Reborn Heiress: The CEO's Revenge Bride

Author: Rollins Laman

Chapter 1 1

Word Count: 863 | Released on: 07/02/2026

the room wa

with wet concrete. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor to her left was

he movement cost her e

rile hospital light. He looked impeccable, as if he were dressed for a gala rather t

sitor's chair, crossing her legs. She stared at her shoes.

cern, the same expression he used when a waiter brought the wrong wine. He rea

aggressive. But we expected that, didn't we?

eam. She wanted to tear the IVs from her arms and strangle him.

't struggle, sis. It speeds up the heart rate. W

is jacket pocket. He held it u

pered, leaning close to her ear. "Or at

ntic, high-pitched warning. Cleora's vision beg

ent said. He kissed her forehead. His lips

-her mother's car twisted around a tree, her sketchbooks missing

he sensatio

ng of death. It was a viol

r lungs expanding

over and over. No IV marks. No yellow tinge of jaundice. She pressed her fingers to her abdomen, where the dull, constant ache of he

he lesions were gone. She looked at her hands

. The floor moved beneath

ital. She was in a s

he wall glowed red: Ju

ily Annual C

was

had killed her moments ago. She gripped the edge of the dr

s the miracle, a sound

billowed out, carrying the s

walk

s hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on h

yes, black as oil

ct from her previous life kicked

. He was a predator, but a boardroom predator, not a back-alley thug. His gaze swept the room, catalog

t. He tapped the screen. A moment later, two men in sharp, discreet su

m detains you for corporate espionage," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of heat

t know him. Not personally. But she ha

te Pen

one who used lawyers and security details instead of te

Chapter End

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Reborn Heiress: The CEO's Revenge Bride

Rollins Laman Modern

“I lay in the hospital bed, every breath feeling like I was inhaling wet concrete. My husband, Trent, stood by the window, more interested in his reflection in the glass than his dying wife. My sister, Cristi, sat nearby, complaining about how the rain would ruin her expensive shoes on the way to the car. Trent walked to my bedside and brushed a finger against my oxygen tube. "The liver failure is aggressive," he whispered. "But we expected that, didn't we? After all those 'vitamins' you've been taking." I tried to scream, but my vocal cords were paralyzed. Cristi just giggled, telling me not to struggle because they needed my trust fund voting power by midnight. They held up a Do Not Resuscitate order and told me my hand had "signed" it with a little help. "You were a depreciating asset, Cleora," Trent said, his lips cold against my forehead. "Now, you're finally liquidated." As the darkness swallowed me, I saw flashes of my life-my mother's suspicious car crash, my stolen sketchbooks, and the bitter almond taste in my morning juice. I died in a state of pure, helpless rage, realizing I had been murdered by the only people I ever loved. How could they be so heartless? How could I have been so blind to the monsters living in my own home? Then came the sensation of falling. I sat up with a gasp, my lungs burning with fresh, salty air. The hospital was gone. I was in a luxury stateroom on our family's charity cruise, three years before my death. I was alive, healthy, and back at the beginning. When a blood-stained billionaire named Clemente Pennington walked out of the suite's bathroom, I didn't run. I looked him in the eye and realized that this time, I wouldn't be the one liquidated. I was going to make them pay for every drop of poison they ever fed me.”