Reborn To Ruin My Billionaire Husband

The pain came first. A phantom agony, sharp and tearing, that ripped through her abdomen.

Kirsten Bishop shot up in bed, a scream caught in her throat. Her hands flew to her stomach, pressing down on the flat, empty space beneath the silk of her nightgown. But the memory was real. The blood. The cold terror. The metallic scent of it filling her lungs.

Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image was seared onto the back of her eyelids: the blinding surgical lights, the frantic beeping of a machine flatlining, a doctor's grim face saying, "We're losing her."

And Damon's voice. Cold. Final. "The child is the priority."

Kirsten's eyes snapped open. The scream died, replaced by a suffocating silence. She wasn't in a hospital. She was in the master suite of the Cooper estate. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

Her gaze fell on the digital calendar on the nightstand. October 14th, 2021.

Her heart stopped.

No. It couldn't be. This was three years. Three years before the delivery table. Before she died.

She scrambled out of the king-sized bed, her bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. She stumbled to the full-length mirror, her reflection a ghost she didn't recognize. The face staring back was younger, the lines of exhaustion and grief not yet carved around her eyes. Her body was whole. Unscarred.

It was real. She was back.

Then, she heard it. A voice from downstairs. His voice.

"I'll have Moira get the guest cottage ready. You'll be safe here."

Damon.

The sound of his voice wasn't a memory. It was a physical blow. It traveled up the grand staircase and struck her like a physical force, knocking the air from her lungs. The phantom pain in her belly flared anew, a visceral reminder of his betrayal.

She didn't think. She moved.

Her feet were silent on the plush runner of the stairs as she descended, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stopped at the landing, her hand gripping the cold, ornate balustrade.

And she saw them.

In the grand foyer, bathed in the afternoon light, stood her husband, Damon Cooper. He was shielding a woman. A small, frail-looking woman with wide, terrified eyes and tangled dark hair.

Jasmin Myers.

The woman who had taken everything. She was huddled against Damon, her shoulders trembling almost theatrically. A damsel in distress.

Damon looked up then, as if sensing her presence. His eyes met hers, and his expression hardened instantly. It was a look she knew well from the end. Cold. Wary. He shifted his body slightly, a subtle, protective movement that placed him more firmly in front of Jasmin. He was defending his precious thing from the monster. From his wife.

In her first life, this was the moment she had shattered. She had screamed. Accused. Thrown a vase. She had played the part of the hysterical wife perfectly, and in doing so, had handed him every weapon he needed to destroy her.

Not this time.

The scream building in her chest turned to ice. She felt her fingernails dig into the soft skin of her palm, the sharp, grounding pain a welcome anchor in the swirling chaos of her mind. She forced her feet to move, one step at a time, down the remaining stairs.

Damon's jaw was tight. He was waiting for the explosion. Braced for it.

"There was a fire," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of warmth. "Jasmin lost everything. She'll be staying with us for a while." It wasn't a request. It was a declaration.

Kirsten didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the woman he was protecting. She walked onto the cool marble of the foyer, each step a deliberate act of defiance against the tidal wave of hate and grief threatening to pull her under.

She stopped a few feet from them.

Jasmin flinched, her pale lips parting. "Mrs. Bishop," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of sound. "I'm so sorry to intrude..."

Kirsten met her gaze. She saw the flicker of calculation behind the manufactured fear. In her past life, that look had goaded her into a rage. Now, it only fueled the ice in her veins.

She offered a small, polite nod. Nothing more.

Damon's brow furrowed. This was not the reaction he had anticipated. The silence stretched, thick with his confusion. "You don't object?" he asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

Kirsten finally turned her gaze to her husband. She looked directly into his cold, gray eyes. "It's your charitable project, Damon. Why would I object?"

She turned away before he could respond, her movements measured and calm. "Moira," she called, her voice steady, betraying none of the tremor she felt inside.

The housekeeper, who had been hovering by the dining room entrance with a silver tray, startled. "Yes, Mrs. Bishop?"

"Please have the guest cottage prepared for Miss Myers. See that she has everything she needs."

Moira's eyes widened in shock. The tray in her hands tilted precariously. Even Jasmin couldn't hide the flash of surprise that crossed her face before she quickly masked it with another wave of pathetic gratitude.

Kirsten walked toward the hallway leading to the kitchen, her back straight and rigid. She could feel Damon's eyes on her, a heavy, scrutinizing weight.

The moment she was out of his line of sight, her composure cracked. Her hand flew to the wall to steady herself, her knuckles white. She leaned her forehead against the cool plaster, dragging in a desperate breath. The air felt thick, suffocating. His gentle murmurs to Jasmin drifted down the hall, each soft word a fresh stab to her heart.

She would not die on that table again. She would not let him kill her.

Pushing off the wall, she walked into the vast, empty kitchen. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely grasp a glass from the cupboard. She filled it with ice water from the dispenser and drank it all in one long, desperate gulp, the cold a shock to her system.

"You're acting strange today."

Damon's voice came from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, studying her with an unnerving intensity.

