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.