Reborn As The Billionaire's Wife：The Despised Wife Shines On Live TV
Cecile jolted awake from months of prescription haze, only to realize she was trapped in a live reality show designed to destroy her.
Her billionaire husband had orchestrated the broadcast to publicly humiliate her and elevate his own PR image. He ordered her to follow a degrading script. What was worse, her five-year-old son, Damien, was genuinely terrified of her. When an empty wine bottle rolled across the floor, the tiny boy instantly threw his arms over his head, bracing for a hit.
The production crew shoved microphones into the trembling child's face, trying to trigger his trauma for ratings. The live chat cursed Cecile as a toxic abuser. The show's golden girl maliciously tried to poach Damien on camera to prove Cecile was an unfit mother. The crew even rigged the game, forcing Cecile and her son into a freezing, rotting mud shack with a collapsed roof. They were all just waiting for her to break down and beg.
"A toxic woman like you doesn't deserve to be a mother."
The crew read the hateful comments aloud, expecting a hysterical meltdown. The realization that she had been manipulated into destroying her own child hit Cecile like a physical blow. How could a father subject his own son to this public cruelty?
The weak, easily manipulated Cecile was dead. She threw the PR script away, rolled up her sleeves, and picked up a rusted hammer. This time, she would protect her son and tear down anyone who stood in her way.
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Chapter 3
The noise was deafening.
"Child abuser!" a voice screamed from the left.
"Go back to rehab, you psycho!" another yelled from the right.
Cecile kept her chin tucked, her uninjured arm wrapped like a steel band around the grey bundle against her chest. She pushed her shoulder forward, using her body as a battering ram through the suffocating crowd.
A hand shot out from the mass of bodies. A man with a rabid look in his eyes grabbed the edge of the sweatshirt covering Damien's head, trying to rip it away.
Cecile's eyes went dead. She didn't hesitate. Her free hand snapped out like a viper. She grabbed the man's wrist, her thumb pressing hard into the nerve, and twisted sharply downward.
The man shrieked, his knees buckling as he stumbled backward into the crowd.
The brutal, efficient movement sent a shockwave through the paparazzi. The aggressive pushing stopped. The crowd instinctively parted, leaving a narrow, two-foot path to the glass doors of the VIP terminal.
Cecile didn't look back. She carried Damien through the sliding doors, leaving the chaos behind.
The heavy glass doors slid shut, muffling the roar of the crowd to a distant, angry hum. The relative quiet of the VIP lounge felt like a sanctuary. Cecile walked to a secluded corner, sat down, and gently pulled the sweatshirt back.
Damien blinked against the soft lighting. His breathing was still fast, but he wasn't crying. He looked at her arm, then at her face.
"Flight's boarding," a producer called out.
Cecile stood up, keeping a firm grip on Damien's hand. They walked down the jet bridge and stepped into the luxurious cabin of the private charter.
The three other families were already seated. The moment Cecile stepped in, the air pressure in the cabin seemed to drop.
Hayleigh Owen, a former pop star with a spray tan and a permanent sneer, let out a loud, theatrical scoff. "Wow. I can't believe they actually let you on the plane. Don't you have a liquor store to rob?"
Hayleigh's son, Jaxon, giggled loudly and pulled a grotesque, mocking face at Damien.
Damien's amber eyes darkened. He instinctively shrank further behind his mother's leg, his small hand gripping the fabric of her leggings tighter. The woman's loud, ugly voice made his head hurt, and the sudden noise triggered a familiar, suffocating panic deep in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could just disappear into the floorboards rather than face another screaming adult.
Before he could pull away, Cecile's hand squeezed his shoulder. A gentle, grounding pressure.
Cecile didn't even look at Hayleigh. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, walking past the pop star as if she were a piece of ugly furniture. She guided Damien to the very last row of the plane and sat down in silence.
Hayleigh's face burned dark red. Her insult hung awkwardly in the air, completely ignored. She slumped back into her leather seat, fuming.
A few rows up, Sloane Adler, an A-list actress, lowered her sunglasses and watched Cecile with a flicker of genuine surprise.
Then, the rustle of fabric signaled movement. Abbey White stood up. She smoothed down her pristine pastel cardigan and picked up a glass of warm milk from the flight attendant's tray. She walked down the aisle, a camera operator trailing right behind her.
Abbey stopped at Cecile's row. Her face was a mask of pure, angelic concern.
"Cecile, honey," Abbey cooed, her voice soft enough to sound intimate, but loud enough for the microphone to catch. "I saw the news about the van. Is your arm okay?"
Before Cecile could answer, Abbey turned her glowing smile to Damien. She held out the glass of milk. "Here, sweetie. Warm milk helps calm the nerves. You must be so scared."
Damien stared at the white liquid. He didn't reach for it. Instead, he leaned his body weight entirely against Cecile's side, pressing his face into her ribs. It was a blatant, physical rejection.
Abbey's hand hovered in the air. A micro-expression of pure irritation twitched at the corner of her left eye, but she quickly forced a sad, understanding smile. "Oh, he's just shy."
