of the Gallagher empire.

His piercing, hawk-like gaze swept over the frozen room. The temperature in the space seemed to drop ten degrees.

Eleanor instantly dropped her furious posture. She pasted on a strained, overly polite smile and hurried forward.

"Donte," she greeted him, her voice tight with forced respect.

Blair shrank back against the sofa, trying to make herself as small as possible. The spoiled brat vanished, replaced by a terrified child.

Alvie straightened his spine the moment he saw his uncle. A flash of deep-seated fear, mixed with bitter jealousy, crossed his face.

Gene stood her ground. She didn't look away. Her eyes met Donte's across the room. His deep, fathomless gaze felt like it was stripping away her armor, seeing straight into the core of her anger.

Donte's eyes flicked over her sharp black suit. For a fraction of a second, a dark gleam of approval flashed in his eyes, so fast Gene thought she imagined it. His face remained an unreadable mask.

He walked slowly to the main armchair and sat down. He crossed his long legs, resting his large hands casually on his knee.

"What is all this screaming about?" Donte's voice was a low, resonant rumble that demanded absolute submission.

Eleanor immediately seized the opportunity. "It's Gene," she lied smoothly. "She has no respect for the rules of this house. She insulted Blair and then tried to physically attack her."

Alvie opened his mouth, wanting to defend Gene to prove his new devotion, but one cold glance from Donte made him snap his jaw shut. He swallowed hard and looked at the floor.

Donte ignored Eleanor completely. He shifted his gaze to Gene.

"Do you have anything to say?" he asked, his tone flat.

Gene held his stare. "Blair insulted me first. Then she tried to slap me. I was simply defending myself."

Blair, feeling emboldened by Donte's neutral tone, decided to play the victim.

"That's a lie!" Blair cried out. Just as a maid approached with a silver tray to refill Eleanor's cup, Blair reached out and snatched a freshly poured cup of scalding hot black tea right off the platter. "I was just trying to offer her some tea to calm her down!"

Blair took two steps toward Gene, holding the hot porcelain cup. As she got close, she deliberately twisted her ankle. She thrust the cup forward, aiming the boiling liquid directly at Gene's arm.

Gene's senses, heightened by the trauma of her past life, caught the malicious glint in Blair's eyes a second before she moved.

Gene didn't step back. She stepped in.

Her left hand shot out, her fingers wrapping like a vice around Blair's wrist. Using Blair's own forward momentum, Gene twisted her wrist and shoved it downward.

The scalding tea splashed violently out of the cup. It missed Gene entirely and soaked directly into the expensive silk of Blair's dress, right over her thigh.

Blair let out a blood-curdling shriek. She dropped the cup-it shattered on the floor-and collapsed onto the rug, clutching her red, burning leg. Tears streamed down her face.

Eleanor screamed and dropped to her knees beside her daughter. The maids rushed in with cold towels. The room erupted into chaos.

Alvie stared at Gene, his mouth slightly open. He was too shocked by her brutal efficiency to even move.

Gene released Blair's wrist, letting her arm drop. She looked down at the sobbing girl.

"Next time you try something," Gene whispered, loud enough only for Blair to hear, "it won't just be hot tea."

Gene turned around, fully expecting the wrath of the family patriarch to crash down on her.

But Donte wasn't angry. He was staring at her. His dark eyes were locked onto her face, and his Adam's apple bobbed once against his throat.

He stood up slowly. The sheer physical presence of the man made the air in the room feel heavy. He walked toward Gene, stopping only when he was inches away. She could smell the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood radiating from his skin.

He looked down at her.

"Good reflexes," Donte murmured. His voice was low, rough, and completely devoid of reprimand.

The words hit the room like a bomb. Blair stopped sobbing. Eleanor froze with a towel in her hand. They stared at Donte in absolute disbelief.

Alvie's face turned a sickly shade of pale. The fact that his terrifying uncle was praising his wife made his stomach twist with a sickening insecurity.

Gene frowned slightly. She looked up at Donte, her guard instantly rising. This man was dangerous.

Donte didn't look at anyone else. He ordered the butler to call the family doctor, then turned and walked toward the grand staircase leading to his study.

As his foot hit the first step, Donte turned his head slightly. From the corner of his eye, he looked back at the woman standing tall amidst the chaos. A faint, hidden smirk touched the corner of his mouth before he disappeared upstairs.