Reborn To The Wife of a Billionaire with Disabilities

Eileen Wolf opened her eyes. The movement felt like dragging sandpaper across her corneas.

The sour stench of fermented grapes and stale perfume coated the back of her throat. It triggered a violent heave in her stomach. She rolled to the side, her bare shoulder hitting the mattress.

Expensive haute couture dresses lay scattered across the thick wool carpet like discarded rags. Empty liquor bottles caught the dim light, forming a chaotic obstacle course on the floor.

A sharp, stabbing pain pierced the center of her skull. It was a physical intrusion.

Memories that did not belong to her forced their way into her brain tissue. They were the pathetic, desperate moments of a marginalized Hollywood actress. The sheer volume of the data made her vision blur. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, digging her fingernails into her scalp until the pain grounded her.

She pushed herself off the mattress. Her bare feet hit the cold, heavy carpet.

She stumbled toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror near the wardrobe. The face staring back at her was striking, even under the heavy, smeared smoky makeup. The skin was pale, the cheekbones sharp. It was a face built for high-definition cameras, currently ruined by bad choices.

A piercing wail of police sirens cut through the glass.

Shouting voices followed, a chaotic hum rising from the street below. Eileen moved to the window. Her muscles felt stiff, uncoordinated. She hooked a single finger through the blinds and pulled them down just a fraction.

The entrance of the Beverly Hills hotel was swarming.

Dozens of paparazzi crushed against the barricades. Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights, turning the dark street into blinding daylight. She could hear the distinct, aggressive shouts of reporters demanding answers about her cheating scandal.

She let the blind snap shut.

Turning back to the ruined bed, she dug through a pile of discarded silk garments. Her fingers brushed against cold metal. A smartphone was vibrating violently against the mattress.

She picked it up. The screen was a mess of notifications. Hundreds of unread messages stacked on top of each other. The Twitter icon displayed a bright red bubble with a four-digit number. Her name was sitting at the number one trending spot, permanently linked to the words 'hotel' and 'affair'.

Eileen let out a short, dry laugh.

Her chest did not tighten. Her breathing did not accelerate. The hysterical panic that the original owner of this body would have felt was completely absent. She tossed the phone back onto the bed. It landed with a soft thud.

Three heavy, rhythmic knocks struck the solid mahogany double doors of the suite.

The sound was hard. Unforgiving. It carried the weight of someone who did not expect to be kept waiting.

Eileen took a slow breath. The air filled her lungs, expanding her ribcage. She reached down and grabbed a beige trench coat off the sofa. She swung it over her shoulders, wrapping the thick fabric tightly around her exposed