Reborn Heiress: Taming My Ruthless CEO

Freezing rain lashed against the marble headstones of the Sterling City cemetery.

Three black, bulletproof SUVs rammed through the rusted iron gates. The metal shrieked, giving way to the heavy vehicles that tore up the muddy main path.

Corbin Mendez stepped out of the lead vehicle. He wore a tailored black trench coat. His expensive leather shoes sank into a puddle, splashing freezing mud over his cuffs. He didn't blink.

Alex Stone hurried to his side, opening a large black umbrella to shield him from the downpour.

Corbin shoved him away. The motion was violent, sending Alex stumbling back.

Corbin walked straight toward the mausoleum of Alana Lamb. His eyes were entirely bloodshot, the vessels broken and stark against his pale skin.

The groundskeeper ran forward, waving his flashlight and shouting. Two of Corbin's bodyguards slammed the man face-first into the mud. The wet thud of the impact was swallowed by the thunder.

Corbin stood before the heavy stone doors of the tomb. He pointed a shaking finger at the stone cross carved into the center.

"Break it down," Corbin ordered. His voice was a guttural rasp, stripped of any humanity.

Three men stepped forward with sledgehammers. They swung. The heavy iron heads crashed into the stone. A dull, sickening crack echoed through the graveyard.

Hovering near the ceiling of the tomb, the translucent soul of Alana Lamb watched. Her non-existent heart seized. She stared down at the man she had spent her entire life despising.

The stone doors crumbled, collapsing inward with a deafening roar.

Corbin didn't wait for the dust to settle. He walked into the damp, dark chamber.

He stopped in front of the cold, ebony casket. His broad shoulders hitched. He reached out, his large hands trembling violently as his fingertips traced the polished wood of the lid.

Alex stood at the ruined entrance. "Sir, please. The entire city will be after us for this. We have to leave."

Corbin pulled the heavy pistol from his waistband. He flicked off the safety, turned, and fired a single shot into the stone floor, an inch from Alex's foot.

The gunshot deafened the small space.

Alana's soul flinched, a phantom shudder ripping through her. His madness terrified her. It always had.

Corbin dropped the gun. He dug his bare fingers into the seam of the heavy casket lid. He pushed. The veins in his neck bulged. His fingernails cracked under the pressure, splitting down the middle. Blood welled up, smearing against the dark wood.

The lid slid off and crashed to the floor.

Corbin looked down. He saw her. Alana's lifeless, pale body resting on the white satin.

His massive frame collapsed. His knees hit the hard stone floor with a bone-jarring thud.

He reached in with his bleeding, ruined fingers. He carefully, reverently, cupped her freezing cheeks.

He leaned down. He pressed his lips against her dry, dead mouth. The kiss was desperately gentle, a stark contrast to the monster he was known to be.

Alana's soul watched from above. An invisible hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing until she felt she might suffocate all over again.

"My love," Corbin whispered against her dead lips. His voice broke. "I'm too late."

He turned his head toward the door. The grief in his eyes vanished, replaced by the hollow, dead stare of a demon.

"Kill them all," Corbin commanded Alex. "Every single person who pushed her to this. Wipe them off the earth."

Alex swallowed hard, nodded, and backed away. He pulled the heavy doors shut as best he could, leaving Corbin alone in the tomb.

Corbin reached into the pocket of his wet trench coat. He pulled out a transparent, unmarked pill bottle. It was filled to the brim with white opioid tablets.

Alana's soul screamed. She dove toward him, throwing her hands out to swat the bottle away. Her fingers passed right through his solid chest.

Corbin popped the cap. He tipped the bottle back and poured the entire contents into his mouth. He didn't have water. He just swallowed, his throat working hard to force the lethal dose down.

He climbed into the casket. He lay down beside her cold body and pulled her into his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, burying his face in her hair.

He closed his eyes.

Minutes passed. The violent shivering in his body slowed. His breathing turned shallow, then stopped completely. A faint, peaceful smile rested on his lips.

Alana let out a wail of pure agony. The regret tore through her soul, ripping her apart piece by piece.

A blinding, piercing white light erupted from the center of her chest, swallowing the tomb, the casket, and the dead man who loved her.

The blinding white light shattered into a million pieces.

Alana's eyes snapped open. She gasped, sucking in a massive, desperate breath of air. Her lungs burned.

She wasn't floating in a freezing tomb. Her back was pressed against a soft, silk mattress.

Heavy blackout curtains blocked the windows, but a thin sliver of Sterling City's morning light bled through the gap.

Alana turned her head. Her vision was blurry, but she could make out the massive expanse of a man's bare back lying next to her.

The scent of cedarwood mixed with a faint trace of tobacco hit her nose.

Her brain misfired. A second ago, she was watching Corbin swallow a lethal dose of pills. She had watched him die.

Her hand shook as she reached out. She needed to know if this was a hallucination. She needed to feel him.

Her fingertips brushed the warm, solid skin of his shoulder.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Corbin's body jerked as if he had been struck by lightning. His muscles locked, turning to stone.

He spun around with terrifying speed. His large body lunged over hers, pinning her flat against the mattress.

His large hand clamped down around her throat.

His eyes were wide, empty, and entirely black. There was no recognition in them. Only the pure, violent defense mechanism of a man suffering from severe Complex PTSD.

His grip tightened. The air supply to Alana's lungs was cut off.

In her past life, she would have screamed. She would have clawed at his face and called him a monster.

This time, she didn't fight. She didn't move her hands.

