Reborn Heiress: The CEO's Revenge Bride

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.