Reborn Heiress: Reclaiming My Monster Billionaire

The pain didn't roll in. It detonated.

A solid, white-hot wall of agony slammed into Ginny all at once, ripping a wet, shredded gasp from the back of her throat. Her spine arched against the concrete pillar, every nerve screaming before her brain could even name the source.

She yanked at the restraints. Rusted iron chains, thick as her thumbs, bit deep into the delicate skin of her wrists. The metal ground wetly against bone. Blood, warm and slick, pulsed down her forearms.

She was pinned upright in the gutted heart of an abandoned industrial warehouse. Shattered skylights yawned overhead. The air hung thick and stale, layered with the stench of cold motor oil, damp rot, and the copper tang of her own blood pooling at her feet.

Ginny forced her eyes open. A thick, warm drip crawled from her hairline, past her brow, stinging her lashes and smearing her vision into a crimson blur.

Through that red fog, a silhouette emerged.

The sharp, deliberate click of designer stilettos struck the concrete like hammer taps. Coretta glided into the pale shaft of moonlight bleeding through the broken roof. She wore a pristine cream haute couture trench coat, the fabric liquid and flawless. Not a single mote of dust dared cling to it. Her golden hair was swept into an immaculate chignon. Her mouth curved into a soft, angelic smile-the exact same one she used while posing for photographs at charity galas.

Coretta stopped directly in front of her. That melodic, practiced laugh spilled from her glossed lips.

Then, without a flicker of hesitation, she lifted one foot and drove the needle-sharp heel of her stiletto straight down onto Ginny's right hand.

Bones crunched. The sound was sickeningly wet and loud in the cavernous emptiness.

Ginny's jaw locked. Her teeth clamped together with such brutal force that blood flooded her gums. She refused to scream. Not a single sound. Her vision swam, black spots dancing, but she held Coretta's gaze. She stared up at the woman she had called her sister for ten years. The mask of the devoted, perfect sibling had dissolved entirely, revealing the twisted, ugly sneer beneath.

Coretta crouched. The pristine hem of her coat skimmed the filth-slick floor. She pulled a hunting knife from her pocket. The blade gleamed dull and cold. She pressed the flat of the steel against Ginny's cheek, letting the chill seep into her skin.

"Still playing the tough girl, Ginny?" Coretta whispered, her voice a silken hiss.

Ginny jerked her head away and thrashed against the pillar. The chains shrieked, clattering off the corrugated metal walls. The iron teeth sank deeper, carving raw furrows into her wrists. Blood slid hot and fast down her arms. She couldn't break free.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the blackness behind Coretta.

A man stepped into the murky light. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders. A silver lighter glinted in his hand as he raised it to his mouth and lit a thick cigar. The orange ember flared, illuminating a sharp, angular jaw and cold, empty eyes.

Brant.

Ginny's stomach dropped like a stone. All the air left her lungs in a single, violent rush. Her chest constricted so savagely she thought her ribs might splinter. This was the man she was supposed to marry. The man she loved.

Brant walked forward. He didn't spare her a glance. His arm coiled around Coretta's waist, yanking her flush against his chest. He lowered his head and captured her mouth in a deep, ravenous kiss.

Ginny's throat sealed shut. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't look away.

Brant pulled back from Coretta and finally, leisurely, turned his gaze down to Ginny. His eyes were flat. Utterly devoid of anything resembling human feeling.

"I only needed the core code, Ginny," he said. His voice was steady, businesslike. "You were the key to the vault. Nothing more."

The words hit her harder than the chains, harder than the shattered bones in her hand. Her breath hitched, ragged and broken. Scalding tears flooded her eyes, spilling over her lashes, carving pale tracks through the blood smeared on her cheeks. They dripped off her chin, staining the torn fabric of her shirt.

Coretta tracked the tears. Her jaw tightened. The smug satisfaction in her eyes curdled into something uglier-a sharp, venomous jealousy. Even beaten, drenched in blood, and chained like an animal, Ginny still possessed that face. The kind of face that made men stop breathing.

Coretta's grip on the knife whitened her knuckles.

