Reborn Heiress: The Wall Street Titan's Bride

Ice-cold water flooded her nose and throat.

Alaia Dudley violently jerked upward, breaking the surface of the bathwater. She gasped, her mouth opening wide as she sucked in greedy lungfuls of air. Water cascaded down her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn't blink. She couldn't. Her hands gripped the porcelain edges of the tub so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

Her chest heaved. The phantom sensation of cold steel slicing through her sternum still burned in her nerve endings.

She looked down. Her trembling fingers reached for the left side of her chest. There was no jagged scar. No blood. The skin over her heart was smooth, flawless, and whole. Her fingertips brushed against the wet flesh, sending a violent shiver down her spine.

Her heart was still beating. It was still inside her body.

Alaia whipped her head toward the vanity. Her phone lay on the marble counter, the screen lighting up with a notification. She scrambled out of the tub, her wet feet slipping on the tiles, and snatched the device.

The date on the screen glared back at her. It was exactly five years ago.

Her heart skipped a beat, slamming against her ribs. The sheer absurdity of it crashed into her, followed instantly by a wave of manic, suffocating joy. She leaned heavily against the vanity, her nails digging into the marble.

Then, the memory hit her. Austen Montgomery holding her down on the operating table. The sterile lights. The scalpel. The agonizing pain of her chest being cracked open while she was still conscious.

Alaia doubled over the sink and dry-heaved. A harsh, guttural sound ripped from her throat. Her stomach cramped violently, but nothing came up.

She needed to know this wasn't a hallucination. She sank her teeth into her lower lip and bit down hard. The sharp sting of pain grounded her, and the metallic taste of fresh blood flooded her mouth. It brought a twisted, dark satisfaction to her mind. She was alive.

Faint music and the muffled roar of a Hollywood gala drifted through the heavy hotel suite doors. Alaia closed her eyes, her mind racing through the timeline.

The pieces snapped together. Today was the wrap party for Austen's latest movie. It was also the exact night he first took Evelyn Mcdowell to a hotel room behind her back.

Alaia grabbed a thick towel and roughly dragged it across her skin. The cold water droplets slid down her body, chilling her, but her eyes were no longer filled with the confusion of a dying woman. They were dark, predatory, and dead.

She dropped the towel and walked into the bedroom. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet. She moved like a leopard stalking its prey.

A red evening gown lay across the unmade bed. She snatched it up and pulled it over her head. The zipper caught at her waist. Alaia let out a cold, sharp laugh, grabbed the fabric, and yanked it up with brute force. The metal teeth snapped into place.

She walked over to the vanity mirror and picked up a tube of crimson lipstick. She pressed it heavily against her lips, tracing over the bleeding wound she had just bitten into. The red masked the blood and sharpened her features into something lethal.

Looking at her reflection, she saw the pale, exhausted face of a woman who had spent months begging for a cheating man's attention. She reached up and ruthlessly tore the pins out of her stiff updo. Her dark hair tumbled down her shoulders in loose, chaotic waves.

She grabbed her phone and unlocked it. She opened her browser and typed in a specific URL followed by a complex alphanumeric passcode. It was the hotel manager's backend access code-the exact same code she had spent weeks begging for in her past life so she could secretly plan a surprise birthday party for Austen. The hotel's internal floor plan instantly loaded on her screen. She knew exactly where he would be.

In her past life, Austen had booked the VIP lounge on the top floor to avoid the paparazzi. She zoomed in on the top floor blueprint. A mocking smirk curled the corners of her red lips.

She opened her designer clutch and dug into the hidden compartment of her makeup palette. Her fingers brushed against a tiny, black anti-spy camera detector.

Using the tip of a hairpin, she popped the casing open. She didn't possess the skills of a master hacker, but thanks to the grueling, months-long technical training she had endured for a spy thriller role in her past life, she knew exactly which two contact points to bridge. Her hands moved with terrifying precision, sliding a tiny metallic filament across the circuit board. Within seconds, she bypassed the detection loop and converted the device into a temporary, high-definition recording camera.

Alaia stepped out of her suite and into the brightly lit hallway. A hotel waiter, Leo Webb, rounded the corner holding a tray of champagne flutes. He nearly crashed into her.

Leo stumbled back, his eyes widening at the intense, suffocating aura radiating from her.

Alaia flashed him a flawless, empty smile.

"My apologies," she murmured.

While Leo was distracted by her face, her hand darted out like a snake. She slid the master keycard out from under his tray and palmed it.

Leo nodded, oblivious, and hurried away. Alaia slipped the card into her palm and turned toward the staff elevator.

The keypad required a passcode. She didn't hesitate. She punched in the numbers she had memorized in her past life-the numbers she had learned when she tried to surprise Austen for his birthday.

The doors slid open. She stepped inside and hit the top floor button. The sudden weightlessness of the ascending elevator made her stomach drop, reminding her of the terrifying sensation of falling from a building. She gripped the handrail until her knuckles ached.

The doors opened to the top floor. Alaia pressed her back against the wall, creeping down the corridor. She slipped past a dozing security guard, her pulse hammering in her ears.

She reached the heavy oak doors of the VIP lounge. She pressed the stolen keycard against the scanner. A red light blinked, then turned green.

The lock clicked. Alaia held her breath and pushed the door open just a fraction. The room was dark and silent. Empty.

She slipped inside and locked the door behind her. The dim, ambient lighting hid her movements as she scanned the room.

Her eyes locked onto a massive, ornate floral vase sitting directly across from the velvet sofa. She crossed the room in three quick strides and shoved the tiny camera deep into the thick leaves.

She pulled out her phone and connected to the camera's Bluetooth. The screen flickered, then displayed a crystal-clear, wide-angle view of the sofa.

She tapped the microphone test. It worked perfectly.

Just then, the sound of muffled giggles and heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway outside. It was Austen and Evelyn.

Alaia yanked the keycard out of her pocket. A second before the door handle began to turn, she threw herself into the adjoining walk-in closet and pulled the slatted door shut. She stood in the pitch black, closed her eyes, and completely silenced her breathing.