Reborn Heiress: The Wolf's Vengeance Deal

The rain lashed against the windowpane of the sanitarium, a rhythmic drumming that sounded like nails on a coffin.

Celeste Franco lay paralyzed on the stiff, white sheets.

Her body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead instead of blood.

She tried to lift a finger.

Nothing happened.

Her muscles had atrophied months ago, leaving her a prisoner in her own skin.

The door to her private room creaked open.

Her father, Elmore Franco, walked in.

He didn't look at her face.

He looked at the clipboard in his hand.

He looked at the heart monitor that beeped a steady, monotonous rhythm.

The sound was the only thing proving she was still alive.

"It's time," Elmore said to the air.

He pulled a pen from his breast pocket.

The click of the pen echoed in the silent room.

He signed the paper on the clipboard.

Do Not Resuscitate.

Celeste wanted to scream.

She wanted to thrash, to beg, to ask why.

But her throat was a dry cavern, her vocal cords useless.

Ophelia, her stepmother, stepped out from behind Elmore.

She was wearing Celeste's favorite pearl necklace.

Ophelia leaned over the bed, her perfume cloying and sweet, masking the smell of antiseptic.

"Poor little rich girl," Ophelia whispered.

She smoothed the hair back from Celeste's clammy forehead.

"You really thought it was the car accident, didn't you?"

Celeste's eyes widened, the only part of her that could still move.

"It was the tea, darling," Ophelia murmured, her lips brushing Celeste's ear. "Just like your mother. A slow, tasteless poison. It mimics heart failure beautifully."

Celeste's heart hammered against her ribs.

The monitor began to beep faster.

High-pitched.

Frantic.

Ophelia chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "And you were so blind. So worried about your wedding to Bryce. Did you really think he'd stay faithful? Daniela's boy is already seven years old. And that offshore account Bryce set up with your father's help... your inheritance paid for their little love nest in the Caymans. You paid for everything, you stupid, stupid girl."

The words were like acid, dissolving the last of her illusions. A son. A two-year-old son. The money laundering. It all crashed down on her at once.

"Stop that noise," Elmore snapped.

He reached out and yanked the cord from the wall.

The beeping died.

Silence rushed in, heavy and suffocating.

Celeste's vision began to blur at the edges.

Black spots danced in front of her eyes.

Her lungs burned for air that wouldn't come.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through her fading consciousness.

They killed her mother.

They were killing her.

The darkness swallowed her whole.

And then, she gasped.

Air rushed into her lungs, violent and sudden.

Celeste shot up in bed, her chest heaving.

She clawed at her throat, expecting to feel the phantom tube, the dryness of death.

Her skin was warm.

Her throat was smooth.

She wasn't in the sterile white room.

She was surrounded by silk sheets.

Above her hung a crystal chandelier, catching the morning light in a thousand prisms.

This was a hotel room.

A very expensive hotel room.

Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She looked at her hands.

They weren't wasted and thin.

They were manicured, the skin flush with life.

A phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She grabbed it, her fingers trembling so badly she almost dropped it.

The screen lit up.

September 12th.

Five years ago.

The day of her wedding.

Celeste stared at the date, her breath catching in her throat.

She wasn't dead.

She was back.

A low groan came from the other side of the huge bed.

Celeste froze.

Her blood turned to ice.

She turned her head slowly, the vertebrae in her neck clicking.

A man was lying next to her.

He was sprawled on his stomach, the sheet gathered at his waist.

His back was a landscape of muscle and ink, a large tattoo of a wolf spanning his shoulder blade.

He shifted, rolling onto his back.

Basile Delgado.

The enemy of the Franco family.

The man who would destroy her father's company in three years.

The man everyone called the Wolf of Wall Street.

Memories from her past life-her first life-crashed into her mind.

The night before her wedding.

She had been drugged at her bachelorette party.

She had woken up here.

She had screamed.

She had run out into the hallway wrapped in a sheet, right into a wall of paparazzi.

The scandal had stripped her of her inheritance.

It was the first domino in the line that led to her death in that sanitarium.

Basile opened his eyes.

They were storm-cloud gray, sharp and instantly awake.

