Reborn To Crush My Ruthless Husband

The leather of the Rolls-Royce seat felt cold against Frances Salinas's back. She stared out the tinted window, watching the trees blur past as the car sped toward the Burnett estate. Her fingers gripped the edge of the tablet in her lap so tightly her knuckles turned white. The screen displayed the agenda for today's board meeting, but her mind wasn't on the corporate jargon. For months, a cold knot of dread had been tightening in her stomach, a persistent whisper that the car accident hadn't been an accident at all. It was that same unease that had prompted her to quietly hire an investigator to look into the pristine, too-good-to-be-true background of the boy they wanted her to adopt.

The driver hit the brakes.

The screech of tires against asphalt cut through the silence. Frances gasped, her body lurching forward against the seatbelt. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, frantic beat that echoed in her ears.

But it wasn't just the sudden stop. It was the flash. A violent, blinding burst of imagery that wasn't a memory.

Metal twisting. Glass shattering like a thousand diamonds. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber. And then, the cold. A freezing void that sucked the air from her lungs.

She saw the car, wrapped around a tree, flames licking at the twisted hood. And she saw him. Baron Burnett. Her husband. Standing a few feet away, his face illuminated by the fire, his eyes devoid of any emotion. Not horror. Not grief. Just cold, calculated observation.

Another figure stepped up beside him. Taller. Broader. Jagger. But not the teenager she knew. This was a man. He looked at the burning wreck, then turned to Baron, his lips moving with a chilling calm.

"The problem is solved."

Frances squeezed her eyes shut, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Sweat soaked through her silk blouse, sticking to her spine. Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat.

This wasn't PTSD. This wasn't some delayed reaction to the accident she had months ago. This was a warning. A premonition of the death they were planning for her.

"Ma'am?" The driver's voice was hesitant. "Sorry about that. A deer ran across the road."

Frances opened her eyes. The forest was still. The car was intact. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down. "It's fine," she said, her voice hoarse. "Keep driving."

She looked down at the tablet. The screen displayed the agenda for today's board meeting. Item number one: Confirmation of Legal Guardianship and Trust Inheritance Qualification for Mr. Jagger.

In her old life-the life before this waking nightmare-she had walked into that room like a puppet on strings. She had smiled, nodded, and signed the papers that invited the viper into her home. She had handed them the very weapon they would use to destroy her.

Not this time.

The car turned onto the long, winding driveway of the Burnett estate. The massive stone mansion loomed ahead, its windows like dark,