She slashed downward in a single, vicious arc.

The razor edge split the skin of Ginny's left cheek from cheekbone to jaw. The wound gaped open, a dark, wet mouth that instantly gushed hot blood. It sheeted down her neck, soaking into her collar.

The physical shock severed the emotional cord in Ginny's chest. The tears stopped cold.

Ginny looked at Coretta. A low, rasping vibration started deep in her throat. It grew, swelling into a hollow, echoing laugh that bounced off the steel walls. It was a chilling sound. Utterly unhinged.

Coretta's face flushed a violent, mottled red. She pulled back her arm and slapped Ginny hard across the face. The crack echoed. Ginny's head snapped sideways, blood spraying from her split lip.

Brant vanished into the shadows. He returned seconds later, a heavy red plastic jug swinging from his hand. He set it down beside Coretta without a word.

Coretta unscrewed the black cap. She hoisted the jug and tilted it forward.

A thick, amber cascade splashed over Ginny's head. It plastered her dark hair to her scalp, flooded into her eyes, soaked through her clothes. The sharp, chemical reek of gasoline scorched her nostrils, flooded her throat, made her gag and choke.

Coretta dropped the empty jug. It bounced hollowly on the concrete.

Brant plucked the cigar from his mouth. He pulled a heavy windproof metal lighter from his pocket and flicked the lid open with his thumb.

A bright, thin blue flame shot up.

He didn't pause. He tossed the lighter onto the gasoline-soaked floor at Ginny's feet.

The ignition was instant. A roaring wall of orange fire erupted upward with a deafening whoosh. The heat slammed into Ginny's face like a physical fist.

Coretta and Brant turned their backs. Their laughter floated back, thin and musical, barely audible over the roar of the flames. The heavy iron exit doors boomed shut. The deadbolt clanked into place.

The fire slithered up Ginny's legs. The cheap fabric of her pants melted and fused into her blistering skin. The agony was absolute. It erased every other sensation. Her flesh sizzled and cracked. The cloying, sweet-rotten stench of her own burning body filled her nostrils.

She threw her head back, throat straining, and stared up through the shattered skylight. Black smoke coiled upward, swallowing the cold pinpricks of stars.

If I get another life, the thought branded itself into her dying mind, I will tear you both apart. Piece by piece.

The superheated air seared her windpipe. Her lungs seized. No more oxygen.

The flames climbed higher, swallowing her chest, her throat, her face. Her vision collapsed into absolute black.

Her heart slammed against her ribs one final, violent time. Then, it stopped.

The blistering heat vanished. The crushing weight of the chains dissolved. A strange, featherlight buoyancy lifted her.

Ginny looked down. She was floating ten feet above the concrete floor, suspended in the thick, black smoke, staring at her own charred, burning body.

Ginny hovered near the warehouse ceiling, tangled in the churning, black smoke. Below her, her physical body was fully engulfed. Roaring orange flames licked at blackened, splitting flesh. She felt no heat. No pain. Just a hollow, ringing silence where sensation should have been.

A thin, distant wail threaded through the crackle of the fire. Sirens. Fire trucks. Police. Too far. Much too far.

Then a deeper, more savage roar swallowed the sirens whole.

A massive black armored SUV plowed through the locked iron doors. The heavy metal buckled and tore off their hinges with a shriek, spinning into the flames. The vehicle skidded across the concrete, tires screaming, and slammed to a halt just yards from the blazing wall of fire.

Before the SUV fully stopped, the driver's door was kicked open with brutal force.

Bedford Parks hurled himself out of the vehicle. His surveillance team had flagged a suspicious offshore cleanup payment an hour ago, pinging Brant's encrypted burner. The signal led straight to this abandoned industrial graveyard. He was seconds late. Seconds.

Two large men in tactical gear scrambled from the back doors. One lunged forward, locking his arms around Bedford's chest, boots skidding on the concrete.

"Mr. Parks! You can't-!"

Bedford spun. His face was a bloodless mask of pure, feral insanity. His dark eyes were blown wide, unhinged. He reached to his waist, drew a black handgun, and rammed the barrel hard under the bodyguard's chin. The man froze. Slowly, he raised his hands and stumbled backward.

