Reborn Heiress: Reclaiming My Monster Billionaire

Ginny stared at her reflection. Without the chalky mask and neon smears, her face was striking. High, sharp cheekbones. Dark, almond-shaped eyes framed by naturally thick lashes. Her lips, scrubbed clean, were a soft, natural rose. It was a face that commanded attention. Not pity.

She pulled another paper towel from the dispenser and slowly wiped the remaining water from her neck.

A sudden, muffled groan broke the silence.

Ginny's hands stopped. The paper towel hovered inches above the trash can. Her body went perfectly still. Her dark eyes flicked to the reflection of the bathroom stalls behind her. The sound had come from the large handicap stall at the very end.

She dropped the paper towel. She shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet and moved soundlessly across the tiled floor, the cheap heels making no noise. She pressed her back flat against the wall beside the stall door.

Through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, she saw three figures.

Two massive men in black leather jackets, their thick necks crawling with dark tattoos, were pinning a young man against the tiled wall. The young man had messy blond hair and a sharp, expensively-bred jaw. One thug had a thick rag clamped over the blond boy's mouth and nose. The kid was thrashing, but his movements were growing sluggish and uncoordinated. The chemical was dragging him under.

The thug holding the rag let out a low, ugly chuckle. "Stop fighting it, rich kid. Your daddy's company is gonna pay a fortune to get you back in one piece." He shifted his grip, ready to heave the unconscious boy over his shoulder.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. The muscles in her thighs coiled tight.

Her mind knew the Krav Maga sequences perfectly—every strike, every pivot—but a flicker of cold reality cut through the adrenaline. This eighteen-year-old body was soft, underfed, utterly unconditioned. She couldn't rely on power. She had to rely entirely on flawless technique, leverage, and absolute surprise. She pivoted on her left foot, raised her right leg, and kicked the stall door with every ounce of force her current frame could produce.

The heavy metal door flew inward and slammed directly into the thug's spine. Bone met metal with a sharp crack.

The thug grunted, dropped the rag, and stumbled forward. The blond boy slid down the wall, gulping air, eyes rolling back.

The thug spun around. His face twisted into a mask of pure rage when he saw the girl in the pink dress standing in the doorway. "Get out of here, you stupid bitch!" he roared.

Ginny didn't retreat. She stepped fully into the stall.

She closed the distance in a heartbeat, flowing into the Krav Maga footwork she'd spent a decade drilling. She dropped her center of gravity, twisted her hips, and drove her right elbow straight up into the soft tissue of the thug's throat.

The strike was precise. Brutal.

The thug's eyes bulged. His hands flew to his neck, clawing uselessly. A horrible, wet choking sound gargled from his mouth as his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the filthy tiles, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

The second thug snapped into motion. He bent, pulled a black-handled switchblade from his combat boot, and pressed the release. Six inches of steel snapped out with a cold, sharp click.

He lunged, thrusting the blade straight at Ginny's face.

Ginny didn't blink. She tilted her head a fraction to the left. The blade sliced through the air, missing her cheek by a millimeter. She felt the cold whisper of steel against her skin.

Before he could retract his arm, her hands shot up. Her left hand clamped onto his wrist, thumb driving hard into the nerve cluster. Her right hand locked around his forearm. She twisted her entire body, using his own momentum against him. She wrenched his arm outward at a brutal, unnatural angle.

A loud, wet snap cracked through the stall.

The thug screamed. His fingers went limp, and the switchblade tumbled from his grip.

Ginny caught it by the handle before it hit the floor. She didn't use the blade. She flipped the knife in her hand, gripping the blade flat against her palm, and slammed the heavy metal butt of the handle directly into his temple.

The man's eyes rolled white. He dropped like a sack of wet cement, landing in a crumpled heap beside his partner.

Silence fell, broken only by the boy's ragged, desperate breathing.

The blond boy slumped against the toilet bowl, forcing his heavy eyelids open. His vision was a blur of swimming shapes, but he could see her—the girl standing over two unconscious giants. She looked like something carved from light, but she moved like a demon.

Ginny looked down at the switchblade in her hand. She wiped the handle clean on the thug's leather jacket and tossed it casually over her shoulder. It clattered into the metal trash can in the corner.

She glanced down at her neon-pink dress. The fabric had bunched at the waist. She gripped the hem and pulled it down, smoothing the cheap sequins into place.

She didn't look at the young man. She didn't ask if he was okay. She didn't care.

A sharp, burning ache shot up her right arm as the adrenaline began to fade. Her muscles trembled slightly under the pink fabric. This body was far from its peak; the impact had nearly bruised her own bones. Ginny ignored it. She turned and walked out of the stall, the sharp click-clack of her heels echoing through the bathroom.

The young man stared at the empty doorway, chest heaving, and burned the image of her face into his sluggish, oxygen-starved brain.

Ginny pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped back into the blinding California sun.