Reborn To Marry My Billionaire Rival

The coarse fibers of the hemp rope bit into Felicity's wrists, tearing through the top layer of her skin.

She collapsed onto the freezing wooden floorboards of the abandoned Aspen cabin. Her muscles twitched involuntarily.

A violent gust of negative-twenty-degree wind howled through the shattered window. The blizzard slammed into her thin silk evening gown.

Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached. She dragged her numb fingers toward a jagged shard of broken glass a few inches away.

The rope yanked her wrists back. The friction burned her raw flesh. She was half an inch short.

Felicity bit down hard on the tip of her tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of warm blood flooded her mouth, forcing her brain to stay awake.

She dragged her body forward, the wood splinters tearing through her pantyhose. Her fingertips finally grazed the cold edge of the glass. She flipped it into her palm.

The razor-sharp edge sliced deep into her palm. Warm blood welled up, but the sub-zero air froze it into a sticky, dark crimson paste almost instantly.

Ignoring the stinging pain, she twisted her wrists and began sawing at the thick rope behind her back.

Her shoulders screamed in agony. After dozens of frantic, bloody strokes, the thick fibers finally snapped.

She rolled onto her back, her chest heaving. Her breath plumed into thick white clouds in the dark cabin. She stared blankly at the rotting, drafty ceiling.

Her trembling hands reached into the hidden pocket of her gown. She pulled out her backup phone.

Her fingers were completely stiff, the joints locked from the cold. She couldn't press the power button.

She brought the phone to her mouth, biting down on the edge of the device, using her teeth to force the button down.

The screen flickered to life. The harsh white glare stabbed her dilated pupils.

Three percent battery.

Panic seized her throat. She clumsily tapped the screen with her bloody knuckle, opening her contacts.

She hit the dial button for Brandt, her fiancé.

The signal bar hovered at a single, weak dot. The agonizing, drawn-out ringing echoed in the silent cabin, competing with the howling wind outside.

Just as the call was about to drop, the line clicked open.

A deafening blast of heavy bass and electronic dance music exploded from the tiny speaker, piercing her frozen eardrums.

"Brandt..." she croaked.

Her throat was so dry it cracked. The taste of copper coated her tongue. Her voice was a pathetic, raspy whisper, instantly swallowed by the blizzard.

A frustrated, dismissive scoff came through the receiver. In the background, a woman let out a high-pitched, breathy giggle.

"Felicity, are you kidding me right now?" Brandt's voice was laced with irritation. "Another PR stunt? Really? Faking a disappearance to force a wedding date?"

"I'm in Aspen," she gasped, her lungs burning with every intake of icy air. "Kidnapped... dying. Please."

"Stop trying to manipulate the media, Felicity," Brandt snapped, his tone as sharp as a physical blade sliding between her ribs. "It's pathetic. I'm done playing your games."

The line went dead.

The screen flickered, the battery icon flashing a desperate, violent red, clinging to its final one percent of life. The dim backlight barely pierced the absolute, suffocating darkness.

Felicity let her arm drop, her fingers still loosely curled around the device. She tried to push herself up, to find the door.

Her legs were dead weight. She collapsed, her ribcage slamming violently against the hard floorboards.

A sickening crack echoed in her chest. Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat. She curled into a tight, agonizing ball.

The wind whipped snow directly into her face. Ice crystals formed instantly on her eyelashes, sealing her eyes shut.

She rubbed her bare arms frantically, but her frozen muscles generated zero heat. Her core temperature was plummeting off a cliff.

Dark spots danced behind her eyelids. Hallucinations crept in. Brandt's perfectly styled hair and mocking smirk floated in the pitch-black void.

Pure, unadulterated despair swallowed her whole.

Instinct drove her toward a pile of rotting blankets in the corner. She dragged her body across the floor, sharp wood splinters gouging deep into her exposed knees.

She grabbed the moldy fabric and pulled it over her shivering frame. It was useless. The cold had already chewed down to her marrow.

Her heart rate slowed to a sluggish, heavy thud. Her chest felt like it was packed with crushed ice.

She closed her eyes. A heavy, suffocating wave of exhaustion washed over her brain.

Somewhere in the distance, the haunting howl of a wolf pierced the storm. She didn't even have the strength to flinch.

The blood in her veins felt like sludge, slowly grinding to a halt. A bizarre, terrifying warmth began to spread through her chest-the final stage of hypothermia.