Bedford didn't waste a breath. He turned and sprinted directly into the wall of fire.

Suspended near the ceiling, Ginny's soul convulsed. She stared down, paralyzed with shock. Bedford Parks. The silicon monster. Ruthless, cold, pathologically germaphobic. The man who never let anyone touch him.

Now he was running straight into a blazing inferno.

Flames licked at his expensive tailored suit. The fabric smoked and curled. He didn't flinch. He didn't slow. He reached the concrete pillar and dropped to his knees on the blistering floor. His hands reached out, and he gathered her charred, smoking body against his chest.

The sound that tore from his throat made Ginny's soul tremble. A raw, guttural, animal scream ripped from the very bottom of his lungs. It was the sound of something being slaughtered.

He shrugged off his heavy fire-resistant tactical jacket with frantic, jerking movements and wrapped it tight around her ruined form, smothering the flames still eating at her clothes.

High above, the warehouse structure groaned. The intense heat had warped a massive steel support beam. With a sound like a cannon blast, the metal snapped.

Bedford looked up. The burning beam was falling straight toward them.

He didn't try to run. He didn't roll aside. He threw his body over hers, broad shoulders curling inward, forming a human shield over her remains.

The heavy steel beam slammed into the center of his back.

The sickening crunch of his spine snapping echoed over the roar of the fire.

Bedford's body jerked violently. A great spray of dark red blood burst from his mouth, splattering across the concrete and the jacket wrapped around Ginny. His arms didn't loosen. He locked every muscle, holding his weight suspended so the beam wouldn't crush her.

Ginny screamed-a silent, soul-rending shriek-and dove downward, arms outstretched to grab him, to pull him away.

Her transparent hands passed straight through his broad, bleeding shoulders. She clutched at nothing. She was nothing.

Bedford's head drooped. His blood-slick cheek pressed against the blackened skin of her forehead. His breathing was wet and shallow.

His lips moved, barely stirring, struggling through the blood filling his throat.

"I love you."

His eyes slid shut. His chest stilled. His last breath sighed out into the superheated air.

Ginny threw her head back and let out another soundless, agonized scream. The pain in her chest was worse than the fire. Worse than the chains. It was a crushing, obliterating weight. She had hated him. She had feared him. And he had just died for her.

Suddenly, the roaring flames froze mid-lick. The black smoke stopped churning.

The space around her twisted and warped. Concrete walls stretched like pulled taffy. An invisible, colossal force seized her and yanked her backward with terrifying velocity.

A blinding, pure white light exploded in front of her eyes, erasing the warehouse, the fire, and Bedford's broken body.

Ginny gasped.

Cold, sharp air rushed into her lungs. Her chest heaved violently, sucking in breath after desperate breath. She snapped her eyes open.

She was staring at the back of a plush, cream-colored leather car seat. The smooth, expensive material was inches from her face. Cold air blasted from the air-conditioning vent, raising goosebumps across her bare arms. She blinked. She lifted her hands.

They were not charred. Not bleeding. The skin was smooth, pale, perfectly unblemished.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped, frantic bird. She pressed her palms flat against the leather seat. Solid. Real. She was alive.

Ginny's hands trembled violently. She raised her shaking fingers to her face and pressed the pads against her cheeks. Smooth skin. No gaping knife wound. No blistered, charred flesh. She dragged her fingertips down to her jaw, her neck, her collarbones. Whole. Unbroken.

She looked down at her lap. She was wearing a cheap, neon-pink sequined slip dress. The scratchy synthetic fabric bit into her thighs. The sight of it sent a cold spike of recognition straight through her skull.

A loud, derisive snort came from the front seat.

Ginny's head snapped up.

In the rearview mirror, the driver-Silas-was staring back at her. His thin lips curled into a sneer. His eyes dragged over her cheap dress with undisguised contempt, the kind of look a man gives a piece of garbage stuck to his shoe. He shook his head slightly and returned his gaze to the road.

