Reborn As The Tycoon's Hated Ward

A sharp, splitting pain fractured the back of her skull.

Helena gasped, her lungs pulling in air so cold it burned her throat. She opened her eyes. The space around her was massive, lined with dark mahogany shelves and row upon row of expensive, custom-tailored men's suits. The scent of cedar and faint, masculine cologne filled her nose.

She looked down. Her stomach dropped.

She was wearing a black silk slip. The fabric was practically sheer, clinging to her skin. Goosebumps erupted along her arms and thighs.

Memories that did not belong to her crashed into her brain like physical blows. Helena Hancock. New York socialite. A ruined reputation. A desperate, pathetic plan to seduce her legal guardian, the head of the Hancock Group, to secure her trust fund.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was inside the romance novel she had read before falling asleep. She was the villain. And she had just executed the exact plot that got the original Helena thrown out on the street.

"Helena, your time is up. Get out."

The male voice coming from the other side of the heavy wooden door was flat. It held no anger, only a freezing, absolute authority.

Her breath hitched. That was Hayward. The Wall Street wolf. The man who could destroy her life with a single phone call.

She spun around, her bare feet slapping quietly against the hardwood floor. She needed clothes. She could not face him like this. She tore through the racks, her hands shaking so badly she could barely grip the hangers. Everything was massive. Men's dress shirts. Tuxedos.

She grabbed a heavy charcoal cashmere overcoat. She pulled it on, wrapping the thick material tightly around her small frame. The hem almost touched her ankles, swallowing her completely.

The brass doorknob turned. The click sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Helena scrambled backward, pressing her spine against the back panel of a suit rack. She held her breath until her chest ached.

The door pushed open.

Hayward stepped into the closet. He wore a white terrycloth bathrobe. Water dripped from the ends of his dark hair, landing on the collar of the robe. His jaw was locked tight. His eyes swept the room, sharp and predatory.

He did not search. He simply turned his head and locked his gaze directly on the gap between the suits where she was hiding.

He stood perfectly still. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Helena pressed her fingers into the soft cashmere seam of the coat, rubbing the fabric to ground herself. The original Helena would have cried right now. She would have thrown herself at his feet and begged.

She could not do that. She needed an excuse. A reason for being in his closet that did not involve seduction.

"Playing hide-and-seek?" Hayward asked. His voice was a low, mocking drawl. "How original."

Her brain snapped into focus. Hide-and-seek.

She stepped out from behind the rack. She let her shoulders drop. She forced