Memories flashed behind her eyes. Every time Brandt had used her fame, every red carpet he had hijacked. Regret clawed at her throat.

A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

It rolled down her cheek and froze solid the second it hit her jawline, a sharp prick of ice that tethered her to her last shred of consciousness.

She gripped the fading phone in her hand, her knuckles bone-white. A violent surge of hatred flared in her chest.

Just as her mind began to slip into the final, endless dark, a sharp vibration buzzed against her palm.

Her backup phone, in its absolute final breath of battery, had just received a message.

Felicity stared at the dying screen of her only remaining lifeline. Her muscles screamed in protest as she gripped the cold metal tighter.

The harsh, blinding light of the incoming notification illuminated the pitch-black cabin.

A secure video file from her adopted sister, Brinley, sat in the center of the screen.

The loading circle spun agonizingly slow, tethered to a single bar of signal. It pulled taut the very last thread of her sanity.

Felicity couldn't use her fingers. She pressed her numb chin against the play button.

The video jerked violently. Brinley's flawless, innocent face filled the screen, her lips twisted into a sickeningly sweet smile.

"Hey, big sister," Brinley chirped. The tinny audio sliced through the howling wind.

Brinley held up a stack of documents. The camera zoomed in on a private jet maintenance log.

"Thought you should know before you freeze to death," Brinley laughed. "Mom and Dad's plane crash? Not an accident."

Felicity's pupils dilated to the size of saucers. Her stomach violently dropped, as if she had been kicked off a cliff.

"Brandt and I planned the whole thing," Brinley continued, her eyes gleaming with malice. "The kidnapping, too. We need the Klein family trust fund, and you were just... in the way."

A massive wave of bile and blood surged up Felicity's throat. She coughed violently, spraying warm, crimson blood across the glowing screen.

The red droplets smeared across Brinley's laughing face.

"Enjoy the snow, Felicity," Brinley whispered, blowing a kiss to the camera.

The video auto-deleted. The screen went black.

Felicity bit down on her lower lip until her teeth broke the skin. Hot blood trickled down her chin. She wanted to scream, to smash the phone into a million pieces, but her arms were paralyzed.

The sheer force of her rage burned through the last of her body heat. Massive black patches swallowed her vision.

The wooden beams of the cabin groaned under the weight of the blizzard, a morbid lullaby for her final moments.

Her breathing reduced to shallow, ragged gasps.

Her life flashed before her eyes-the Oscar nominations, the flashing cameras, the hollow love she had begged for. It was all a lie.

Her eyelids felt like they were made of lead. They fluttered shut.

Suddenly, a deafening crash shook the entire cabin.

A massive, violent force slammed into the rotting front door.

Felicity's fading consciousness hitched. She forced her eyes open a fraction of a millimeter.

The heavy wooden door, frame and all, was kicked completely off its hinges. It flew into the room, followed by a violent swirl of snow and killing intent.

A towering, broad-shouldered silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by the raging storm.

The man stepped inside. His heavy military boots crunched over the broken glass, the sound sharp and terrifying.

He crossed the room in three massive strides and dropped to his knees beside her.

Collins Saunders. The man who had fought her at every turn in the business world, the one she had supposedly hated, was actually standing here in the flesh.

He was covered in snow, his chest heaving. He reached out with trembling hands and pulled her frozen, stiff body into his arms.

His touch was impossibly gentle. He ripped off his heavy, body-warmed cashmere coat and wrapped it tightly around her.

His large, rough hands cupped her ice-cold face. "Felicity," he choked out, his voice completely shredded by fear.

Felicity forced her eyes to focus. She stared at the man she had publicly despised for years. Shock paralyzed her vocal cords.

Collins pressed her tightly against his massive, burning chest, desperately trying to transfer his body heat into her dying frame.

He buried his face in her frozen hair. Hot, heavy tears dropped from his eyes, landing on her eyelashes and melting the frost.

The walls she had built against him for a decade shattered into dust.

She opened her mouth to speak, but only a wet, broken gurgle came out. Fresh blood spilled over her lips.

"No, no, no," Collins panicked. He used the cuff of his custom-made silk shirt to wipe the blood from her mouth.

He turned his head toward the doorway, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Get the chopper down here now!" he roared at the shadows outside.

The faint, rhythmic thumping of helicopter blades echoed over the mountain peak, but Felicity knew it was useless.

Her organs were shutting down.