There was no drowsiness in his gaze, only a cold, predatory assessment.

He looked at her like she was an intruder.

"Get out," he said.

His voice was a deep rumble, rough with sleep.

"Get out, Miss Franco."

Celeste bit her lip.

She bit it hard, until she tasted the metallic tang of blood.

The pain was grounding.

It was real.

She wasn't running this time.

She thought of Elmore pulling the plug.

She thought of Ophelia's whisper.

Fear was a luxury she could no longer afford.

She pulled the silk sheet up to her collarbone, covering her nakedness.

She met Basile's gaze.

She didn't flinch.

"No," Celeste said.

Her voice was raspy, but it didn't shake.

"I'm not leaving, Basile."

Basile narrowed his eyes.

He looked at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve, or perhaps a bug he hadn't decided whether to crush yet.

"Suit yourself," he muttered.

He threw the covers off and stood up.

He was completely naked.

Celeste felt the heat rush to her cheeks, but she forced herself not to look away.

She watched his gaze sweep over the silk sheets where she lay, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. He deliberately walked around the bed, giving it a wide berth as if it were contaminated.

She watched him walk toward the bathroom, his movements fluid and unashamed.

He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

"You have five minutes to disappear before I call security," he said. "And don't touch anything. I have a thing about germs."

The bathroom door clicked shut.

The sound of the shower started a moment later.

Celeste scrambled off the bed.

Her legs felt weak, but they held her.

She scanned the room desperately.

Her dress from the night before-a silver cocktail number-was lying in a heap on the carpet.

It was shredded.

The zipper was torn out.

Daniela.

It had to be her sister.

She couldn't walk out of the Plaza Hotel in a torn dress.

Not with the press waiting downstairs.

She needed armor.

Celeste walked into the walk-in closet.

Rows of impeccably tailored suits hung in color-coordinated precision.

She grabbed a crisp white dress shirt from a hanger.

She slipped it on.

It swallowed her frame, the hem hitting her mid-thigh.

She buttoned it up to her neck, rolling the sleeves up her arms.

It smelled like him.

Sandalwood and expensive tobacco.

She reached into the pocket of a charcoal gray jacket hanging nearby.

Her fingers brushed against a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

She pulled them out.

She didn't smoke.

She hated the smell.

But her hands were shaking again.

She needed to do something with them.

She lit a cigarette, taking a shallow drag, coughing slightly as the smoke hit her lungs.

The nicotine rush made her head spin, but it steadied her nerves.

The bathroom door opened.

Basile walked out, a white towel wrapped low around his hips.

Water droplets clung to his chest hair and trailed down his abdomen.

He stopped dead when he saw her.

Celeste was sitting in the velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other.

Smoke curled from her fingers.

She looked like a disaster, but a composed one.

Basile leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

"Is the cosplay over?" he asked, his voice dripping with mockery. "Your fiancé is waiting at the altar."

Celeste crushed the cigarette into the crystal ashtray.

She stood up.

"Bryce Colon is a piece of trash," she said.

Basile raised an eyebrow.

This was new.

The Celeste Franco he knew-or thought he knew-was a puppet, a trust fund baby who worshipped the ground Bryce walked on.

"I know you're buying up the scattered shares of Franco Group," Celeste said.

The mockery vanished from Basile's face.

His expression hardened into stone.

He pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward her.

The air in the room suddenly felt heavier.

"Who told you that?" he asked softly.

Too softly.

"It doesn't matter," Celeste said. "I own fifteen percent of the company. My grandmother left it to me in a trust that unlocks today."

She took a step toward him.

They were inches apart now.

She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

"I can give them to you," she said.

Basile reached out.

His hand was large, his fingers calloused.

He gripped her chin, tilting her face up further.

His thumb brushed against her lower lip.

"And the price?" he asked.

Celeste didn't blink.

"Marry me," she said. "Right now. Today."

Basile's grip tightened slightly.

He studied her face, searching for the lie, for the trap.

"You're high," he said. "Or you're still drunk from whatever they slipped you last night."

He let go of her chin and turned away, reaching for a pair of trousers draped over a chair.

"Get out, Celeste. Before I lose my patience."

Celeste moved.

