Reborn Heiress: The Tyrant's Secret Obsession

The icy rain of the Seattle storm sliced through the night, but Bryn Callahan couldn't feel the cold.

She hovered in the air, a translucent soul staring down at the fresh granite tombstone. It had only been three days since they put her in the ground.

She reached out. She tried to trace the carved letters of her own name on the wet stone. Her pale, see-through fingertips passed right through the solid granite, grasping nothing but empty air.

A violent wave of resentment twisted in her nonexistent stomach. She felt an overwhelming surge of helplessness, a bitter realization that she was nothing more than a powerless spectator to her own tragic aftermath.

She closed her eyes and saw the edge of the cliff. She felt Keifer's hands-the hands she had held a thousand times-shoving her hard against the chest.

She clutched her chest now, her breathing ragged even though she had no lungs. Fabiola's mocking laughter echoed in her ears, the sound of her adopted sister standing on that cliff, telling Bryn she died with absolutely nothing.

A heavy engine roared in the distance.

Two blinding beams of light tore through the darkness of the cemetery. Bryn's head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed through the thick curtain of rain.

A black Maybach idled aggressively outside the wrought-iron gates.

The driver's door flew open. A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped straight into the thick mud. He didn't even bother with an umbrella.

Lightning flashed. The harsh white light illuminated his sharp jawline and his bloodshot, furious eyes.

Dominic Hutchinson.

Bryn floated backward, her mind spinning. Dominic was the tyrant of her high school, the boy who made it his mission to make her life a living hell. Why was he here?

Dominic marched straight toward her grave. He didn't pause to mourn. He didn't bow his head. He walked to the trunk of his car and pulled out a heavy steel shovel.

Bryn screamed at him. She demanded to know if he hated her so much that he had to desecrate her grave.

A crack of thunder drowned out her voice entirely.

Dominic raised the shovel high above his head. He drove the metal blade violently into the fresh turf in front of her headstone. Mud splattered across his expensive, custom-tailored suit.

He dug like a madman. He didn't speak. His chest heaved with every brutal thrust of the shovel into the earth.

Bryn threw herself at him. She tried to grab the wooden handle of the shovel, but her body phased right through his solid forearms. She could only watch as he destroyed her final resting place.

Rainwater poured down Dominic's pale face. His perfectly styled black hair was plastered to his forehead in a messy, chaotic tangle. He looked completely feral.

The metal shovel struck the concrete burial vault with a sickening scrape.

Dominic threw the shovel aside. He dropped to his knees in the pooling water. He didn't care about the filth. He used his bare hands to claw at the sharp rocks and heavy dirt burying the edges of the vault.

The jagged stones tore at his cuticles. Blood seeped from under his fingernails, dripping into the muddy water on top of the concrete.

Bryn stopped fighting. She floated in the air, completely paralyzed by the sight of his self-mutilation. A strange, creeping confusion settled in her chest.

Dominic locked his jaw. The veins in his thick forearms bulged against his skin. With a guttural grunt, he ripped the heavy concrete cover off the vault.

Freezing rain instantly flooded into the dark hole, soaking the cold metal urn resting at the bottom.

Dominic froze. His broad shoulders stopped moving. He stared down at the metal container, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks.

Bryn hovered above him, her arms crossed. She waited for him to grab the urn and dump her ashes into the mud just to spite her.

Instead, Dominic's knees gave out. He slumped forward, his body hitting the edge of the muddy grave.

His bleeding, trembling hands reached down into the dark water. He touched the metal urn with a sickeningly gentle hesitation, as if he were handling a fragile piece of glass.

He pulled the heavy urn out of the water and slammed it against his chest. He wrapped his arms around the cold metal, hugging it so tightly his knuckles turned completely white.

A raw, animalistic sob ripped its way out of his throat. The sound was so broken it cut straight through the noise of the storm.

Bryn flinched. Her soul physically shook. She stared in absolute disbelief at the arrogant, untouchable boy who ruled their school. Was he crying tears of joy? Did he hate her so deeply that her death brought him this much overwhelming relief? The thought that he would go to such lengths just to celebrate his ultimate victory over her made her nonexistent stomach churn.

Dominic buried his face against the wet metal. Hot, thick tears poured from his eyes, mixing with the rain and falling directly onto the brass nameplate that read Bryn Callahan.

He slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes, usually so full of cruel mockery, were now hollowed out by a world-ending despair. He stared blankly into the empty night.

Dominic rested his chin against the top of the freezing urn, desperately trying to warm the cold metal with his own body heat. But the biting chill only served as a brutal reminder that she was truly gone. The overwhelming, suffocating despair inside him rapidly twisted into a towering, violent rage. A low, raspy growl vibrated in his throat, a sound that felt like a curse against the entire universe.

Bryn drifted down until she was right in front of him. Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch his wet cheek, but her fingers only caught the cold rain.

Two blinding police spotlights swept across the cemetery entrance. The screech of tires skidding on wet asphalt pierced the night.

Dominic's vulnerable expression vanished in a fraction of a second. His eyes turned as hard and dead as frozen soil.

He kept one arm wrapped protectively around the urn, holding it tight against his heart. He planted his other hand in the mud and pushed himself up. He rose slowly, his massive frame blocking the rain, radiating pure hostility.

A black FBI SUV and a sleek sedan slammed on their brakes outside the gates. Car doors flew open.

Keifer Holcomb jumped out of the sedan. He held a large black umbrella, his other arm wrapped tightly around a small, shivering figure covered in a silver emergency blanket.

Bryn's pupils dilated. The girl hiding against Keifer's chest was Fabiola. The very person who planned her murder.

Keifer saw the destroyed grave. He saw the urn in Dominic's arms. His face turned purple with rage as he screamed into the rain.

He called Dominic a sick freak. He yelled that Dominic was stripping away the peace of the dead, demanding he put the ashes down immediately.

Dominic let out a dark, humorless laugh. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a cruel smirk. His eyes sliced across Keifer's face like razor blades.

Fabiola let out a fake, dramatic gasp. She buried her face in Keifer's chest and sobbed, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

She begged Dominic not to hurt her sister's remains. Her voice cracked perfectly as she cried that Bryn had already suffered enough.

Bryn floated in the air, her fists clenched so tight her nails would have drawn blood if she had a body. She wanted to rip Fabiola's lying tongue right out of her mouth.

Dominic ignored the pathetic performance. He reached inside his ruined suit jacket with his free hand and pulled out a thick, waterproof evidence bag. "My father's private security team hasn't slept for three days," he stated, his voice dripping with venom.

He threw it hard. The heavy plastic bag smacked directly against Keifer's chest and dropped into the mud. Inside were stacks of suspicious bank transfer logs and grainy security camera printouts.

A few photos slid to the top of the clear bag. They clearly showed Fabiola's face as she met with a known black-market forger on the exact day of Bryn's death.

Keifer looked down. His eyes locked onto the photos. His breath hitched, and he instinctively glanced down at Fabiola.

All the color drained from Fabiola's face. She immediately dug her fingers into Keifer's arm, crying hysterically that the photos were photoshopped.

She pointed a shaking finger at Dominic. She accused him of framing her, the poor surviving victim, just so he could steal Bryn's massive inheritance.

Keifer looked down at the damning evidence, his heart sinking like a stone. But almost immediately, a far more terrifying thought hijacked his brain: if he admitted Fabiola was a liar, he would be admitting to the entire world that he was a gullible idiot who got played by a teenage girl. No. That was impossible. Keifer's massive ego could never accept that he had been played for a fool. He tightened his grip on Fabiola, desperately choosing to believe his perfect angel over his own eyes.

He took a step forward. He tilted his chin up, arrogantly mocking Dominic for being a pathetic loser who could never get Bryn to look his way.

"She loved me!" Keifer shouted over the rain. "You doing this is just pathetic jealousy!"

The words hit Dominic's chest like a physical blow. His arm tightened around the urn so fiercely his muscles shook.

Bryn shook her head frantically. She screamed at Keifer that she never loved a murderer, but her voice was silent in the wind.

Dominic sucked in a sharp breath of freezing air. He forced his muscles to relax, suppressing the urge to tear Keifer's throat out with his bare hands. His eyes went completely blank.

He stated, his voice dangerously calm, that he wasn't going to let them die easily. He was going to make them watch as they lost absolutely everything.

Dominic turned his back on them. He walked toward his Maybach, projecting an aura of absolute arrogance. He opened the passenger door and placed the urn onto the leather seat with agonizing care.

