Billionaire's Reborn Wife

Catherine Stewart was in a lot of pain. Her throat ached and burned, and her head throbbed. She raised a hand and touched her throat—the skin felt hot and swollen beneath her fingers. She pushed gently, and a sharp pain seized her. Her hand fell down to her side, and she groaned.

For a moment, she wondered if she was dead. She was sure she'd been on the brink of death. A hazy, glimmering light had appeared in the corner of the dark prison cell, filling her body with burning pain. The light got brighter and brighter, and she shut her eyes.

But if she was dead, why was she in such pain? Had the prison director decided to save her at the last minute? She groaned and tried to move her body. Besides the pain in her throat and the aching in her head, she felt okay. The burning fever was gone, and her heart thumped a steady rhythm in her chest.

"You should have let me die," she moaned.

"Die?" a deep voice asked. "Never."

She blinked, trying to see the speaker. The voice sounded a lot like Sean Blair, but that was impossible. What would he be doing in prison? She closed her eyes. Maybe she was still hallucinating, maybe death took longer than she'd realized.

"Open your eyes, Catherine," the deep voice said. "You're not dying, and you're certainly not in prison."

She groaned—without realizing it, she'd been talking aloud again. The prison was lonely and too quiet. Talking to herself filled the dark emptiness and kept her from losing her mind in the silence.

Her eyes flickered open. A handsome face hovered just inches from hers, and she found herself staring up at Sean Blair. Though it had been years, he looked exactly the same as the last time she'd seen him: powerful jawline, smooth and shaven skin with icy blue eyes.

His face was severe and angry, but a sudden warmth flooded her. She raised a trembling hand and stroked his cheek—touched by his presence. She hadn't gotten a single visitor since arriving in prison. Sean hated her more than most but had somehow decided to visit her.

A hot flood of embarrassment rushed through her body. She knew she looked terrible. During her weekly trips to the prison showers, she managed to catch her reflection in the polished metal mirror bolted to the wall. Though she was six years younger than Sean, she knew she could pass as his mother.

"Thank you for coming to see me, Sean," she whispered. Her throat ached with each word, but she continued, "I'm so happy to see you—it means so much to me."

The icy blue eyes narrowed, and Sean asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Sorry," she whispered. "The ramblings of a dying woman filled with regret."

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Why do you keep saying that you are dying?"

"I am," she whispered. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but