Reborn Heiress: The Revenge She Deserves

Delina gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned the color of old bone. The rain was a solid gray sheet against the windshield, the wipers thrashing back and forth in a frantic, useless rhythm that matched the hammering of her heart.

She checked the rearview mirror again.

The headlights were still there. Two blinding orbs cutting through the storm, closer now than they had been ten seconds ago.

Her breath hitched in her throat, a sharp, jagged intake of air that tasted like fear and stale car ac. She pressed her foot down on the accelerator, the engine whining in protest as the speedometer climbed.

This wasn't paranoia. Paranoia didn't drive a black SUV that had been tailing her since she left the city limits. Paranoia didn't drift into her lane and then back off, toying with her.

The metallic screech of bumper against bumper tore through the noise of the storm.

Delina screamed. The sound was raw, scraped from the bottom of her lungs. Her car lurched forward, the rear tires losing traction on the slick asphalt. She fought the wheel, overcorrecting, her arms trembling violently.

It was no use. The world tilted.

Gravity shifted, pulling her sideways, then upside down. Glass exploded inward, a glittering shower of diamonds that sliced at her skin. Metal crunched with a sound like a giant stepping on a soda can.

Then, impact.

A searing pain ripped through her chest, hot and absolute. It was followed instantly by a cold so deep it felt like her blood had turned to ice water.

Darkness swallowed her vision. The sound of the rain faded into a high-pitched ring that drilled into her skull.

Then, nothing.

Or rather, something else.

Delina felt a strange weightlessness. It was a sensation of being pulled upward, like a bubble rising to the surface of a lake.

She opened her eyes.

She was hovering ten feet in the air. Below her, illuminated by the harsh yellow glow of a streetlamp, was a mangled sedan wrapped around a guardrail. Steam hissed from the crushed hood.

She looked closer. Through the shattered windshield, she saw a woman slumped over the wheel. Blood dripped from a gash on the woman's forehead, pooling on the dashboard.

Delina brought a hand to her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She looked at her hand. It was translucent, fading at the edges like smoke.

The horror paralyzed her. That was her body down there. That was her blood.

Before she could process the impossible, the scene shifted. It wasn't a fade or a cut; it was a violent yank, a magnetic force dragging her spirit through space.

She blinked, and the rain was gone.

She was in the drawing room of the Ballard Estate. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the velvet furniture. The smell of expensive perfume and old wood polish filled the air.

Florene stood by the liquor cabinet, pouring vintage champagne into two crystal