She put herself between him and the trousers.

She looked like a cornered animal, desperate and dangerous.

"Account number 744-Bravo-X-Ray," she said. "Cayman Islands. The shell company is 'Orion Holdings'."

Basile froze.

His hand hovered over the fabric of his pants.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned back to face her.

That account was a secret.

A secret that could land him in federal prison if mishandled.

A secret only three people in the world knew.

And she wasn't one of them.

Until now.

He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time.

The fear was gone from her eyes.

In its place was something cold.

Something burning.

"Start talking," Basile said.

Basile pulled on his trousers, zipping them up with a sharp, definitive sound.

He didn't bother with a shirt yet.

He stood there, bare-chested, radiating authority.

"Where did you get those codes?" he demanded.

Celeste leaned back against the closet door, trying to maintain her facade of calm.

"I saw papers on my father's desk," she lied.

It was a weak lie.

Elmore Franco was careful.

But she couldn't tell him she had lived through his bankruptcy trial three years in the future.

Basile stared at her for a long moment.

He didn't believe her.

She could see the skepticism in the set of his jaw.

But he glanced at the Rolex on the nightstand.

"You have an hour before you're supposed to be walking down the aisle at St. Patrick's," he said.

"I'm not going to St. Patrick's," Celeste said. "I'm going to City Hall."

She held his gaze.

"With you."

Basile was silent.

The silence stretched, tense and brittle.

Then, he reached for the phone on the wall.

He dialed a single digit.

"Alfredo," he said into the receiver. "Bring up the box."

He hung up.

Celeste let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"What box?" she asked.

Basile ignored her.

He walked past her into the closet and selected a white dress shirt.

He put it on, buttoning it with precise, efficient movements.

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," Basile called out.

An older man with silver hair and a pristine uniform walked in.

He carried a large, flat white box tied with a black ribbon.

He saw Celeste standing there in Basile's oversized shirt.

His expression didn't flicker.

"Good morning, sir. Miss," Alfredo said with a polite nod.

He placed the box on the bed and retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

Basile gestured to the box with his chin.

"Open it."

Celeste walked over to the bed.

Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon.

She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was a dress.

It was white.

Vintage.

Tea-length, with long lace sleeves and a high neck.

Celeste gasped.

She reached out and touched the fabric.

It was silk crepe.

"This..." she whispered.

She pulled the dress out.

It was identical to a sketch she had drawn in her junior year of design school.

A sketch she had lost.

A sketch she had never shown anyone.

She looked up at Basile, her eyes wide with confusion.

"How do you have this?" she asked.

Basile was adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror.

He caught her eye in the reflection.

For a second, just a split second, something softened in his face.

Then the mask slammed back down.

"My acquisition firm bought out the parent company that sponsored your university's design competition last year," he said indifferently. "This was in their asset portfolio. An interesting design. I had it commissioned. It was gathering dust."

It was a lie.

She knew it was a lie.

Basile Delgado didn't acquire companies for student portfolios.

And he certainly didn't have dresses made from them just to let them gather dust.

"Put it on," he said. "Unless you want to get married in my shirt."

Celeste took the dress into the bathroom.

She slipped it on.

It fit perfectly.

Not just well.

Perfectly.

It hugged her waist, the lace sleeves ending exactly at her wrists.

It was as if he had her measurements memorized.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked like a bride.

But not the bride Bryce wanted her to be.

She looked like herself.

She walked back out into the bedroom.

Basile was putting on his suit jacket.

He stopped when he saw her.

His hands stilled on the lapels.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

The air between them crackled with something that wasn't just business.

"Grab your ID, Miss Franco," Basile said, his voice rougher than before.

He grabbed his car keys from the dresser.

"If this is a trap," he said, walking toward the door, "you will regret the day you were born."

"I already do," Celeste murmured.

She followed him out.

The elevator ride down was silent.

Celeste watched their reflections in the polished metal doors.

They looked like a power couple.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

Matches made in hell.

The doors opened.

The lobby manager bowed.

Basile didn't acknowledge him.

He gripped Celeste's wrist.

His hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful.

He led her out the side exit, toward a sleek black Maybach idling at the curb.