Reborn To The Wife of a Billionaire with Disabilities
Eileen woke up in a trashed hotel room, her head pounding with the pathetic memories of a despised Hollywood actress.
Outside the window, paparazzi were already screaming about her manufactured cheating scandal, but the real nightmare was waiting at her door.
Her paralyzed, billionaire husband, Carlisle Vinson, looked at her with pure disgust while his butler shoved a divorce settlement at her chest.
"Mr. Vinson is offering a severance package of fifty million dollars, provided you sign immediately and vacate the premises."
The original owner had left her an absolute mess.
Her trusted assistant had sold her room number to the press to frame her, and a playboy had scammed her out of her entire two million dollar life savings.
If she signed those papers and lost the Vinson family's protection, the breach of contract fees and her enemies in the industry would swallow her alive in days.
Eileen felt a cold fury override the original owner's lingering panic.
Why should she take the fall and be thrown out on the streets while the parasites who set her up lived out their wealthy fantasies?
She had died once, and she wasn't about to waste her second chance playing the victim.
Eileen slammed the heavy divorce folder shut right against the butler's chest.
"I'm not signing," she said with a terrifying, absolute calm.
She stepped behind her husband's wheelchair, ready to shield him from the cameras, secretly cure his dead legs, and make everyone who betrayed her bleed.
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Chapter 3
The second the call connected, a shrill scream filled the Maybach's cabin.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" Gwen's voice was so loud the phone's speaker crackled. "Do you know what you've done? You were photographed in a hotel stairwell! A stairwell, Eileen!"
Eileen winced. She picked the phone up by the edges and moved it a few inches away from her knee, trying to save her eardrums.
She glanced sideways.
Carlisle was leaning back against the plush leather seat. His hands were steepled over his stomach. He was staring at the phone with a predatory stillness, waiting for her to break down, waiting for the tears and the frantic, stupid excuses she always made.
Eileen waited for Gwen to pause for a breath.
"Gwen," Eileen said. Her voice was completely flat. It held zero inflection. "Take a breath. Shut your mouth. And listen to me."
A sharp intake of air hissed through the speaker. The aggressive, high-powered manager was stunned into silence by the sheer authority in Eileen's tone.
"The photos are garbage," Eileen stated, her words clipped and precise. "They show a blurry back and a dark corner. There is no facial recognition. There is no hard proof."
"The internet doesn't need hard proof!" Gwen snapped back, recovering her panic. "If we don't issue a statement in the next ten minutes, the sponsors are going to pull your contracts. The studio will recast your role!"
"If we issue a statement, we validate the rumor," Eileen countered instantly. "People will tear apart every word, looking for guilt. It makes us look desperate."
"So what do we do? Just bleed out?"
"We freeze it," Eileen commanded. "Total blackout. Turn off the comment sections on all my social media accounts immediately. Do not answer calls from any media outlets. You are unreachable."
Carlisle's steepled fingers twitched. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Second," Eileen continued, her brain working at lightning speed. A fragment of the original Eileen's petty gossip collection surfaced in her mind. Seraphina. The director. Of course. She smirked. "Call the PR team. Tell them to dig into Seraphina's files. I know she's been having an affair with her director. Leak it. Buy the trending spots. Bury my name under hers."
The cabin was dead silent except for the hum of the tires.
Carlisle's gaze shifted from the phone to Eileen's face. His jaw unclenched. The woman sitting next to him was executing a flawless, ruthless crisis management strategy. It was textbook diversion and suppression.
Gwen was quiet for a long ten seconds.
"Fine," the manager finally said, her voice tight but compliant. "Where are you right now? Do I need to send a secure car?"
Eileen turned her head. She looked directly into Carlisle's icy eyes.
"No," Eileen said into the phone, holding his gaze. "I'm with my husband. We are on our way home."
"You're with-what?!" Gwen gasped.
Eileen pressed her thumb down on the red icon. The call ended.
She held the power button until the screen went black, then tossed the phone into her leather handbag. She leaned back against the headrest and let out a long, slow exhale.
"What game are you playing?"
Carlisle's voice was a low rumble in the quiet car. It was thick with suspicion.
Eileen rolled her head on the headrest to look at him. His face was a perfect, emotionless mask, but the tension in his neck betrayed him.
She smiled. It was a bright, genuine curve of her lips.
"I died once," she said softly. "I woke up and realized being a vain, stupid girl wasn't worth the energy. I decided to use my brain."
The words 'died once' made Carlisle's eyelids flutter. A strange, heavy weight settled in his chest. He heard the exhaustion beneath her words, a kind of ancient fatigue that didn't belong to a twenty-four-year-old actress.
Eileen didn't elaborate.