"He's lactose intolerant," Cecile said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.
The silence in the cabin was absolute.
Cecile looked up at Abbey. "It's in the basic medical file the producers sent to all of us. Did you not read it before you decided to play savior for the cameras?"
Abbey's face drained of color. The glass of milk trembled slightly in her hand. Her perfect facade cracked, exposing the frantic calculation underneath. She had no response.
Behind the monitor in the front galley, Director Octavia's eyes lit up with greedy excitement. This was television gold.
Two hours later, the plane touched down on a cracked, weed-infested runway.
The doors opened, and a blast of freezing wind carrying grit and dust hit the passengers. The celebrities groaned, pulling their designer coats tighter. Cecile didn't flinch.
Cody Mason, the rugged local guide hired by the production, stood on the tarmac. "Welcome to Rust Creek," he barked. "Get on the bus."
The ride into town was brutal. The rusted bus hit every pothole on the dirt road. Damien's face turned a sickly shade of green. He gripped his stomach, fighting the urge to vomit.
Cecile reached over. Her fingers found the pressure point on the inside of his wrist, right below the palm. She pressed her thumb down, massaging in slow, firm circles. Within minutes, the color slowly returned to Damien's cheeks. He leaned his head against the rattling window, breathing easier.
The bus stopped at a barren dirt square in the center of the town. A large chalkboard stood in the middle, displaying five photographs of houses. House 1 was a decent cabin. House 3 was a massive, modern luxury villa. House 5 was a collapsed mud shack with a hole in the roof.
Octavia stepped up with a wooden box. "Draw your lots. This determines where you live for the next week."
Hayleigh practically sprinted forward. She pulled a stick. "House 2!" she cheered.
Abbey nudged her stepson, Brayan. The boy walked up obediently and pulled a stick. "House 3." he read quietly. Abbey clapped her hands in delight, kissing his cheek for the cameras.
Cecile walked up last. There were two sticks left in the box. As she reached her hand in, her fingers brushed the bottom. She felt a thick layer of double-sided tape holding one stick firmly in place.
The draw was rigged.
Cecile didn't pause. She didn't complain. She pulled the only loose stick available. She flipped it over.
A bright red number 5 stared back at her.
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7.3
I found out my husband of three years had cheated on me and his mistress is the one who told me-because he didn't have the balls to do it himself.
I move out and get a new apartment, a job as a bartender, and try to move on with a broken heart. I wonder where it all went wrong, if I hadn't been enough for him, if I'd been stupid for marrying him in the first place.
I'm at work one night when he walks inside-the most beautiful man I've ever seen. He sits at the bar and a forest fire burns between us. I was depressed the moment before he entered, but the second I look at his blue eyes, I forget the dumpster fire that my life has become. I invite him back to my place and it's the most passionate night of my life. I expect to never see him again.
I just want him as an anti-depressant-but he wants me all to himself. I just got my heart ripped out of my chest so I want something easy and no-strings-attached, but he wants all the strings because he's hooked.
I don't get much of a say in the matter, and that's not surprising when I learn why-because he's the Butcher. The crime lord of all crime lords, the boss that overshadows all of Paris, that makes everyone abide by his rules-or pay.
And now I'm his.
7.9
One night of deception.
A lifetime of consequences.
A bond that cannot be broken.
Nadia Williams is an Omega living in the shadows of the pack she once called home.
Since her father's death, she and her mother, Estelle, have been treated as outcasts by her ruthless uncle, Alpha Edwards. When her mother is framed for theft, Nadia is forced into a deal with the devil.
To save her mother's life, she must become a virgin substitute for her cousin, Danielle.
Her aunt, Katerina, offers a devil's bargain to set her mother free: Nadia must spend one night in the bed of the most powerful man in the country, the billionaire; Alpha Conrad Bradley.
The catch?
She must swap places with her spiteful cousin.
Conrad demands a virgin bride to secure his royal bloodline, and Danielle, Nadia's cruel cousin, has already forfeited her purity.
What begins as a desperate night of passion in the dark spirals into a web of hidden identities and betrayal.
Nadia survives the night and disappears, hoping to bury the shame of the encounter forever.
But fate has a different plan.
Desperate for a fresh start away from her uncle's shadow, Nadia secures a high-level position at Bradley Group of Industries.
As Alpha Conrad unknowingly hires Nadia at his company, an undeniable connection sparks between them.
Conrad is haunted by the scent of the woman from that night-a scent that doesn't match his fiancée, Danielle, but seems to cling to his new, brilliant employee.
As they work side-by-side, Nadia finds an unexpected and beautiful second chance at a life she thought was lost.
Yet, buried secrets threaten to destroy everything.
When the Alpha discovers the woman he truly bonded with, the fallout will be legendary.
8.3
Ayleen Ramirez sat in the sterile Hope Hill Fertility Clinic, her heart shattering as Dr. Finch delivered the crushing news: her third IVF cycle had failed.
Eavesdropping outside a supply closet, she overheard her husband Don on the phone, laughing cruelly. "She's a defective incubator," he sneered to his mistress Alessandra. "I never used my sperm—just cheap bank donation. No trailer trash carries a Bradley heir."
