Reborn Heiress: The Wall Street Titan's Bride

Ice-cold water flooded her nose and throat.

Alaia Dudley violently jerked upward, breaking the surface of the bathwater. She gasped, her mouth opening wide as she sucked in greedy lungfuls of air. Water cascaded down her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn't blink. She couldn't. Her hands gripped the porcelain edges of the tub so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

Her chest heaved. The phantom sensation of cold steel slicing through her sternum still burned in her nerve endings.

She looked down. Her trembling fingers reached for the left side of her chest. There was no jagged scar. No blood. The skin over her heart was smooth, flawless, and whole. Her fingertips brushed against the wet flesh, sending a violent shiver down her spine.

Her heart was still beating. It was still inside her body.

Alaia whipped her head toward the vanity. Her phone lay on the marble counter, the screen lighting up with a notification. She scrambled out of the tub, her wet feet slipping on the tiles, and snatched the device.

The date on the screen glared back at her. It was exactly five years ago.

Her heart skipped a beat, slamming against her ribs. The sheer absurdity of it crashed into her, followed instantly by a wave of manic, suffocating joy. She leaned heavily against the vanity, her nails digging into the marble.

Then, the memory hit her. Austen Montgomery holding her down on the operating table. The sterile lights. The scalpel. The agonizing pain of her chest being cracked open while she was still conscious.

Alaia doubled over the sink and dry-heaved. A harsh, guttural sound ripped from her throat. Her stomach cramped violently, but nothing came up.

She needed to know this wasn't a hallucination. She sank her teeth into her lower lip and bit down hard. The sharp sting of pain grounded her, and the metallic taste of fresh blood flooded her mouth. It brought a twisted, dark satisfaction to her mind. She was alive.

Faint music and the muffled roar of a Hollywood gala drifted through the heavy hotel suite doors. Alaia closed her eyes, her mind racing through the timeline.

The pieces snapped together. Today was the wrap party for Austen's latest movie. It was also the exact night he first took Evelyn Mcdowell to a hotel room behind her back.

Alaia grabbed a thick towel and roughly dragged it across her skin. The cold water droplets slid down her body, chilling her, but her eyes were no longer filled with the confusion of a dying woman. They were dark, predatory, and dead.

She dropped the towel and walked into the bedroom. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet. She moved like a leopard stalking its prey.

A red evening gown lay across the unmade bed. She snatched it up and pulled it over her head. The zipper caught at her waist. Alaia let out a cold, sharp laugh, grabbed the fabric, and yanked it up