Reborn From Ashes: Divorcing The Billionaire

The thick, rough fibers of the hemp rope bit into Gene's wrists, grinding against her skin until it bled.

She could barely breathe. The heavy stench of gasoline coated the back of her throat, thick and suffocating. Her chest heaved against the concrete pillar she was tied to in the abandoned Brooklyn warehouse.

Ten steps away stood her husband, Alvie.

A masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a rusted metal barrel. The metallic clack echoed in the cavernous space.

"Choose," the kidnapper's voice was a distorted rasp. "The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."

Alvie did not hesitate. He didn't even blink.

He took long, purposeful strides toward the dark corner where Gail crouched, shivering and sobbing. He wrapped his arms around the mistress, pulling her tightly against his chest, shielding her.

Gene's cracked lips parted. She tried to scream his name, but her vocal cords were paralyzed. Only a broken, raspy exhale escaped her mouth.

Alvie guided Gail toward the rusted iron exit door. He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, Gene was already a corpse. She was trash left on the pavement.

The kidnapper let out a low, guttural laugh. He flicked a windproof lighter. The flame sparked. He tossed it directly onto the trail of gasoline soaking the concrete floor.

A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly.

It surged forward, a violent, roaring beast that swallowed Gene whole. The extreme heat vaporized the oxygen in her lungs in a fraction of a second.

The agony of her skin blistering and melting shot straight to her nerve endings. It was a pain so absolute, so blinding, that it shattered her sanity. In the center of the inferno, consumed by a hatred deeper than the flames, Gene lost all consciousness.

Gene violently jerked upward.

She shot up from the California King bed, her hands clawing desperately at the silk duvet like a drowning woman fighting for the surface. She gasped, sucking in massive, greedy lungfuls of cold, air-conditioned air.

Her entire body was drenched in a freezing sweat. Pure instinct took over. Her trembling hands flew to her face, her neck, her arms.

Smooth. Her skin was perfectly smooth. There were no blisters. No charred flesh.

The phantom sensation of burning flesh slowly dissipated, chased away by the gentle breeze of the central AC. She blinked hard, her vision clearing. She looked around the room.

It was the master bedroom of the Upper East Side penthouse. The one she and Alvie had shared four years ago, right after they got married.

Her eyes locked onto the Patek Philippe desk clock on the nightstand. The date glowing on the display was exactly four years in the past. It was the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.

Her legs tangled in the sheets as she scrambled out of bed. She stumbled, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and practically threw