Reborn Heiress: The CEO's Revenge Bride

Reborn Heiress: The CEO's Revenge Bride

Rollins Laman

5.0
Comment(s)
View
150
Chapters

I lay in the hospital bed, every breath feeling like I was inhaling wet concrete. My husband, Trent, stood by the window, more interested in his reflection in the glass than his dying wife. My sister, Cristi, sat nearby, complaining about how the rain would ruin her expensive shoes on the way to the car. Trent walked to my bedside and brushed a finger against my oxygen tube. "The liver failure is aggressive," he whispered. "But we expected that, didn't we? After all those 'vitamins' you've been taking." I tried to scream, but my vocal cords were paralyzed. Cristi just giggled, telling me not to struggle because they needed my trust fund voting power by midnight. They held up a Do Not Resuscitate order and told me my hand had "signed" it with a little help. "You were a depreciating asset, Cleora," Trent said, his lips cold against my forehead. "Now, you're finally liquidated." As the darkness swallowed me, I saw flashes of my life-my mother's suspicious car crash, my stolen sketchbooks, and the bitter almond taste in my morning juice. I died in a state of pure, helpless rage, realizing I had been murdered by the only people I ever loved. How could they be so heartless? How could I have been so blind to the monsters living in my own home? Then came the sensation of falling. I sat up with a gasp, my lungs burning with fresh, salty air. The hospital was gone. I was in a luxury stateroom on our family's charity cruise, three years before my death. I was alive, healthy, and back at the beginning. When a blood-stained billionaire named Clemente Pennington walked out of the suite's bathroom, I didn't run. I looked him in the eye and realized that this time, I wouldn't be the one liquidated. I was going to make them pay for every drop of poison they ever fed me.

Chapter 1 1

The air in the room was too thin.

Cleora Hart tried to inhale, but her lungs felt like they were filled with wet concrete. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor to her left was the only thing anchoring her to reality, a sharp, electronic countdown.

She turned her head. The movement cost her everything she had left.

Trent Sterling stood by the window, adjusting his cufflinks. The gold caught the sterile hospital light. He looked impeccable, as if he were dressed for a gala rather than a deathbed. He didn't look at her. He was looking at his reflection in the glass.

"It's raining," Cristi Hart said. She was sitting in the visitor's chair, crossing her legs. She stared at her shoes. "My Louboutins are going to get ruined walking to the car."

Trent turned then. He walked to the bedside. His face was a mask of polite concern, the same expression he used when a waiter brought the wrong wine. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the plastic tube taped to Cleora's cheek.

"The liver failure," Trent said softly. "It's aggressive. But we expected that, didn't we? After all those vitamins you've been taking."

Cleora's fingers twitched against the sheets. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the IVs from her arms and strangle him. But her vocal cords were paralyzed. A dry hiss escaped her lips.

Cristi giggled. It was a light, airy sound. "Don't struggle, sis. It speeds up the heart rate. We need that trust fund voting power by midnight."

Trent pulled a document from his jacket pocket. He held it up. A Do Not Resuscitate order.

"You signed it this morning," Trent whispered, leaning close to her ear. "Or at least, your hand did, with a little help."

The monitor's beeping accelerated. It was a frantic, high-pitched warning. Cleora's vision began to tunnel. The edges of the room turned black.

"You were a depreciating asset, Cleora," Trent said. He kissed her forehead. His lips were cold. "Now, you're finally liquidated."

The darkness swallowed the room. Images flashed through the void-her mother's car twisted around a tree, her sketchbooks missing from her desk, the taste of bitter almond in her morning juice.

Then came the sensation of falling.

It wasn't the floaty feeling of death. It was a violent, stomach-churning drop.

Cleora gasped, her lungs expanding so fast it hurt.

She sat up.

The smell of antiseptic was gone. In its place was the scent of sea salt and expensive linen. She stared at her hands, turning them over and over. No IV marks. No yellow tinge of jaundice. She pressed her fingers to her abdomen, where the dull, constant ache of her failing liver had lived for months. There was nothing. Just healthy, warm skin. It was impossible. A hallucination before the end?

She clawed at her face. Her skin was smooth. The lesions were gone. She looked at her hands again. They were shaking, but they were strong.

She scrambled off the bed. The floor moved beneath her feet. A gentle sway.

She wasn't in a hospital. She was in a stateroom. A VIP suite.

The digital clock on the wall glowed red: July 14. Three years ago.

The Hart Family Annual Charity Cruise.

She was alive.

A wave of nausea hit her, a phantom echo of the poison that had killed her moments ago. She gripped the edge of the dresser, her knuckles white. She was breathing. She was here.

Before she could process the miracle, a sound came from the bathroom.

The door handle turned. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of sandalwood and copper.

A man walked out.