Kirsten set the glass down with a soft click. She didn't turn to face him. "I've just had a moment of clarity, Damon. That's all."

He was about to say something else, but Jasmin's voice, frail and needy, called his name from the living room.

"Damon?"

He didn't hesitate. He turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the cavernous kitchen.

She watched him go, the back of his expensive suit a symbol of the man she never truly knew. Her hand drifted to her left ring finger. She twisted the heavy diamond wedding band, round and round, until the skin beneath it was raw and red. A perfect, endless circle of lies.

She pulled out her phone, her fingers surprisingly steady as she opened the browser.

In the search bar, she typed: "Top divorce lawyer Manhattan."

A list of names appeared. She clicked on the first one, a woman with a reputation for being a shark. The number was right there.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

She pressed it.

The storm broke just after midnight, the clap of thunder so violent it shook the windowpanes.

Kirsten woke up drenched in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around her legs. For a terrifying second, she was back there. The thunder was the frantic shouting of nurses, the rain lashing against the glass the sound of her own blood pooling on the floor.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and in that stark, white moment, she saw him. Damon, standing at the foot of the bed, his face a mask of indifference. In his hand, he held a pen and a clipboard. The consent form. The one that authorized them to let her die.

She screamed, a raw, ragged sound, and scrambled away from the vision, tumbling off the mattress and onto the thick rug. Her fingers clawed at the bedsheets, at anything solid, trying to pull herself back to reality.

Staggering into the en-suite bathroom, she gripped the marble vanity and turned on the cold water, splashing it frantically onto her face. The woman in the mirror was a stranger-pale, haunted, her eyes wide with a terror that was three years too early.

The memories were not just images; they were physical. She could feel the pressure in her abdomen, the sickening warmth of the hemorrhage. She doubled over, dry-heaving, her stomach clenching with a phantom pain that was all too real.

When the wave of nausea passed, she straightened up, her breath still shallow. Her eyes were drawn to the window. Through the rain-streaked glass, she saw a faint glow coming from the garden gazebo.

Two small, orange embers. Cigarettes.

Damon was out there. And he wasn't alone.

She grabbed a cashmere shawl from her closet and slipped out of the bedroom. The house was dark and silent, save for the storm. She didn't go outside. Instead, she stood in the shadows of the library, looking through the French doors that opened onto the patio.

In the gazebo, shielded from the worst of the rain, Damon stood with Jasmin. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over her trembling shoulders. The gesture was so natural, so tender, it made Kirsten's stomach clench again, this time for a different reason.

Jasmin leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder. It wasn't the posture of a grateful victim. It was the easy intimacy of a lover.

A sharp pain, hot and piercing, shot through Kirsten's chest. But it was followed by a profound, clarifying cold. This was not a new betrayal. It was an old one she was just now seeing with open eyes.

She turned away from the window and walked back upstairs, not to the bedroom, but to the walk-in closet. In a locked drawer, beneath a pile of cashmere sweaters, was a leather-bound folder. She pulled it out.

The prenuptial agreement.

She flipped to the eighth clause, the one concerning the continuation of the Cooper family line. Her eyes scanned the dense legal text, the words blurring through a haze of fresh tears. A viable heir, born of the union...

It wasn't a marriage contract. It was a death warrant.

The next morning, the storm had passed. Kirsten walked into the breakfast nook to find them already there. Damon was reading the Wall Street Journal on his tablet. Jasmin was sitting opposite him, wearing one of Damon's dress shirts, the fine Egyptian cotton stark against her skin. The sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and the long tails were knotted at her waist, a clear, silent declaration of ownership.

"I'm taking Jasmin for a follow-up appointment with her doctor this morning," Damon said, not looking up from his screen. "Don't wait for me for dinner."

Kirsten sat down, her movements fluid. A plate of Eggs Benedict was placed in front of her by the silent housekeeper. She picked up her knife and fork and sliced into a perfectly poached egg. The yolk, bright yellow and viscous, bled across the plate.

It looked like blood.

She forced a small smile. "Of course. Should I come with you? For support?"

Damon finally looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. It was quickly extinguished. "No. That won't be necessary. You stay here."

Jasmin, ever the performer, chimed in. "Oh, sister, I'm so sorry to be taking up so much of Damon's time..." The way she said his name, so familiar, so proprietary.

Kirsten remembered Jasmin's face in the hospital corridor, blocking the nurse who was trying to get a second opinion. He's made his decision, she had said, her eyes cold and hard.

"It's no trouble at all," Kirsten said, her voice smooth as glass. "Taking care of you is his responsibility."

As soon as Damon's car pulled out of the driveway, Kirsten went upstairs. She closed the bedroom door, took out her phone, and dialed the number she had saved the day before.

"Faulkner, Hale, and Associates. How may I direct your call?"

"I need to speak with Eleanor Faulkner," Kirsten said. "My name is Kirsten Bishop. I need to consult with her about a divorce. As soon as possible."

The secretary was efficient, impersonal. A meeting was scheduled for two o'clock that afternoon. She was told to bring all relevant financial documents.