Her eyes drifted down. She noticed the air conditioning vents pointing toward the back seat. The air blowing out was crisp and cool. Carlisle was wearing a wool suit, but his legs were motionless. Paralyzed limbs couldn't regulate temperature.
Eileen leaned forward, her leather shoes pressing into the floor mats.
She reached into the storage compartment behind the passenger seat. Her fingers brushed against a folded cashmere blanket. She pulled it out.
Carlisle watched her every move, his body tensing, ready to reject whatever she was doing.
Eileen shook the blanket out with a quick snap of her wrists. Without asking, without hesitating, she draped the soft cashmere over his thighs and knees. She tucked the edges in slightly to trap the heat.
Carlisle's hands jerked upward, a reflex to push her away.
But Eileen was already retreating. She slid back into her seat, her hands resting quietly in her lap. She didn't linger. She didn't look for gratitude.
Carlisle stared at the blanket covering his dead legs. His fingers curled inward, hovering an inch above the fabric. He slowly lowered his hands, letting them rest on the cashmere. He didn't throw it off.
The Maybach glided out of the city traffic.
The concrete skyline gave way to towering palm trees and lush, manicured hedges. The car slowed down as it approached a massive set of wrought-iron gates. The gold crest of the Vinson family gleamed in the afternoon sun.
The security guards snapped to attention and the gates swung open silently.
The car rolled up the long, winding driveway, the tires crunching softly against the gravel. The sprawling, classical architecture of the Bel Air estate loomed ahead.
The car came to a smooth stop under the grand portico.
Mr. Ainsworth stepped out of the front seat immediately. He walked around to the back and pulled the heavy door open, bowing his head slightly.
"We have arrived, sir. Madam."
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8.9
My father was marrying a gold-digger, the mother of my cheating ex-boyfriend.
To end the charade, I crashed their luxury wedding with a ten-foot funeral wreath.
In front of hundreds of elites, my father slapped me across the face, calling me a vicious bitch while his new wife smiled in victory.
I triggered the estate's fire system to ruin them, but a terrifying stranger in the VIP section bypassed my military-grade hack in seconds.
He was Kavon Velasquez, a dangerous billionaire heir who had been missing for twelve years.
Instead of exposing me, he shielded me from my father's second blow.
When my pathetic ex tried to drag me away, I grabbed Kavon and kissed him to humiliate my ex.
I shoved a $500,000 check into Kavon's pocket as hush money and left.
I thought that was the end of it.
But why did this apex predator move into the penthouse right next to mine at 2 AM?
Why did he violently crush my ex's face the next morning just for grabbing my arm?
"She is my woman. If you ever come within ten feet of her again, I will bury you."
I didn't understand why a man with lethal skills was suddenly hunting me.
Then I found out he had just blackmailed my father with undeniable proof of corporate money laundering.
His demand wasn't money. It was me.
He ordered my father to announce our engagement by tomorrow sunset, and this dangerous game officially began.
8.7
For three years, I played the perfect, submissive housewife to billionaire Julian Harrison.
But right after an intimate night together, he coldly threw a divorce agreement onto the bed.
"Scarlett landed an hour ago. I need my single status restored to welcome her back."
That same night, I ended up in the emergency room and discovered I was pregnant with twins.
When Julian found out, he didn't show a shred of joy. Instead, he stormed into my hospital room, threw a blank check directly at my face, and ordered me to get rid of them.
He accused me of using the babies as a sick game to trap his assets.
Then, his ruthless lawyer kicked me out of our penthouse, confiscating the jewelry he gifted me and tossing my worn-out notebook onto the floor like garbage.
Standing in the freezing rain, my heart completely died.
I had swallowed my pride, managed his life, and cooked his meals to his exact standards for three years, only to be thrown away the second his first love returned.
But he didn't know that the notebook his lawyer discarded contained the secret formulas of Aura Beauty, a billion-dollar empire I built in the shadows.
I tore his check into pieces, blocked his number, and left in a Maybach sent by my associate.
Logging into my global CEO database, I looked at his company's fragile stock chart with a predatory smile.
The docile Mrs. Harrison died in the rain. It was time to crush his empire.
9.0
Once a pampered princess, Alaina now clutched a deactivated American Express card, staring out at Central Park. Her family’s fortune was gone, her life, over.
Her family's Hamptons estate, a four-generation legacy, was seized by Dyer Capital. The name hit her: Hardin Dyer, the poor boy she’d once scorned, had returned.
Hardin marched in, serving a divorce agreement. He'd orchestrated her family's downfall for revenge, giving her 24 hours to vacate his property. Penniless, her father faced prison, needing $50 million. Her mother forced her to beg Hardin, who sneered, offering the money for her body. Alaina ripped up the contract.