He got in and started the engine. The Maybach roared like a beast, the tires spinning and kicking a massive wave of dirty mud all over Keifer and Fabiola's legs.

Bryn didn't hesitate. She phased right through the metal door and sat in the passenger seat, right next to the cold urn that held her own ashes.

Three months later, the neon lights of Times Square bled through Bryn's transparent form. She floated in front of a massive jumbotron, staring at the breaking news ticker.

On the screen, Keifer walked out of a federal courthouse. His hands were cuffed in front of him. His perfectly styled hair was a greasy mess, and his handsome face was pale with absolute terror.

The news anchor's voice announced that the Holcomb family had all their assets seized by the federal government due to massive tax fraud and perjury charges.

The screen cut to a new image. Fabiola stood in a courtroom wearing an orange jumpsuit. She looked exhausted, her face devoid of makeup, facing life in prison for wire fraud and conspiracy to commit murder across state lines.

A rush of pure adrenaline hit Bryn's chest. The revenge felt good, but a hollow, freezing emptiness quickly followed.

She realized Dominic hadn't been in the news. He hadn't appeared anywhere in the last three months. A sickening panic gripped her throat.

The giant screen flickered. A violent, invisible force grabbed Bryn's soul and yanked her backward.

She slammed back into reality, standing in the middle of the Pine Grove Cemetery in Seattle. The storm was gone. The sun beat down on her back.

Her grave had been completely rebuilt. The new, massive headstone was surrounded by hundreds of fresh white lisianthus flowers.

Dominic stood quietly in front of the stone. He was wearing a pristine, perfectly tailored white tuxedo.

His hair was combed back flawlessly. A diamond brooch caught the sunlight on his lapel. He looked like a man about to walk down the aisle.

Bryn dropped to the grass in front of him. She looked up at his face. His skin was ashen, completely drained of blood. Her heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice.

Dominic slowly crouched down. His long fingers reached out and gently traced the porcelain photo of Bryn on the headstone. A soft, genuine smile touched his lips.

He whispered to the stone. He told her it was finally over. The people who hurt her were rotting in hell, and now, he could finally come pick her up.

Bryn's eyes went wide. Panic exploded in her chest. She waved her hands frantically, screaming at him to stop, begging him to just live his life.

Dominic reached into the pocket of his white jacket. He pulled out a silver surgical scalpel. The sharp blade gleamed in the bright sunlight.

He didn't hesitate for a single second. He pressed the blade hard against the radial artery of his left wrist and pulled.

Bright red blood sprayed through the air. It splattered across the pure white fabric of his tuxedo, blooming like crushed red roses in the snow.

Bryn let out a blood-curdling scream. She threw herself at his arm, trying to press her hands against the open wound, but her ghostly fingers slipped right through the hot blood.

Dominic slumped backward. He leaned heavily against the granite headstone. He didn't try to stop the bleeding. He just let his life drain away, his dark eyes fixed tenderly on her carved name.

He used the very last ounce of his strength to lean forward. He pressed his pale lips against the cold stone, leaving a bloody kiss right above her name.

Bryn fell to her knees beside him, sobbing uncontrollably. The truth hit her with the force of a freight train. This man had loved her with his entire life.

Dominic's chest stopped moving. Those aggressive, hostile eyes slowly fluttered shut, leaving behind a face of total peace.

The moment his heart stopped, the air around Bryn violently warped. A sickening vertigo twisted her stomach inside out.

A blinding white light swallowed the cemetery. It swallowed Dominic's bleeding body. It swallowed her soul.

A sharp, high-pitched ringing pierced her ears. Bryn gasped for air and snapped her eyes open.

She wasn't floating. The soles of her shoes were planted firmly on a hard linoleum floor. Her back was pressed tight against a row of freezing metal lockers.

The deafening noise of high school teenagers shouting and slamming doors hit her eardrums. The air smelled like cheap body spray and industrial bleach.

Bryn held up her hands. They were solid. Her skin was warm. Around her right wrist was the braided lucky bracelet she used to wear when she was sixteen.

She whipped her head to the side and stared at the digital clock mounted on the brick wall. The red numbers glared back at her: September 14, 2018. 8:15 AM.

She was back in high school. Three years before she died. The gears of fate had just violently shifted into reverse.