Kirsten walked back into her closet, to a hidden safe behind a false panel. Inside was a portfolio containing the statements for her personal accounts-money she had earned and invested from her career as an architect before she had married Damon. It wasn't Cooper money. It was her own. Her escape fund.

Looking at the numbers, a grim smile touched her lips. This was her leverage. Her life raft.

On her way downstairs, she saw Moira in the laundry room, holding one of Jasmin's dresses at arm's length, a look of distaste on her face. The cheap, synthetic fabric reeked of a cloying floral perfume that now seemed to permeate the entire ground floor.

Kirsten held her breath as she passed, grabbing her car keys from the bowl by the door. She slid into the driver's seat of her Tesla, the silence of the electric engine a welcome relief.

She pulled out of the gates of the estate and headed for Manhattan.

Eleanor Faulkner's office was on the 50th floor of a skyscraper in Midtown, with a view that swallowed Central Park whole. The room was minimalist, all glass and steel, reflecting a woman who dealt in hard, clean facts.

"The Cooper family trust is ironclad," Eleanor said, her perfectly manicured fingers skimming over the financial statements Kirsten had provided. "We'll never touch Damon's inheritance. But his earnings, the assets acquired during the marriage... that's a different story. We can argue for fifty percent of the marital estate."

Kirsten sat opposite her, her posture ramrod straight. "I just want what I'm entitled to. And I want out. Quickly."

Eleanor leaned back, her sharp, intelligent eyes assessing Kirsten. "Most wives in your position want to drag it out. They want retribution. They want to make him pay, not just in dollars, but in time and misery."

Kirsten's hand went to her wedding ring, a cold, heavy weight on her finger. "I don't want his retribution money, Eleanor," she said, her voice tight with an emotion that went beyond simple anger. "I just want a clean break. I need to get out of that house before this situation destroys me completely."

The strange intensity in her voice made Eleanor pause, but her professional mask didn't slip. "To expedite things, and to give us leverage on alimony, we need proof of infidelity. Concrete proof. Photos, videos, texts. Something a judge can't ignore." She pushed a slim folder across the polished desk.

Kirsten took it. The image of Jasmin, draped in Damon's coat, leaning against his shoulder, flashed in her mind.

"I'll get it," she said, her voice as cold as the glass walls around them.

Leaving the law firm, the city felt different. The towering buildings no longer felt like monuments to ambition, but like cages. Her phone buzzed. It was her best friend, Thea Coleman.

"Kris, what the hell is this I'm hearing?" Thea's voice was a shriek. "Moira called my housekeeper. You let some homeless girl move into your house? Have you lost your mind?"

Kirsten watched the blur of yellow cabs streak past her window. "It's a strategy, Thea. I need them to get comfortable. I need them to think I'm weak."

"Weak? Kirsten, he's walking all over you!"

"Let him," Kirsten said. "The higher he thinks he is, the harder he'll fall."

When she pulled back through the gates of the estate, the sound of laughter drifted from the back garden. It was a light, feminine giggle, followed by Damon's low chuckle.

Her stomach twisted. She parked the car and walked around the side of the house, her heels sinking slightly into the soft grass. She pushed open the wrought-iron gate to the rose garden and froze.

The scene was sickeningly domestic. Damon was lounging on a chaise, and Jasmin was sitting on his lap. Not beside him. On him. She was feeding him a strawberry, her fingers brushing his lips. His hand rested possessively on her waist, his thumb stroking the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.

Kirsten's breath hitched. The air, thick with the scent of roses, suddenly felt unbreathable. It was the same feeling she'd had on the delivery table, the feeling of her lungs refusing to work.

Jasmin saw her first. She let out a theatrical gasp and scrambled off Damon's lap, her cheeks flushing.

Damon shot to his feet, his face darkening into a thunderous scowl. He looked at Kirsten not with guilt, but with pure annoyance, as if she were an intruder who had stumbled upon a private moment.

"Why are you sneaking around?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

The accusation was so absurd it was almost funny. "This is my garden, Damon. I live here." She looked at the crushed strawberry staining Jasmin's fingertips, the bright red smear like a drop of blood.

"Jasmin suffers from severe PTSD," Damon said, stepping in front of her again, that familiar, protective stance. "She needs companionship. Don't twist this into something sordid."

Kirsten almost laughed out loud. PTSD? Was that the new term for adultery?

"I understand," she said, her voice dripping with an irony he completely missed. "Psychological trauma often requires... physical comfort."

Jasmin seized her cue, her eyes welling up with tears. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing suddenly shallow. "Damon, I... I feel an attack coming on..."

Instantly, Damon's attention shifted. He turned his back on Kirsten, wrapping his arms around Jasmin, murmuring soothing words into her hair. He was completely oblivious to his wife standing just a few feet away.

Kirsten watched them, a tableau of betrayal. Her own husband comforting his mistress.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised her phone. She angled it just so, shielded by a large rose bush. There was no flash, no shutter sound.

Just the silent capture of a perfect, damning image.

She lowered the phone, turned, and walked back into the house. She opened her encrypted chat with Eleanor Faulkner.

She attached the photo.

Then she typed two words.

Got it.