Hours later, her father had a heart attack. Desperate, she became "Lexi," a club girl enduring humiliation. In the Viper Room, Hardin's lackeys demanded she lick whiskey off his shoe for $10,000. Hardin watched. Outside, her brother Ashton's hand was threatened for a $3 million debt. Spirit shattered, Alaina returned, knelt on broken glass, offering to sign. But Hardin declared her family "dead," offering $10 million for her body, commanding her to use her mouth.
In a furious act of defiance, Alaina threw whiskey in his face, snatched the check, and fled. Yet, when he finally took her, a searing, foreign pain and blood on the sheets revealed a shocking truth: he had never touched her three years ago. Why had he let her believe such a monstrous lie?
8.8
Clara supported her boyfriend Leo for four years, paying his rent and buying his headshots while working dead-end extra gigs.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, she caught him in their bed with Veronica, a wealthy producer's daughter who constantly stole Clara's roles.
Leo mocked Clara as a "pathetic, poor stepping stone" who was just there until he got his foot in the door.
Veronica threatened to ruin Clara's career forever.
Clara dumped him, packed her bags, and impulsively entered a contract marriage with a cold stranger she met at City Hall.
But her nightmare wasn't over.
When her mother suddenly needed a $200,000 emergency brain surgery, Clara was forced to take a demeaning extra gig to survive.
There, Veronica and her starlet friend cornered Clara.
They mocked her cheap clothes, ridiculed her new wedding ring as fake glass, and intentionally poured scalding coffee on her feet.
"Well, maid, you better clean that up."
Veronica laughed, forcing Clara to her knees to wipe up the burning liquid while snapping photos.
Clara swallowed her burning humiliation, secretly recording their abuse on her phone.
She endured the pain, desperate for the $300 day rate to save her mother's life, feeling entirely crushed by their overwhelming wealth and power.
What she didn't know was that outside the soundstage, her new contract husband—the man she thought was just a struggling, broke tech worker—was sitting in a sleek black Maybach.
He watched his wife kneeling on the floor, and his dark eyes filled with a lethal, terrifying rage.
7.1
The night before her wedding to Wall Street billionaire Everette Baird, Deliah Quinn stood happily in her haute couture gown.
Then, her younger sister Arvilla walked in, handed her a drugged glass of champagne, and slammed an ultrasound on the vanity.
"I'm pregnant with Everette's child," Arvilla sneered.
Before Deliah's paralyzed body could react, Arvilla dragged in a canister of industrial gasoline, soaked the bridal suite, tossed a lighter, and locked the heavy oak doors from the outside.
To escape the roaring inferno, Deliah smashed the glass balcony and threw herself into the freezing, violent waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
For five agonizing years, everyone believed the Quinn heiress was dead.
Deliah returned to New York entirely reborn—a top architectural designer and a single mother, having scrubbed her past clean and forgotten the people who destroyed her.
She only wanted a peaceful life with her five-year-old genius son, Leo.
But she had no idea her son was secretly hacking airport security cameras to find himself a wealthy stepdad.
Leo deliberately bumped into a terrifying, cold-blooded tycoon, spilling scalding coffee on his custom suit to get his attention.
When Deliah frantically rushed over to protect her son and apologize, the air in the terminal vanished.
Everette Baird stared at the exact face he had obsessively mourned for five years, his eyes turning pitch black as he crushed his phone in his bare hand.
9.7
Gemma expected the tearing agony of the bullet wound that had just ended her life.
Instead, her trembling fingers met the cool, smooth friction of heavy silk.
She stared into the mirror. Her face was flawless, completely devoid of the jagged scar that had marred her cheek for the last five years.
It was exactly ten years ago. The day of her engagement party to the ruthless billionaire, Brion Hubbard.
In her past life, her "best friend" Katelyn convinced her to run away with a scheming scumbag.
Katelyn claimed Brion was a heartless tyrant who would ruin her. Gemma had foolishly believed those fake tears.
That choice led to her family's bankruptcy, her brutal disfigurement, and ultimately, a fatal bomb explosion.
The only person who tried to save her was Brion, his blood-soaked body shielding hers from the blast.
She even realized too late that the strawberry cream cakes she always made for him were full of dairy.
He wasn't leaving to cheat on her. He was locking himself in a medical bay, fighting fatal allergic shock, just to accept a tiny scrap of her affection.
Gemma had been so incredibly blind. Why did she trust the venomous snakes who destroyed her, while hating the man who died for her?
Hearing Katelyn frantically knocking on the dressing room door, urging her to run away again, a towering hatred surged through Gemma's veins.
This time, she wasn't going to run.
She was going to expose the traitors, take back her family's wealth, and claim the tyrant for herself.