Reborn As The Billionaire's Wife：The Despised Wife Shines On Live TV

The harsh morning sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, stabbing directly into Cecile's eyes.

She gasped, her lungs pulling in air so sharply it burned her throat. Her chest heaved. She jolted awake, not from a nightmare, but from the sudden, terrifying clarity of a mind finally breaking free from months of prescription haze and psychological manipulation. The fragmented memories of her recent past—the countless times she had stared blankly past her five-year-old son, the way his small body would instinctively shrink away from her erratic outbursts—flooded her brain. These real, visceral memories were far more horrific than any bad dream. The realization that she was actively destroying her own child hit her like a physical blow, flashing behind her eyelids.

Panic, raw and suffocating, seized her throat. She kicked her legs out, tangling in the silk sheets, and scrambled out of the massive bed. Her bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor.

The heavy oak door of the bedroom creaked open.

Damien stood in the doorway. He was tiny, clutching a frayed teddy bear to his chest. His amber eyes were wide, tracking her erratic movements. When he saw her wild expression, his small shoulders instantly hiked up to his ears. He froze, his entire body trembling like a leaf caught in a winter storm.

Cecile's heart slammed against her ribs. He was alive. He was right here.

She took a desperate step toward him, her arms reaching out.

Her foot caught on something hard. An empty wine bottle spun across the floor with a loud, hollow clatter.

At the sound of the glass rolling, Damien let out a short, sharp gasp. He dropped the bear and threw both of his arms over his head, shrinking back against the doorframe. It was a textbook defensive posture. He was bracing for a hit.

The sight of his raised arms felt like a physical blow to Cecile's stomach. Bile rose in her throat. She forced her feet to stop moving. She dug her nails into her own palms until the pain grounded her.

"Damien," she whispered. Her voice shook, but she forced it to be as soft as a breath. "Damien, look at me."

Damien didn't lower his arms. He peeked through the gap between his elbows. His amber eyes were filled with deep, ingrained suspicion. He pressed his back harder against the wood of the doorframe, refusing to close the distance.

Cecile slowly sank to her knees. She ignored the cold floor seeping into her skin. She kept her hands open and resting on her thighs, making herself as small and unthreatening as possible.

"I'm not going to yell," she said, her throat tight, tears burning the backs of her eyes. "I promise you, baby. I am never going to yell at you again."

Damien's arms lowered a fraction of an inch. His brow furrowed.

Before he could process her words, three sharp, aggressive knocks hammered on the open door.

Arthur, the head butler, stepped into