Reborn To Ruin My Cheating Fiancé

The harsh smell of industrial bleach burned Isabella's nostrils.

She opened her eyes. The ceiling was no longer gold and white, but a sterile, flat acoustic tile. A cold, sticky gel pressed against her chest, connecting her to a heart monitor that beeped with a slow, agonizing rhythm.

A nurse in blue scrubs stood next to the bed, checking an IV bag. She didn't look at Isabella. Her face was set in a tight, judgmental line.

Isabella tried to sit up. A sharp, pulling pain radiated from her scalp. She reached up with a trembling hand. Her fingers brushed against thick, rough medical gauze wrapped tightly around her forehead.

She turned her head. A flat-screen TV hung on the pale green wall opposite her bed.

The screen displayed the logo of a local New York news station. The banner at the bottom flashed in bold red letters: BREAKING NEWS.

The camera angle showed a brightly lit press conference room. Isabella recognized it immediately. It was the Conrad family's corporate PR headquarters.

Kaylie stood at the podium. She wore a modest, high-necked black dress. She gripped a crumpled tissue in her hand, dabbing at her eyes as she leaned into the microphone.

"For months, I suffered in silence," Kaylie said, her voice shaking perfectly. "Isabella used her position to mentally abuse me. She told me I was trash. She told me I would never belong in my own family."

Isabella's stomach twisted. The monitor beside her bed beeped faster.

On the screen, Ivor stepped into the frame. He wore a tailored navy suit. He gently placed a hand on Kaylie's back, projecting absolute strength and support. He pulled the microphone toward himself.

"Effective immediately, the Craig family is officially terminating our engagement with Isabella," Ivor announced, his voice deep and resolute.

He turned his head and looked down at Kaylie. His eyes softened. "Kaylie is the true heart of this family. She is the one I want to protect. She is the one I should have been with all along."

The press room erupted. Camera flashes strobed on the TV screen, mimicking the nightmare in the hotel room.

In the hospital bed, Isabella's hands curled into fists. She gripped the thin white hospital sheet so tightly her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white. Her fingernails bit into her palms.

The camera panned to the side of the podium. Dorman Conrad stepped forward.

Isabella's breath hitched. Her adoptive father. The man who had taught her how to ride a horse, how to read a stock ticker.

Dorman's face was a mask of stone. His eyes were dead, reflecting only the cold calculus of a Wall Street CEO. He held up a thick stack of papers stamped with the red seal of the Conrad legal department.

"The Conrad family does not tolerate malicious behavior," Dorman stated, his voice booming through the television speakers. "We are officially severing all ties with Isabella. She is no longer a part of this family."

He didn't blink. He didn't show a single ounce of regret.

"Furthermore," Dorman continued, "my legal team has frozen and revoked all trust funds, assets, and properties previously held in her name. She is on her own."

Isabella's chest tightened as if a steel band were crushing her ribs. Her eyes burned. The tears pooled, hot and stinging, but she locked her jaw. She refused to let them fall. She would not cry for them.

She looked down at her left hand. The clear plastic IV tube pumped fluids into her vein.

She reached over with her right hand, grabbed the plastic hub of the needle, and pulled it out with a quick, clinical motion. A single bead of dark blood welled up from the puncture wound, dropping onto the pristine white bedsheet like a stark, glaring period at the end of a long, tragic sentence. Isabella didn't even flinch at the minor sting. The physical discomfort was entirely negligible, a mere phantom compared to the suffocating agony crushing her chest. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor.

She grabbed her personal cell phone from the metal bedside table. Her fingers smeared a drop of blood onto the glass screen. She quickly dialed Dorman's private number.

The line clicked, routing immediately to an automated system. "The person you are trying to reach is not accepting calls at this time. Please leave a message after the tone."

The sterile, corporate dismissal was like a slap to the face.

She hung up and dialed Harriett's number. Her adoptive mother. The woman who used to brush her hair every night.

The phone rang exactly once before a sharp beep signaled the call was rejected. A second later, the screen showed the number was blocked.

Isabella slowly lowered the phone. The screen went black, reflecting her pale, bandaged face. Twenty years of family dinners, of piano recitals, of whispered secrets. All of it was a transaction. And her account was overdrawn.

She stood up. Her knees wobbled, but she locked them into place.

She grabbed the thin, bleach-scented hospital gown jacket from the chair and shoved her arms into the sleeves. She didn't care that the back was open. She didn't care that she was bleeding.

She took one step toward the elevator at the end of the hall, but her knees buckled. A wave of blinding nausea washed over her, and the corridor tilted violently on its axis. She collapsed back against the wall, clutching her heavily bandaged head as a fresh, agonizing spike of pain lanced through her fractured skull. Her vision pulsed with every heartbeat, fading in and out of a dark, staticky gray. She wasn't going anywhere. Her body was broken, trapped in this sterile cage.

With trembling, blood-smeared fingers, she raised the phone again. Her mind fought through the thick, suffocating fog of a severe concussion. She needed help. She needed eyes on the outside. She scrolled past the blocked numbers of her former family and found the contact for Leo, a fiercely loyal subordinate she had secretly mentored at the firm. She typed out a frantic, fragmented text message: Drugged. Framed at Waldorf. Need hotel security footage. Need Ivor's phone data. Don't trust Dorman. She hit send, watching the tiny green bar load across the screen.

The moment the 'Delivered' notification appeared, the last shred of her adrenaline evaporated. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto the linoleum floor. The agonizing pain radiating from her head finally overwhelmed her fractured consciousness. She slid down the wall, and the darkness rushed in, pulling her completely under.