Reborn To Ruin My Billionaire Husband
I died on the cold delivery table, bleeding out while the heart monitor flatlined.
Through the blinding surgical lights, I heard my husband Damon's cold, final order to the doctors.
"The child is the priority."
He didn't care about my life. To him, I was just a vessel to produce an heir, a tool to fulfill his prenuptial clause and secure his billionaire empire.
While I took my last agonizing breath, he was already planning his future with his fragile, theatrical mistress, Jasmin.
In my past life, when he first brought her into our home claiming she was a helpless victim, I shattered.
I screamed, threw vases, and played the hysterical wife perfectly.
My desperate pleas for his affection only gave him the exact weapons he needed to ruin my reputation, isolate me, and ultimately force me onto that fatal delivery bed.
Until my very last moment, the suffocating pain in my chest wasn't just physical.
I couldn't understand how the man I loved could treat my death like a simple business transaction.
Why was my absolute devotion rewarded with a carefully calculated execution?
But then, my eyes snapped open.
I was sitting on the edge of my king-sized bed, exactly three years before my death.
From downstairs, I heard Damon's voice echoing in the foyer, bringing Jasmin into our home for the very first time.
This time, the scream building in my chest turned to ice.
I didn't cry or throw a fit.
Instead, I calmly swallowed a secret birth control pill, smiled at his mistress, and dialed the most ruthless divorce lawyer in Manhattan.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 5
The next morning, the kitchen, usually bustling with the cook and her staff, was quiet.
Jasmin was at the large marble island, a pristine white apron tied around her waist. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek and was kneading a ball of dough with a focused, almost pious expression. She looked like a saint in a domestic setting.
Damon stood behind her, his hands covering hers on the dough, his body pressed against her back. He was murmuring instructions, his lips close to her ear. It was an act of such blatant intimacy that it felt like a performance. A performance for an audience of one.
Kirsten stood in the doorway, the sight turning her stomach to acid.
She cleared her throat.
They sprang apart like guilty teenagers.
Jasmin was the first to recover, her face a mask of sweet innocence. "Oh, sister! Good morning! I was just making you some of my organic, gluten-free scones. I heard you have a sensitive stomach." She held one up, a peace offering.
Damon wiped his hands on a dish towel, his expression unreadable. "Jasmin is exploring culinary therapy for her PTSD. I was just making sure she didn't burn the place down."
The lie was so lazy, so insulting, it was almost breathtaking.
Kirsten walked forward and took the scone from Jasmin's outstretched hand. She smiled, a tight, painful stretch of her lips. "How thoughtful of you."
She took a small bite. The taste was cloyingly sweet, a saccharine coating over something bitter and rotten.
"It's delicious," she said, her voice even. She reached out and gently wiped the flour from Jasmin's cheek, a gesture of faux intimacy that made Jasmin flinch in surprise. Damon, however, seemed pleased. He saw it as a sign of acceptance. Of surrender.
Kirsten turned and walked out of the kitchen. As she passed the stainless-steel trash can by the door, she let the half-eaten scone and its napkin drop from her hand. It landed with a soft, final thud.
She didn't look back, but she felt the shift in the room. She felt Damon's eyes on her, his brief satisfaction curdling into suspicion.
She didn't give him time to confront her. She grabbed her purse and was out the door, her car roaring to life in the driveway.
Her first stop was not the office. It was a discreet private clinic on the Upper East Side.
Dr. Julian Caldwell was an old family friend, a man she trusted. He looked over her recent physical.
"You're in perfect health, Kirsten," he said, his kind eyes filled with concern. "But I have to advise you, these emergency pills are not a long-term solution. They're a harsh dose of hormones."
Kirsten met his gaze, her own unwavering. "I know, Julian. But I cannot get pregnant right now. Under any circumstances."
He saw the steel in her eyes and didn't press further. He sighed, took out his prescription pad, and wrote her a script for a low-dose daily birth control pill.
She had the prescription filled at the clinic's pharmacy and took the first pill right there, swallowing it down with a small cup of water. It felt less like taking medicine and more like swallowing a key, locking a door he would never be allowed to open.
As she was leaving, a news report on the waiting room television caught her eye. It was Damon, giving a press conference about a new urban renewal project. He was powerful, charismatic, the master of his universe. A world away from the man who stood in a kitchen making pathetic excuses for his mistress.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Damon.
Where is the doctor's report I asked for? And be home early. Jasmin wants to plant some flowers in the greenhouse. You should be there to help her.
It wasn't a request. It was a test of her obedience.
She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the reply.
Of course.
She slid back into her car, tucking the small packet of pills into a hidden zippered compartment in her makeup bag-a place she knew he would never look.
She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The haunted look was gone, replaced by something harder. Sharper.
She started the engine. It was time to see what new performance awaited her in the greenhouse.