Reborn To Win Back My Billionaire Husband

The tip of the fountain pen hovered over the divorce agreement.

A single millimeter of space separated Cordelia Hamilton from the end of her life. Again.

The weight of the pen in her hand felt wrong. Too light. Her fingers, long and elegant, were unfamiliar. A phantom pain, sharp and cold, shot through her chest, a memory of steel sliding between her ribs. A scream, a memory of her own death, was a ghost in her throat, threatening to break free.

She gasped, a raw, ragged sound escaping before she could stop it, that tore through the suffocating silence of the office.

Her hand jerked. The pen clattered against the mahogany desk. A bottle of expensive black ink overturned, bleeding across the crisp white paper. It spread like a dark, accusing tear, swallowing the line where her name was supposed to go.

Cordelia Hamilton.

"For God's sake," Chandler's lawyer, a man whose name she couldn't remember, muttered under his breath. He looked at her with pure, unadulterated annoyance. He thought this was a tactic. A delay.

Chandler's gaze, however, was worse. It was a physical force, cold and heavy. It landed on her, and she felt the air leave her lungs.

"Cordelia, stop the theatrics."

His voice. It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was nothing. A flat, dead thing that cut deeper than any shout could.

Theatrics. He thought this was a performance.

He thought she was the same woman who had walked into this room ten minutes ago. A woman who would burn down her own life for a man who had left her to die in a cold, dark alley.

The memory slammed into her, a tidal wave of pain and regret. The betrayal of her lover, Chace Mack. The chilling smile of her stepsister, Annalise. The loss. Oh, God, the loss of her son, Case. The loss of this man in front of her, the man she had pushed away until he had nothing left to give.

Everyone in this room, everyone in New York, believed she was here, making a scene, to force Chandler into paying Chace's $300 million debt. They thought her heart was breaking for the wrong man.

Her heart wasn't breaking. It was screaming.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and real. She pushed herself up from the chair, her legs trembling. The long mahogany table felt like a canyon between them. She started to walk around it, each step an agony, a pilgrimage back to the man she'd already lost once.

The lawyer shifted, ready to intercept her.

"Let her," Chandler said, his voice unchanged. A single, dismissive wave of his hand stopped the other man. He wanted to see the show. He wanted to watch her humiliate herself one last time.

She stopped in front of his chair. He didn't look up at her, his eyes fixed on the ink-stained document. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, a scent that was once her home.

"Chandler," she