He was huge. He wore nothing but a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, but they were mixed with something else.

Blood.

He stopped. His eyes, black as oil, locked onto hers.

Cleora froze. The survival instinct from her previous life kicked in, but her body was slow to react.

The man didn't lunge. He moved with a chilling, deliberate calm that was far more terrifying than rage. He was a predator, but a boardroom predator, not a back-alley thug. His gaze swept the room, cataloging exits, weapons, and her. He assessed her not as a person, but as a variable in a dangerous equation.

His hand went to a sleek, black phone on the counter, not to her throat. He tapped the screen. A moment later, two men in sharp, discreet suits materialized at the stateroom's main door, blocking the only exit.

"You have sixty seconds to explain your presence in my private suite before my security team detains you for corporate espionage," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of heat but full of pressure. "And believe me, the maritime jurisdiction for that is... unpleasant."

Cleora stared into his eyes. She didn't know him. Not personally. But she had seen that face on the cover of Forbes.

Clemente Pennington.

But right now, he wasn't a CEO. He was a wounded animal, one who used lawyers and security details instead of teeth and claws, and he was ready to liquidate the threat.

Continue Reading

Other books by Rollins Laman

More
The Convict Heiress: Marrying The Billionaire

The Convict Heiress: Marrying The Billionaire

Modern

5.0

The heavy thud of the release stamp was the only goodbye I got from the warden after five years in federal prison. I stepped out into the blinding sun, expecting the same flash of paparazzi bulbs that had seen me dragged away in handcuffs, but there was only a single black limousine idling on the shoulder of the road. Inside sat my mother and sister, clutching champagne and looking at my frayed coat with pure disgust. They didn't offer a welcome home; instead, they tossed a thick legal document onto the table and told me I was dead to the city. "Gavin and I are getting engaged," my sister Mia sneered, flicking a credit card at me like I was a stray dog. "He doesn't need a convict ex-fiancée hanging around." Even after I saved their lives from an armed kidnapping attempt by ramming the attackers off the road, they rewarded me by leaving me stranded in the dirt. When I finally ran into Gavin, the man who had framed me, he pinned me against a wall and threatened to send me back to a cell if I ever dared to show my face at their wedding. They had stolen my biotech research, ruined my name, and let me rot for half a decade while they lived off my brilliance. They thought they had broken me, leaving me with nothing but an expired chapstick and a few old photos in a plastic bag. What they didn't know was that I had spent those five years becoming "Dr. X," a shadow consultant with five hundred million dollars in crypto and a secret that would bring the city to its knees. I wasn't just a victim anymore; I was a weapon, and I was pregnant with the heir they thought they had erased. I walked into the Melton estate and made an offer to the most powerful man in New York. "I'll save your grandfather's life," I told Horatio Melton, staring him down. "But the price is your last name. I'm taking back what's mine, and I'm starting with the man who thinks he's marrying my sister."

The Scorned Wife's Secret Billionaire Identity

The Scorned Wife's Secret Billionaire Identity

Modern

5.0

It was our third wedding anniversary, and I was waiting in our cold Manhattan penthouse with a gift Cedric would never open. He hadn’t even looked at me that morning, adjusting his cuffs and walking out as if I were just another piece of furniture in his museum-like home. The silence was shattered by a call from St. Jude’s Hospital. My grandmother, the only person who had ever seen me as a human being rather than a charity case, had gone into cardiac arrest. By the time I reached her room, she was gone, her skin already waxen and grey. As I collapsed by her bed, I smelled it—a cloying, heavy gardenia perfume. It was the signature scent of Chloie Serrano, the socialite who had made my life a living hell while clinging to my husband’s arm. When Cedric finally arrived, he didn’t comfort me; he checked his watch and asked for the time of death. At the funeral, he shielded Chloie from the rain with his umbrella while I stood soaked in the mud, and when I accused her of being in that hospital room, he crushed my wrist and told me I was an embarrassment to the Malone name. The hospital cameras had been conveniently wiped by a power surge, and the police told me there was no crime. I was left alone in the dirt, discarded and gaslit by the man I had loved for three years, while he comforted the woman who had likely killed my only relative. I couldn't understand how a man could be so cold. How could he protect a murderer just to save his reputation? Why did his wealth buy a version of the truth that left me with nothing but a broken heart and a shallow grave? I stopped crying and put on a blood-red silk dress designed to burn worlds down. I walked into his private club, crashed his high-stakes meeting, and slammed the signed divorce papers onto the table in front of the city's elite. "Happy Anniversary, Cedric," I said, as I dumped a glass of champagne over his mistress's head. I wasn't his invisible wife anymore. I was a woman with nothing left to lose, a secret heir to a rival empire, and I was going to take everything he owned.

You'll also like

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book