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 5
The grand dining room was cavernous. A ten-meter-long oak table dominated the space, covered in a pristine white linen cloth. Silver candelabras cast flickering, warm light across the crystal glassware.
Eileen followed Harrison into the room. A server immediately pulled out the chair to the right of the head seat.
It was the position of the lady of the house. Eileen didn't hesitate. She sat down smoothly, adjusting her posture. Carlisle maneuvered his wheelchair into the space at the head of the table.
The kitchen staff moved in a synchronized ballet.
The head chef approached Eileen with a silver cloche. He lifted it, revealing a small, sad plate. It contained a handful of dry arugula leaves and three cherry tomatoes, glistening with a microscopic drop of olive oil.
Eileen stared down at the plate. Her stomach cramped violently, letting out a pathetic, audible gurgle.
She lifted her chin. Her eyes bypassed the salad and locked onto the center of the table.
Sitting on a silver platter was a massive Beef Wellington. The golden pastry was perfectly baked. It had just been sliced open, revealing a center of flawless, pink, steaming tenderloin. The rich smell of butter, mushrooms, and roasted meat filled her nostrils.
Carlisle picked up his wine glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her staring at the meat. He saw her throat bob as she swallowed hard. His fingers paused on the stem of the glass.
Eileen reached out and shoved the salad plate away. The porcelain scraped loudly against the table.
She grabbed the heavy silver serving tongs.
The two servers standing nearby froze in shock. They watched as Eileen clamped the tongs around the thickest, center cut of the Beef Wellington. She lifted it, the rich juices dripping onto the tablecloth, and dropped it onto her own bone china plate.
She didn't stop there. She grabbed a serving spoon and scooped a massive mound of creamy, butter-heavy mashed potatoes next to the meat.
Harrison stopped cutting his fish. He stared at her plate, his eyes wide behind his reading glasses.
"Eileen, my dear," Harrison stammered. "That is... quite high in calories."
Eileen picked up her steak knife and fork. She sliced through the pastry and the tender meat. She dragged the piece through the dark truffle jus and shoved it into her mouth.
She closed her eyes. A soft, involuntary moan of pure pleasure vibrated in her throat.
She opened her eyes and looked at Harrison, her cheeks bulging slightly as she chewed.
"Screw the Hollywood diet," she mumbled through the food. "I want to actually enjoy being alive."
Harrison blinked. Then, a booming laugh erupted from his chest. He slapped his hand on the table, making the silverware rattle. "Good! Good! Young people should eat! You're too thin anyway!"
Carlisle slowly lowered his wine glass.
He stared at her. He watched her chew, watched the way she unapologetically wiped a drop of sauce from her bottom lip with her thumb. The vain, neurotic woman who used to faint from starvation to fit into a size zero dress was completely gone.
Eileen felt his heavy gaze.
She swallowed her food. She cut another piece of the tenderloin, making sure it had a perfect ratio of meat and pastry.
She stabbed it with her silver fork. She leaned across the corner of the table, extending her arm, and held the bite of food directly in front of Carlisle's lips.
Carlisle's body violently recoiled.
He threw himself back against his chair. His eyes turned into chips of ice. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Move it," he ordered. The words were razor blades.
The room went dead silent. The servers stopped breathing. Harrison froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.
Eileen didn't blush. She didn't look embarrassed.
She simply shrugged her shoulders. She rotated her wrist, brought the fork back to her own mouth, and ate the piece of meat herself.
"Your loss," she mumbled, chewing happily.
The crushing tension in the room evaporated instantly. Her absolute lack of shame defused the bomb.
Carlisle stared at her lips, watching them move as she chewed. His Adam's apple bobbed once. He looked down at his own plate and picked up his knife, his grip white-knuckled.
The dinner proceeded. Eileen decimated two massive slices of the Wellington and scraped her potato bowl clean.
When the servers cleared the plates and poured the black tea, Eileen picked up her white napkin. She dabbed the corners of her mouth and stood up.
She walked over to Harrison and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, giving him a firm hug. "Thank you for the food, Grandpa. It was amazing."
She pulled back and turned to Carlisle.
The playful, relaxed aura vanished. Her eyes hardened, turning sharp and clear.
"I need to go to Aura Entertainment," she announced, her voice flat and businesslike. "I have a mess to clean up."
Harrison frowned, worry creeping back into his eyes. "Tonight? The paparazzi are swarming the city."
"There is a tumor in my team," Eileen said coldly. "If I don't cut it out tonight, it will kill me tomorrow."
Carlisle looked at her. He saw the absolute resolve in her posture.
He turned his head slightly toward the head butler. "Ainsworth. Have the Team One security detail escort the Madam to the agency."
The word 'Madam' hung in the air. It carried a heavy, undeniable weight of authority.
Eileen's heart skipped a beat. She looked at Carlisle, giving him a single, firm nod of gratitude.
She turned on her heel and marched out of the dining room. Her steps were fast and purposeful, carrying her out of the warm light and into the dark night.
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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.