Ginny reached up and yanked down the sun visor. She flipped open the vanity mirror.

A clown stared back.

Her face was caked in a thick, chalky mask of cheap foundation three shades too pale. Heavy, smudged black eyeliner ringed her eyes like a raccoon. Her lips were slathered in sticky, neon-pink lipstick that clashed violently with the dress. The whole effect was grotesque. Deliberately grotesque.

The memories slammed into her brain with the force of a physical blow.

She was eighteen again. This was the day she'd been brought from the trailer park to the Steele family estate in Silicon Valley. Coretta had sent a "professional makeup artist" to the motel where Ginny had spent the night. The woman had painted this hideous mask onto her face and handed her this trashy dress, cooing that it was the height of high-society fashion. Ginny, desperate and naive, had believed her. She'd walked into the Steele mansion looking like a cheap streetwalker, and the entire staff-led by Coretta-had laughed her straight out of the room. It had been the opening salvo of her social destruction.

Ginny's hands dropped to her lap. Her fingers curled inward. Manicured nails drove so deep into her palms that the skin split, and a tiny bead of blood welled up.

She closed her eyes. She focused on that sharp, grounding sting. Drew a slow, cold breath deep into her lungs, held it for three heartbeats, and let it hiss out through her teeth. She shoved the burning rage, the phantom heat of the fire, the image of Bedford's blood-streaked face into a tight, locked box at the center of her chest.

When she opened her eyes again, the panic was gone. Her dark irises were flat, cold, and razor-sharp.

She lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles hard against the back of Silas's leather headrest.

"Pull over at the rest stop one mile ahead." Her voice was low, stripped of emotion.

Silas glanced in the rearview mirror and rolled his eyes. "Can't do it. Madam Anjanette's waiting. We're on a schedule."

Ginny leaned forward. She closed the distance until her face was inches from the back of his seat. She let the presence she had cultivated over ten years of cutthroat corporate warfare bleed into the confined space of the car. It was a cold, crushing weight, undeniable and absolute.

"I said," she whispered, her tone dropping into something low and lethal, "pull the car over. Now."

Silas's hands jerked on the steering wheel. A deep frown creased his forehead as his brain scrabbled to process the shift. The whiny, uncertain girl from this morning was gone. In her place sat something cold, heavy, and terrifyingly authoritative. It made no sense. A trailer-park rat shouldn't sound like a CEO who'd buried her enemies. A sudden, icy chill shot down his spine. The fine hairs on his neck stood rigid. He looked again in the mirror. The dress was still ridiculous, but her eyes-her eyes belonged to a killer. The sheer oppressive weight of her stare locked his throat. His survival instincts screamed louder than his pride.

His foot moved without permission. The brake pedal dipped.

The heavy Maybach slowed, tires crunching over gravel as it pulled off the highway and rolled into the parking lot of a public rest stop.

The car barely came to a stop before Ginny shoved the heavy door open. The cheap heels pinched her toes as she stepped out into the blazing California sun, but she didn't stumble. She slammed the door with a solid, final thud and strode briskly toward the low brick restroom building.

Inside the car, Silas slapped the steering wheel and cursed under his breath, wondering what the hell had just crawled into his backseat.

Ginny pushed through the heavy glass door. The cloying scent of cheap pine disinfectant hit her nose. She walked straight to the row of stainless-steel sinks, shoved her hands under the motion-sensor faucet, and let the cold water blast over her skin. She cupped her palms, brought the freezing water up, and splashed it violently onto her face.

She hit the soap dispenser. A glob of pink industrial soap puddled in her hand. She scrubbed. She dug her fingers into her pores, breaking down the thick, greasy foundation, the sticky lipstick. The water swirling into the basin turned a muddy, grayish-pink.

She rinsed. Three times. Until the water ran clear.

Ginny yanked a rough brown paper towel from the dispenser and pressed it hard against her face, soaking up the moisture. She lowered the towel and looked up into the mirror.

Water dripped from her chin. Her skin was scrubbed raw, slightly pink from the friction, but completely clean. Her true face stared back at her.