Reborn Heiress: Breaking The Toxic Engagement

A blast of white light shot through Candice Luna's eyelids.

The smell of antiseptic, sharp and sterile, flooded her nose, burning all the way down into her lungs. She gasped, a ragged, desperate sound, and her eyes flew open.

The beeping of a monitor next to her bed sped up, a frantic rhythm matching the panic seizing her chest. The ceiling was a blur of white. The fluorescent lights felt like surgical lamps, pinning her to the bed, judging her.

Then the memories came. Not a trickle, but a high-voltage current that seized her brain.

Julius.

His face, cold and impassive, as he slid the divorce papers across a mahogany desk. The sharp edge of the paper hitting her cheek when she refused to take them.

Amina Rowe, nestled in Julius's arms, a triumphant, mocking smile on her lips. A smile that felt like a poisoned blade twisting in Candice's gut.

Her father, Silas Luna. His hair, once dark and full of life, now thin and shockingly white. His silhouette against the skyline, standing on the rooftop of the bankrupt Luna Group building, just before he stepped off.

The whispers and pointed fingers on Wall Street. The humiliation of being demoted from wife to mistress in the eyes of the world.

"No."

The word was a choked sob, a desperate plea. She clawed at the hospital sheets, her knuckles turning white, the starched cotton twisting into ropes in her fists. A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat, the sound of an animal caught in a trap.

A nurse rushed in, her soft-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor. "Miss Luna, calm down. Let me check your blood pressure."

The nurse's hand was cool on her arm, but Candice flinched as if burned. She shoved the hand away, a wild, instinctual rejection.

"Miss Luna, you were in a car accident. You've been unconscious," the nurse said, her voice a mix of surprise and professional calm.

The words cut through the storm in her head. Car accident.

Candice froze. Her breathing was still ragged, but her eyes started to focus. She slowly, hesitantly, lowered her gaze to her own hands.

They were pale, with long, slender fingers. But they were unmarred. No scars from that broken wine glass. The skin was smooth, young.

Her eyes darted around the room, landing on a digital clock on the bedside table. It displayed the date. A date from three years ago.

Three years before the wedding. Before the bankruptcy. Before her father's death.

She was twenty-two again.

The realization hit her not with joy, but with a violent, full-body tremor. It was real. This wasn't a memory or a dream. It was a second chance. A wave of relief so powerful it felt like nausea washed over her.

Just then, the handle of the hospital room door turned.

A man in a tailored suit stepped inside. Julius Hansen's personal assistant. He held a bouquet of blue roses, the same impossible, genetically engineered shade that