She just looked up at him. Her eyes filled with hot tears. They weren't tears of fear. They were tears of absolute, crushing pity.

Corbin's chest heaved. His pupils slowly contracted. The fog of his trauma began to clear, and his vision focused on the face beneath him.

He saw Alana. He saw his hand wrapped around her delicate neck.

The emptiness in his eyes shattered, instantly replaced by raw panic and deep, sickening self-loathing.

He snatched his hand back as if her skin had burned him to the bone. He threw himself backward, scrambling to the edge of the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his back to her, gasping for air.

Alana rubbed her throat. She coughed twice, a quiet, raspy sound. A single tear slipped down her cheek and soaked into the pillow.

Corbin heard the cough. He squeezed his eyes shut. He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair, pulling hard. He cursed himself in a harsh, broken whisper.

He waited for it. He waited for the inevitable. The disgust in her eyes, the flinching withdrawal, the silence that screamed louder than any accusation.

Alana sat up slowly. She didn't speak. She just stared at the violent trembling taking over his broad shoulders.

She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. The date flashed in red numbers. It was exactly two years ago.

A wave of intense, overwhelming relief crashed into her ribs. She was alive. She was back.

Alana threw the heavy duvet off her legs. She didn't hesitate. She crawled across the mattress toward the edge where he sat.

Corbin felt the mattress dip behind him. His spine went rigid.

"Don't come near me," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl meant to keep her safe from him.

Alana ignored the warning. She closed the distance. She wrapped her slender arms around his thick torso from behind, pressing her chest flat against his tense back.

Corbin flinched violently. He froze, completely paralyzed.

Alana rested her cheek between his shoulder blades.

"Corbin," she whispered.

Her voice was soft. It wasn't laced with venom or hatred. It was a potent, immediate sedative injected straight into his frayed nerves.

Corbin slowly turned his head. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide with disbelief, staring at her as if she were a dream that was about to turn into a nightmare.

Corbin looked down at the pale, slender arms wrapped tightly around his waist. His breathing grew heavy, the sound ragged in the quiet room.

His eyes locked onto her left wrist. A faint red bruise was forming there-a mark from how hard she had struggled against him last night when he forced her to stay in this room.

The sight of the bruise triggered a sick twist in his gut. His paranoia flared, hot and suffocating. She hated him. She had always hated him. This sudden affection was a lie. It was a tactic to get him to lower his guard so she could run.

Corbin grabbed her wrists. His grip was entirely too tight, his fingers digging into her skin. Alana winced, her brows pulling together.

He ripped her arms away from his body. He stood up abruptly, putting three feet of physical distance between them.

Alana looked up at him, confused. She opened her mouth to explain, to tell him she wasn't going anywhere, but the words wouldn't form.

Her silence was all the proof he needed. To him, it was the silence of a liar caught in the act. It was disgust.

Corbin let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. He bent down, snatched his discarded dress shirt off the floor, and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

He turned his back to her. His posture shifted, the vulnerable man vanishing, replaced instantly by the ruthless, cold CEO of the Mendez Empire.

"Don't play these pathetic games with me, Alana," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "It won't work."

He didn't wait for her to respond. He walked out of the bedroom with long, angry strides.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him. The impact shook the walls and rattled the glass in the windows.

Alana sat alone in the center of the massive, messy bed. She let out a long, slow breath.

She couldn't blame him. Healing a man with a mind as fractured and paranoid as Corbin's wasn't going to happen with one hug. It would take time.

And now, she had all the time in the world.

Alana slid off the bed. Her bare feet sank into the expensive Persian rug. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the corner of the room.

She stared at her reflection. Her face was young, pale, and breathtakingly beautiful. The hollow, sickly, dying woman from her past life was gone. But marring the flawless skin of her neck were stark, dark purple bruises forming in the shape of a man's large fingers. The physical evidence of Corbin's violent, traumatized mind was undeniable, a brutal reminder of how close she had just come to having her neck snapped.

Looking at her own face brought the memories rushing back. The fake, sympathetic smile of her stepmother, Euphemia. The cruel, mocking laughter of her stepsister, Jessica.

A cold, sharp hatred sliced through her chest. Her eyes darkened, turning into chips of ice.

Suddenly, a string of glowing blue numbers flashed across her retinas.

Alana gasped and closed her eyes. Deep within her consciousness, a vast, futuristic, digital storage space materialized.

It was The Cache. The surreal system she had accidentally awakened in the final, desperate moments of her past life, right before it was too late to use it.

She focused her mind. She visualized the medical shelf and reached out to a small vial labeled 'Basic Stamina Recovery'.

She opened her eyes.

A heavy glass vial filled with glowing blue liquid was sitting perfectly in the palm of her hand.

Alana popped the cork. She brought the vial to her lips and swallowed the liquid in one gulp.

Instantly, the chronic tightness in her chest vanished. The heavy, lethargic fatigue that had plagued her body for years evaporated. Her lungs expanded fully.

She stared at the empty vial, a dangerous smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She wasn't the weak, sickly orphan anymore. She had the ultimate advantage.

Alana walked over to the nightstand and picked up her phone. She tapped the screen to check the calendar.

Tonight was the Knox family's annual charity gala.

In her past life, tonight was the night Jessica had set her up, ruining her reputation in front of Sterling City's elite.

Alana tossed the phone onto the bed. She turned and walked toward the massive walk-in closet. It was time to get dressed. She had a gift to deliver to her enemies.