Reborn Heiress: The Wolf's Vengeance Deal

The rain lashed against the windowpane of the sanitarium, a rhythmic drumming that sounded like nails on a coffin.

Celeste Franco lay paralyzed on the stiff, white sheets.

Her body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead instead of blood.

She tried to lift a finger.

Nothing happened.

Her muscles had atrophied months ago, leaving her a prisoner in her own skin.

The door to her private room creaked open.

Her father, Elmore Franco, walked in.

He didn't look at her face.

He looked at the clipboard in his hand.

He looked at the heart monitor that beeped a steady, monotonous rhythm.

The sound was the only thing proving she was still alive.

"It's time," Elmore said to the air.

He pulled a pen from his breast pocket.

The click of the pen echoed in the silent room.

He signed the paper on the clipboard.

Do Not Resuscitate.

Celeste wanted to scream.

She wanted to thrash, to beg, to ask why.

But her throat was a dry cavern, her vocal cords useless.

Ophelia, her stepmother, stepped out from behind Elmore.

She was wearing Celeste's favorite pearl necklace.

Ophelia leaned over the bed, her perfume cloying and sweet, masking the smell of antiseptic.

"Poor little rich girl," Ophelia whispered.

She smoothed the hair back from Celeste's clammy forehead.

"You really thought it was the car accident, didn't you?"

Celeste's eyes widened, the only part of her that could still move.

"It was the tea, darling," Ophelia murmured, her lips brushing Celeste's ear. "Just like your mother. A slow, tasteless poison. It mimics heart failure beautifully."

Celeste's heart hammered against her ribs.

The monitor began to beep faster.

High-pitched.

Frantic.

Ophelia chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "And you were so blind. So worried about your wedding to Bryce. Did you really think he'd stay faithful? Daniela's boy is already seven years old. And that offshore account Bryce set up with your father's help... your inheritance paid for their little love nest in the Caymans. You paid for everything, you stupid, stupid girl."

The words were like acid, dissolving the last of her illusions. A son. A two-year-old son. The money laundering. It all crashed down on her at once.

"Stop that noise," Elmore snapped.

He reached out and yanked the cord from the wall.

The beeping died.

Silence rushed in, heavy and suffocating.

Celeste's vision began to blur at the edges.

Black spots danced in front of her eyes.

Her lungs burned for air that wouldn't come.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through her fading consciousness.

They killed her mother.

They were killing her.

The darkness swallowed her whole.

And then, she gasped.

Air rushed into her lungs, violent and sudden.

Celeste shot up in bed, her chest heaving.

She clawed at her throat, expecting to feel the phantom tube, the dryness of death.

Her skin was warm.

Her throat was smooth.

She wasn't in the sterile white room.

She was surrounded by silk sheets.

Above her hung a crystal chandelier, catching the morning light in a thousand prisms.

This was a hotel room.

A very expensive hotel room.

Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She looked at her hands.

They weren't wasted and thin.

They were manicured, the skin flush with life.

A phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She grabbed it, her fingers trembling so badly she almost dropped it.

The screen lit up.

September 12th.

Five years ago.

The day of her wedding.

Celeste stared at the date, her breath catching in her throat.

She wasn't dead.

She was back.

A low groan came from the other side of the huge bed.

Celeste froze.

Her blood turned to ice.

She turned her head slowly, the vertebrae in her neck clicking.

A man was lying next to her.

He was sprawled on his stomach, the sheet gathered at his waist.

His back was a landscape of muscle and ink, a large tattoo of a wolf spanning his shoulder blade.

He shifted, rolling onto his back.

Basile Delgado.

The enemy of the Franco family.

The man who would destroy her father's company in three years.

The man everyone called the Wolf of Wall Street.

Memories from her past life-her first life-crashed into her mind.

The night before her wedding.

She had been drugged at her bachelorette party.

She had woken up here.

She had screamed.

She had run out into the hallway wrapped in a sheet, right into a wall of paparazzi.

The scandal had stripped her of her inheritance.

It was the first domino in the line that led to her death in that sanitarium.

Basile opened his eyes.

They were storm-cloud gray, sharp and instantly awake.

There was no drowsiness in his gaze, only a cold, predatory assessment.

He looked at her like she was an intruder.

"Get out," he said.

His voice was a deep rumble, rough with sleep.

"Get out, Miss Franco."

Celeste bit her lip.

She bit it hard, until she tasted the metallic tang of blood.

The pain was grounding.

It was real.

She wasn't running this time.

She thought of Elmore pulling the plug.

She thought of Ophelia's whisper.

Fear was a luxury she could no longer afford.

She pulled the silk sheet up to her collarbone, covering her nakedness.

She met Basile's gaze.

She didn't flinch.

"No," Celeste said.

Her voice was raspy, but it didn't shake.

"I'm not leaving, Basile."