Reborn To Divorce My Billionaire Husband

Evangeline stepped from the relative shelter of the awning back into the relentless downpour. The cold seeped through her silk dress, a chilling embrace. She pulled open the rear door of the Maybach, but she didn't get in.

Instead, she turned.

Her eyes found Catalina, who was now nervously wiping down the counter she had just spilled coins on.

"Hey!" Evangeline's voice cut through the sound of the rain, sharp and commanding.

Inside the car, Kellan looked up from his iPad, his brow furrowing in annoyance at this new delay. He saw his wife, soaked and disheveled, shouting at a convenience store clerk.

Catalina looked up, startled. She pointed a tentative finger at her own chest, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear.

"Yes, you," Evangeline called out, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Do you need a ride? It's coming down hard."

Catalina took a few hesitant steps toward the door, stopping just inside the frame. She glanced at the sheets of rain, then at the impossibly luxurious car, and finally back at the strange, beautiful woman beckoning to her. She shook her head, wringing her hands in her apron. "No, thank you, ma'am. I'll be fine. My bus stop is just around the corner."

"Don't be ridiculous," Evangeline said, her voice taking on a sharp edge of impatience. "A girl waiting for a bus alone in this weather, in this part of town? You'll catch your death, or worse." It was a perfect piece of emotional blackmail, wrapped in a veneer of concern.

From inside the car, Kellan's voice was a low, cold rumble. "Evangeline, what are you doing? Get in the car." He did not entertain strangers. He especially did not entertain strangers who smelled of cheap air freshener and desperation.

Evangeline ignored him completely.

She closed the distance to the doorway in three long strides, her heels clicking ominously on the wet pavement. Before Catalina could protest further, Evangeline took hold of her thin wrist. The girl's skin was cold and clammy.

"Come on," she said, her grip firm. It wasn't a request.

She pulled the half-resisting, half-stunned Catalina out into the rain and toward the car. She wrenched open the front passenger door and, with a firm push on the small of Catalina's back, bundled the girl inside.

Then, Evangeline walked calmly back to her own door, slid into the plush leather seat, and shut it with a solid, definitive thud.

Silence descended upon the car.

It was a thick, suffocating silence, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers. The air was suddenly heavy with the scent of Catalina's vanilla body wash, a sweet, cloying fragrance that was a violent assault on the car's subtle, expensive leather-and-wood scent.

Kellan's jaw was so tight it looked like it might crack. With a sharp, disgusted motion, he pressed the button to lower his window an inch, letting the cold, damp air rush in.

The driver, Ben, cleared his throat, his eyes darting nervously in the rearview mirror. "Mrs. Mason? Where to?"

Evangeline leaned back against the headrest, a picture of serene composure. "Ask our guest," she said, her voice smooth. "Where do you live, Catalina?"

The girl in the front seat flinched at the use of her name. She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller. "Um, Brooklyn," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She gave an address in a neighborhood known for its crumbling pre-war buildings and high crime rate.

Kellan finally snapped.

He closed his iPad with a sharp crack that made both Catalina and Ben jump. "Evangeline," he said, his voice dangerously low, each word a chip of ice. "What in the hell do you think you're playing at?"

She met his furious gaze in the mirror, her own eyes cool and unreadable. "I'm performing a random act of kindness, Kellan. It's a concept you capitalists might find foreign. Consider it my charity for the evening."

The barb hit its mark. A muscle feathered in his cheek. His eyes turned from cold to glacial. This was not his wife. His wife was pliant, predictable. This woman was a stranger, armed with a sharp tongue and an agenda he couldn't begin to fathom.

In the front seat, Catalina looked like a trapped animal. She opened her mouth to say something, perhaps to apologize for the trouble, but Evangeline cut her off.

"Ben, you have the address. Please proceed."

With a resigned sigh, Ben put the car in drive. The Maybach executed a smooth, silent U-turn, heading away from the glittering towers of Midtown and toward the distant, gritty lights of Brooklyn. Away from the life they were supposed to be living.

Kellan stared out the window, his reflection a mask of cold fury. But after a moment, his gaze shifted, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, landing on the reflection of the girl in the passenger seat.

It was a brief, dismissive glance, filled with annoyance and contempt.

Catalina, at that exact moment, dared to look up, her own frightened eyes meeting his in the mirror. The intensity of his cold stare was like a physical blow. She gasped softly and immediately dropped her gaze to her lap, where she began pleating the damp fabric of her uniform.

Evangeline saw it all. The first spark. The first connection, however hostile. A small, cruel smile touched her lips. She pulled out her phone, pretending to check her messages. Under the guise of typing a reply, she opened her notes app.

Step one: Introduction. Complete.

The atmosphere in the car grew colder with every passing block. Kellan reached up and, with a single, vicious tug, loosened his tie as if it were choking him. He pulled out his own phone and dialed his assistant.

"The gala," he clipped out, no preamble. "Cancel it. Tell them I've been unavoidably detained."

Listening to him dismantle their evening, a wave of pure, unadulterated triumph washed over Evangeline. She had derailed the night. She had changed the script.

The car crossed the bridge into Brooklyn. The gleaming skyscrapers gave way to graffiti-covered brick walls and rundown storefronts. And she, Evangeline, had just built a bridge right across it.