Five Billion Dollar Bride: The Reborn Genius

Janey Roy gasped, her lungs seizing as if she had just surfaced from deep, freezing water.

Her eyes snapped open. Darkness.

A violent shiver racked her body. Her hands flew to her throat, fingers digging into the soft skin, searching for the pulse. It was there. Frantic. Erratic. Thumping against her fingertips like a trapped bird.

She wasn't dead.

The smell of burning metal and gasoline was gone, replaced by the sterile, expensive scent of conditioned leather and rain.

Janey blinked, her vision blurring and then sharpening. She wasn't in the twisted wreckage of a car on the side of a highway. She was sitting on a plush seat.

Thunder rumbled, a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards. Rain lashed against the tinted, bulletproof glass, the sound muffled and distant, like pebbles thrown against a coffin.

She looked down.

Instead of blood-soaked jeans, she saw layers of white silk and tulle. A Vera Wang custom gown. The bodice was tight, restricting her breath.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest.

She knew this dress. She knew this night.

Seven years ago.

The air in the cabin felt suddenly thin. Claustrophobia wrapped its hands around her throat. The terror was a physical thing, a shard of ice in her gut. She fought it down, shoving it into a box and locking it tight. Panic was a luxury. Survival was a calculation. She needed air. She needed to get out.

Her hand shot out, fingers scrabbing for the silver door handle.

A hand clamped around her wrist.

The grip was iron-hard, the fingers long and cold. The force of it halted her movement instantly, sending a jolt of pain up her forearm.

Janey whipped her head around.

She found herself staring into a pair of grey eyes. They were the color of a storm cloud, flat and devoid of warmth.

Austin Walton.

He was alive. The scar that would later mar his left temple wasn't there yet. His face was sharp, angular, devastatingly handsome, and twisted in a look of pure, unadulterated loathing.

"You dare open that door, Janey?"

His voice was a low rasp, metallic and scraping against her nerves.

Janey froze. Her body went rigid, a physiological response to the predator sitting inches from her. The memories of what this man-and this marriage-had done to her in her past life crashed over her.

Austin tightened his grip, mistaking her paralysis for defiance.

He shoved her hand away from the latch and leaned in, his large frame consuming the space between them. He smelled of rain and expensive scotch.

"That is asphalt moving at sixty miles per hour," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger capturing her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Do you want to die, or are you just trying to breach the contract?"

Pain flared in her jaw. The physical sensation was grounding. It cut through the fog of her confusion.

This was real.

"Remember what