Sold To The Shadow King: Reborn Revenge

Air.

She needed air.

Gina Vincent's eyes snapped open, her lungs seizing as if an invisible hand were still crushing her windpipe. She gasped, a ragged, desperate sound that tore through the silence of the room. Her hands flew to her throat, fingers clawing at smooth, unblemished skin, expecting to feel the cold steel of a wire or the bruising grip of a murderer.

But there was nothing. Just the frantic pulse of her own carotid artery, hammering against her fingertips like a trapped bird.

Above her, a crystal chandelier glittered under the warm glow of recessed lighting. It was intricate, expensive, and terrifyingly familiar.

"Gina, darling? Are you alright?"

The voice was like oil slicking over water-smooth, viscous, and nauseating.

Gina froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow with every beat. She turned her head, the movement stiff, mechanical.

Hansford Burris stood there.

He was wearing the navy Armani suit she had picked out for him. The silk tie was perfectly knotted. His face, handsome in that polished, politician way that played so well on camera, was arranged in a mask of concern. But his eyes... his eyes were filled with a carefully constructed anguish. A flicker of something cold-true impatience-was there, but so deeply buried beneath the performance that only someone who had been killed by him could ever hope to see it.

Gina's gaze darted past him to the digital clock on the bedside table.

October 14, 9:30 PM.

The numbers burned into her retinas. The room spun. This wasn't hell. This wasn't the afterlife. This was the St. Regis Hotel in Washington D.C. This was five years ago.

This was the night her husband sold her.

"You look pale," Hansford said, stepping closer. He held two flutes of champagne, the bubbles rising in a cheerful, mocking dance. "Here. Drink this. It will help you relax. Tonight is important for me. For us."

Gina stared at the glass he extended toward her.

Her stomach lurched. She knew exactly what was in that golden liquid. A muscle relaxant strong enough to drop a horse, mixed with a hallucinogen to make her compliant, to make her memory fuzzy. In her past life-her dead life-she had drunk it. She had smiled, trusted him, and woken up broken.

She gripped the sheet beneath her, her fingernails digging into the high-thread-count cotton until she felt one of them snap. The sharp, stinging pain was a gift. It was real.

"Gina?" Hansford's tone hardened just a fraction.

She forced her lungs to expand. She forced the terror down, burying it deep in her gut where it turned into a cold, hard stone.

"I'm fine," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, unused. She cleared her throat and looked up at him. She didn't blink. "Just... nervous."

Hansford smiled, relieved. "Don't be. You know how much this means for the campaign. The Majority Leader is on board, but Director Charles is his gatekeeper. The man is a kingmaker. He needs to see