She marshaled the absolute last ounce of her strength. She lifted her trembling, bloody hand toward his face.

She wanted to smooth the deep, agonizing crease between his brows.

Her icy fingertips barely brushed against his sharp jawline.

Then, the last spark of life extinguished. Her hand dropped, falling limply through the air to hit the floorboards.

Collins let out a guttural, soul-tearing scream that ripped through the frozen valley. He crushed her lifeless body against his chest.

Felicity's world went completely black, but in that final millisecond, the sensation of his burning tears branded itself into her soul.

Gravity vanished.

Felicity felt a violent yank upward. She looked down and gasped.

She was floating near the ceiling of the cabin. Below her, Collins was rocking back and forth, clutching her dead body, his face buried in her neck.

"Collins!" she screamed.

No sound came out. She had no vocal cords. She watched in absolute horror as the most powerful man in New York broke down into a sobbing, broken mess.

Suddenly, a terrifying vacuum force grabbed her ethereal form. The snowy cabin dissolved into a blur of blinding light and rushing colors.

She was pulled across thousands of miles in a fraction of a second.

Her feet hit a solid surface. She stumbled forward, instinctively shielding her eyes from the blinding crystal chandeliers.

She was standing in the center of her own living room in her Bel Air mansion.

Brandt stood by the massive marble fireplace. He held a crystal champagne flute, his face flushed with triumph. There was no grief in his eyes.

Brinley was draped over his arm. She was wearing Felicity's custom-made, limited-edition Dior gown.

"To the Klein trust fund," Brandt smirked, raising his glass. "God, she was so stupid. Believed every word I said."

Brinley giggled, a sharp, grating sound that made Felicity's ghostly stomach churn. "Hollywood is finally mine. No more living in her shadow."

Brandt grabbed Brinley's waist and pulled her into a deep, filthy kiss right in the middle of Felicity's living room.

Felicity's soul vibrated with a rage so intense it felt like nuclear fission. She lunged forward, swinging her hand to slap Brandt across his smug face.

Her hand phased right through his jaw.

She stared at her translucent fingers. A suffocating wave of helplessness crashed over her. She was a ghost. A spectator to her own desecration.

On the massive flat-screen TV, a TMZ breaking news banner flashed red: FELICITY KLEIN MISSING? FLEEING SCANDAL?

Brandt pulled away from Brinley and smirked at the TV. He pulled out his phone. "Time to call the PR team. Let's make sure she's remembered as a homewrecker who ran away."

Before his thumb could hit the screen, a deafening screech of tires tore through the quiet Bel Air night.

The heavy, custom-built mahogany double doors of the mansion exploded inward.

An armored, matte-black SUV smashed through the entrance, sending massive chunks of wood and shattered glass flying across the marble foyer.

Brandt and Brinley screamed. The champagne flute slipped from Brandt's hand, shattering on the floor.

The SUV's high beams flooded the living room, blinding them. The engine roared like a mechanical beast.

The driver's side door was kicked open.

Collins Saunders stepped out. He wore a black trench coat soaked in melted snow and dark blood. He looked like a demon crawling out of hell.

A dozen heavily armed men in tactical gear swarmed into the house behind him, instantly securing every exit and cutting the phone lines.

Collins held a heavy Glock 19 in his right hand. The sharp, metallic smell of gunpowder instantly filled the room.

He locked his dead, bloodshot eyes onto Brandt. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

"What the hell is this?!" Brandt stammered, his voice cracking. He stumbled backward, his knees knocking together.

Brinley shrieked and dove behind the white leather sofa. She frantically tapped her phone, but the screen showed zero signal.

Collins didn't say a word. He stalked forward. His heavy boots crushed the broken champagne glass into fine powder.

He stopped two feet away from Brandt. He raised his left hand and violently whipped something directly into Brandt's face.

It was a diamond necklace, heavily coated in dark, dried blood. It sliced a thin cut across Brandt's cheek.

Brandt looked down at the floor. He recognized Felicity's lucky charm. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.

"She's dead," Collins rasped. His voice was a terrifying, hollow scrape of metal on metal.

"No... I didn't..." Brandt babbled, holding his hands up in surrender.

Felicity hovered in the air, staring at Collins. The sheer magnitude of his violence, all for her, sent shockwaves through her ghostly form.

Collins slowly raised the Glock. He pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Brandt's forehead.

His finger curled around the trigger.

Time stopped in the Bel Air mansion. The slaughter was about to begin.