Betrayed, Ayleen confronted him, but her adoptive family ambushed her at home. Her parents and brother sided with Alessandra, now pregnant by Don, demanding Ayleen sign divorce papers to secure family investments. "You're an embarrassment," her mother snapped, threatening to cut her trust fund. Ayleen tossed back their heirloom necklace and walked out.
She stormed the Bradley mansion, slapped divorce papers on Don, packed her bags amid his aunt's insults, and fled into the night.
Drunk in a trendy bar, she stumbled into a powerful stranger—Burdette Guerrero—spilling whiskey on his crotch, then accidentally grabbed a napkin to his trousers. He shoved her away in rage.
Worse, she mistook his penthouse suite for her hotel room, bursting in on his shower, smashing a mirror in panic. He pinned her to the wall, snarling accusations.
How did this arrogant man know her name? Why demand she sign a mysterious contract at 9 a.m.? Devastated and clueless she's actually pregnant—with his stolen heir—Ayleen sobbed alone, the world crumbling.
The next morning, she straightened her spine in the Grand Guerrero lobby, ready to face him and demand answers—no matter the cost.
8.2
My ex-boyfriend of three years, Axel, married a perfect wealthy heiress.
I attended his wedding, not to mourn our relationship, but because he had spent the last three years bleeding me dry.
He left me with absolutely nothing but a final notice from the hospital for my dying brother's life support.
Instead of feeling guilty, Axel cornered me in the church hallway, crushing my wrist.
"I'll set you up with an apartment. You won't have to work another day in your life."
He thought he could buy my silence with spare change, while leaving my seventeen-year-old brother, Julian, to die when his treatments were cut off the very next day.
When I refused to be his dirty little secret, Axel used his power to utterly destroy my acting career.
He had my talent agency terminate my contract under a fake morals clause, publicly humiliated me on set, and blacklisted me across the entire industry.
I was shoved out into the freezing rain, left with a torn dress and absolutely no way to pay the five hundred thousand dollar medical bill.
He actually believed he could step on my brother's dying body to build his own fake empire.
He thought I was just a weak, pathetic victim who would eventually crawl back to him on my knees.
But he forgot about the one monster he was absolutely terrified of: his legitimate, ruthless billionaire half-brother, Jace Bauer.
Looking at the three positive pregnancy tests hidden in my drawer, I stepped right in front of Jace's armored Maybach.
"Marry me, and I'll give you the heir you need to secure your empire."
7.7
Jaclyn woke up in the sterile hospital room after falling down the stairs. The nurse delivered the devastating news: she had bled heavily and lost her baby.
But before she could even cry, her trusted cousins, Katelyn and Cherri, locked the door and revealed the horrifying truth.
"It wasn't an accident," Katelyn smirked, pinning Jaclyn's arm down. "The lubricant on the top step was a very deliberate choice."
They needed her broken and unstable. They had forged her signature, draining her massive trust fund to save their uncle's bankrupt business.
What shattered Jaclyn's world was the fresh hickey on Cherri's neck. Her lover, Bradford, had helped plan the entire murder.
When Jaclyn tried to scream, they smothered her with a pillow, framing her as a lunatic having a mental breakdown.
Two weeks later, when she confronted them, Bradford violently shoved her through a second-story glass window to silence her forever.
As she fell to her death, the husband she had spent her life hating—the ruthless billionaire Gaines—burst through the doors.
He threw himself forward, his face filled with pure terror, desperately trying to catch her.
When her body hit the stone patio, Gaines fell to his knees in her blood, weeping and begging her not to close her eyes.
Until her last breath, Jaclyn was consumed by suffocating regret. Why did she trust the monsters who killed her, and hate the only man who truly loved her?
Opening her eyes again, she was back in the penthouse, exactly one month into her marriage with Gaines.
7.1
For six years, I was the perfect, obedient wife to billionaire Hartwell Ware, enduring his coldness because I thought my love could eventually thaw his heart.
Then, my friend sent me a photo. Hartwell was at the airport, tenderly holding the waist of his first love, Eveline Craig.
He came home smelling of her synthetic rose perfume, accused me of stalking him, and coldly demanded a divorce.
His lawyer handed me a thick settlement agreement. It offered astronomical alimony and luxury properties, but it came with a humiliating ten-page non-disclosure agreement.
He wanted to buy my silence. He wanted to strip me of my rights to our son and gag me permanently, just so he could parade his new life with Eveline without any PR backlash.
Even now, he still thought I was a gold digger who had orchestrated a media scandal to trap him into marriage.
I stared at the man I had worshipped for two thousand days. My six years of desperate devotion had been nothing but a humiliating, one-sided delusion.
Hope was finally dead, and with it, my tears had completely dried up.
He expected me to cry, to beg, to negotiate for more millions.
Instead, I snatched the pen, crossed out the massive alimony, and signed my name on the dotted line.
"I am taking the basic child support, and not a single red cent more."
Leaving my five-carat diamond ring on the marble table, I walked out the door with nothing but my old suitcase.