Reborn To Win Back My Billionaire Husband

The tip of the fountain pen hovered over the divorce agreement.

A single millimeter of space separated Cordelia Hamilton from the end of her life. Again.

The weight of the pen in her hand felt wrong. Too light. Her fingers, long and elegant, were unfamiliar. A phantom pain, sharp and cold, shot through her chest, a memory of steel sliding between her ribs. A scream, a memory of her own death, was a ghost in her throat, threatening to break free.

She gasped, a raw, ragged sound escaping before she could stop it, that tore through the suffocating silence of the office.

Her hand jerked. The pen clattered against the mahogany desk. A bottle of expensive black ink overturned, bleeding across the crisp white paper. It spread like a dark, accusing tear, swallowing the line where her name was supposed to go.

Cordelia Hamilton.

"For God's sake," Chandler's lawyer, a man whose name she couldn't remember, muttered under his breath. He looked at her with pure, unadulterated annoyance. He thought this was a tactic. A delay.

Chandler's gaze, however, was worse. It was a physical force, cold and heavy. It landed on her, and she felt the air leave her lungs.

"Cordelia, stop the theatrics."

His voice. It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was nothing. A flat, dead thing that cut deeper than any shout could.

Theatrics. He thought this was a performance.

He thought she was the same woman who had walked into this room ten minutes ago. A woman who would burn down her own life for a man who had left her to die in a cold, dark alley.

The memory slammed into her, a tidal wave of pain and regret. The betrayal of her lover, Chace Mack. The chilling smile of her stepsister, Annalise. The loss. Oh, God, the loss of her son, Case. The loss of this man in front of her, the man she had pushed away until he had nothing left to give.

Everyone in this room, everyone in New York, believed she was here, making a scene, to force Chandler into paying Chace's $300 million debt. They thought her heart was breaking for the wrong man.

Her heart wasn't breaking. It was screaming.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and real. She pushed herself up from the chair, her legs trembling. The long mahogany table felt like a canyon between them. She started to walk around it, each step an agony, a pilgrimage back to the man she'd already lost once.

The lawyer shifted, ready to intercept her.

"Let her," Chandler said, his voice unchanged. A single, dismissive wave of his hand stopped the other man. He wanted to see the show. He wanted to watch her humiliate herself one last time.

She stopped in front of his chair. He didn't look up at her, his eyes fixed on the ink-stained document. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, a scent that was once her home.

"Chandler," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Don't do this. Please. Don't leave me."

He finally looked up. A flicker of something-not pity, but a weary, cynical amusement-crossed his face. He'd heard this line before. He'd heard all the lines.

"The papers are already drawn, Cordelia," he said, his voice impossibly calm. "It's over."

Over.

The word echoed in the space where her soul used to be. No. Not again. She wouldn't lose him again.

Desperation was a wild animal clawing its way up her throat. She reached past him, her hand shaking, and snatched the second, clean copy of the agreement from the desk.

Before the lawyer could shout, before Chandler could move, she ripped it in half.

And again.

And again.

The sound of tearing paper was loud, violent, in the quiet room. White scraps fluttered to the floor around her feet like dead confetti.

The lawyer's jaw was on the floor.

Chandler's eyes widened, his pupils dilating in shock. This was new. This was not in the script he'd imagined.

But she knew it wasn't enough. A tantrum would be seen as a threat, a negotiation tactic. She had to do something the old Cordelia, the foolish, selfish Cordelia, would never, ever do.

She had to show him.

In the split second of his shock, she moved. She lunged forward, her fingers tangling in the silk of his tie, and pulled.

He was yanked from his chair, his face a mask of disbelief. She rose on her toes, clumsy and frantic, and pressed her mouth to his.

His lips were cold. Stunned. For a moment, he was completely still, a statue of surprise. Her kiss was a mess of salt and sorrow, of chapped lips and the desperate, trembling force of a woman who had come back from the dead. It was nothing like the careless, performative pecks she'd given him for years. This was a drowning woman's last grasp for air.

He could feel the frantic, terrified thud of her heart against his chest. He could taste the raw despair on her lips.

And his mind screamed one word: Performance.

A violent shudder went through him. He shoved her away. Hard.

The force sent her stumbling backward, her heel catching on the rug. She nearly fell, catching herself on the edge of the desk. The rejection was a physical blow, knocking the breath from her body.

He stood there, breathing heavily, his hand coming up to wipe his mouth as if her kiss were poison. Disgust and confusion warred in his eyes. But what truly unsettled him was that for a terrifying second, it hadn't felt like a performance. The despair was too raw, the terror in her heartbeat too real. This must be her new masterpiece, he thought, a three-hundred-million-dollar kiss designed to make him lose his mind. This was how much she wanted the money for Chace. She was willing to do this. The thought made his stomach turn.

He straightened his tie, a sharp, angry tug that put the world back in its place. His composure returned, a mask of ice locking over his features.

"We're done for today," he said to the stunned lawyer, not looking at Cordelia. "Reschedule."

The lawyer, flustered, scrambled to gather his papers, stuffing them into his briefcase and practically fleeing the room.

The heavy office door clicked shut, leaving the two of them alone in the wreckage. The air was thick with the scent of ink and her desperation.

Chandler walked to the door without a single backward glance. His hand rested on the brass knob.

"Cordelia," he said, his back to her. "Whatever game you're playing, it won't work. I'll give you one week. After that, my lawyers will contact you directly."

He expected a scream. A sob. A threat. The usual closing act.

He got silence. A heavy, unnerving quiet that was more unsettling than any outburst. A new game, he thought, had just begun.

Cordelia stood perfectly still amidst the scattered pieces of her broken marriage, watching the rigid line of his back.

One week.

She had one week to undo a lifetime of mistakes.

The door closed, shutting him out. And her new life, a life of vengeance and redemption, had just begun.