Reborn Before Doomsday: The Ruthless CEO's Regret

The smell of old paper and dust filled Chloe Gates's lungs.

She gasped, a sharp, ragged intake of air that was too loud in the dead quiet of the public library. Her body jerked upright, a violent motion that sent her lukewarm coffee sloshing over the side of the mug. It spilled across the polished surface of the mahogany table.

A few patrons at nearby tables looked up, their faces etched with annoyance.

Chloe ignored them.

Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. Her breath came in short, painful bursts. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy and slick with sweat. The screen lit up, illuminating a date that made the air freeze in her throat.

October 25th.

One day left. Only one day until it's all over.

The confirmation didn't bring relief. It brought a cold, suffocating dread that was horribly familiar. This wasn't a dream. This was real.

As if on cue, a notification banner slid down from the top of the screen. National Weather Service: A severe storm warning has been issued for the tri-state area.

Chloe's vision tunneled. A storm. They called it a storm. She knew it was the gentle whisper before a global scream.

Her gaze drifted to the large window. Outside, people hurried along the sidewalk, their laughter a faint, carefree sound through the thick glass. The peaceful, idyllic scene was a brutal contrast to the images seared into her memory: New York City streets choked with rubble and desperate people, a man bludgeoning another for half a loaf of stale bread.

Her fingernails dug into her palms, the sharp crescents grounding her.

On a television mounted near the ceiling, a news anchor with a plastic smile was joking about the coming weather. "Looks like a good weekend to stock up on beer and board games, folks."

A bitter, humorless smile twisted Chloe's lips. The ignorance was staggering. It was tragic.

A couple of people nearby groaned, complaining that the storm warning would ruin their weekend plans. The chasm between their reality and hers was so vast it felt like a physical weight on her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.

Then, a vicious cramp seized her stomach.The severe ulcer she'd developed from years of starvation felt like it had traveled back in time with her. She doubled over, a strangled gasp escaping her lips.

The memory was vivid, visceral. Her, on her knees in the frozen wasteland of what was once Central Park, gnawing on tree bark so rotten it turned to mush in her mouth. The desperation. The gnawing, endless hunger.

Her body began to tremble, an uncontrollable tremor starting in her hands and spreading through her entire frame. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the coppery taste of blood a sharp, metallic shock that pulled her back from the edge of the memory.

A calm, detached voice echoed from the library's PA system. "Attention. The library will be closing in fifteen minutes for scheduled system maintenance."

Groans of frustration rippled through the room. Chloe didn't join in. She straightened up, her movements suddenly sharp and efficient. She unzipped her backpack.

She took her things. She stood up and slung her backpack over her shoulder.

As she walked toward the exit, her brain kicked into overdrive, a supercomputer calculating variables and probabilities. She mentally tallied her assets: the trust fund her parents had left her, checking accounts, emergency savings. Every liquid dollar she could access.

Her pace quickened. A list began to form in her mind, Canned goods, dried grains, water purification tablets, antibiotics. The sheer volume of what she needed was overwhelming, and the gnawing hunger was making her light-headed. A wave of dizziness washed over her as she pushed through the library's heavy inner doors and started across the grand marble floor of the atrium.

Her foot caught the edge of a rug, and her body pitched forward, gravity pulling her down toward the unforgiving stone floor. She threw her hands out, a useless instinct. A few seconds later, her face will slam heavily to the ground.

Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed her forearm tightly.

It wasn't a gentle catch. It was a vise-like grip, strong and unyielding. The force of it arrested her fall, yanking her back from the brink with a jolt that rattled her teeth. The hand was covered by a black tactical glove, the material cool and professional against her skin.

Her eyes followed the arm up the sleeve of an expensive-looking black trench coat to the man's face.

And her breath stopped.

Jacob Daniels.