Reborn Heiress: My Ex-Fiancé's Bitter Regret

A violent cough tore through Annabelle's chest, throwing her off the edge of the rotting mattress. She hit the floor hard. The impact sent a sharp spike of pain through her collapsed lungs, cutting off her oxygen. She gasped, her fingers digging into the blood-stained bedsheets, tearing at the cheap fabric as she fought for a single breath of the freezing San Francisco air.

A sudden vibration rattled against the floorboards.

The harsh, generic ringtone of her cracked phone sliced through the dead silence of the apartment. The sound made her frail body flinch.

She gritted her teeth and dragged her upper body toward the device. A rough wooden splinter from the unfinished floorboards sliced into her index finger. A thick line of dark red blood smeared across the wood as she pulled herself forward.

Her blurred vision focused on the shattered screen. The caller ID read Axel.

The memory of her past love for him instantly twisted into a violent cramp in her stomach. Acid burned the back of her throat.

Her trembling, bruised finger tapped the green accept button.

The popping of champagne corks and the loud chatter of a high-society wedding instantly flooded the cramped, freezing room.

"Are you still breathing, Annabelle?" Axel's voice came through the speaker. His tone was cold, dripping with the arrogant charity of a Silicon Valley billionaire.

Annabelle opened her mouth to demand where her trust fund had gone, but her ruined vocal cords only produced a broken, wet wheeze.

"You really thought you were a partner, didn't you?" Axel chuckled. The sound was a physical blow to her ribs. "You were just a naive ATM. A stepping stone."

The brutal truth made her heart contract so hard it felt like a fist squeezing her organs.

She grabbed the plastic water cup beside her and hurled it at the wall. It shattered. A piece of hard plastic bounced back and sliced a shallow cut across her hollow cheek. She didn't feel the sting.

"That illegal drug scandal we pinned on you is sealed," Axel declared over the phone. "Your social execution is complete. There is no way back."

A wave of pure humiliation crashed over her. Her stomach heaved. She lurched forward and vomited a mouthful of black blood. The dark liquid soaked into the collar of her threadbare shirt, warm and sticky against her freezing skin.

A familiar, sweet laugh echoed from the receiver. Fay had taken the phone.

"Anna-banana," Fay cooed, using the childhood nickname that now sounded like a death threat. "Do you like my dress? It's the haute couture gown you designed for your own wedding. It fits me so much better."

The jealousy and betrayal fed a fire that consumed the last of Annabelle's sanity.

She reached out, her bloody fingers desperately swiping at the screen to end the call. Her muscles gave out. She collapsed back onto the freezing floor, her arm falling limp at her side.

"Oh, and one more thing," Fay dropped her voice to a vicious whisper. "Your parents' private jet crash? It wasn't an accident. Axel made sure the mechanics were very well paid."

The words acted like a sledgehammer, shattering the very foundation of Annabelle's soul.

Her eyes widened to their limits. A soundless, agonizing scream tore from her throat. The physical tearing of her vocal cords filled her mouth with the heavy taste of rusted iron.

She tried to push herself up, to crawl to the door, to find a police officer. Her legs remained entirely motionless. The severe malnutrition had completely severed the nerve connections.

Through the speaker, the sound of applause erupted. The wedding guests were cheering their vows. Every clap was a razor blade peeling away her remaining seconds of life.

Annabelle's breathing turned into shallow, irregular hiccups. The moldy ceiling above her began to recede, swallowed by massive patches of blackness closing in on her peripheral vision.

She stared unblinking at the cracked screen, at the wallpaper photo of Axel and Fay smiling. The hatred was so absolute that her fingernails sliced through the skin of her palms, drawing fresh blood.

A single tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a clean path through the grime and dried blood on her temple.

Her heart stopped. The physical silence in the room became absolute.

The phone screen flickered and died, the battery finally drained. Only the howling wind of the San Francisco night rattled the thin windowpanes.

Suddenly, a massive gravitational pull yanked at something invisible within her. Annabelle's perspective violently shifted upward.

She looked down in pure horror. She was floating near the ceiling, staring at her own emaciated, lifeless body on the floor. Her eyes were still wide open, frozen in hatred.

She reached out to touch her own cheek. Her translucent fingers passed right through the physical shell.

The agonizing pain in her lungs was gone. But the fire of betrayal burned ten times hotter in this soul state.

A heavy thud against the apartment door shattered the quiet.

Annabelle turned her head. The cheap metal lock buckled under a massive external force. A sharp snap of breaking metal echoed in the small space.

A team of heavily armed private security contractors kicked the door open. The blinding white beams of their tactical flashlights instantly illuminated the blood and filth of the room.

Surrounded by the armed men, a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the apartment. His expensive leather shoes crunched over the broken plastic on the floor. He radiated a coldness that seemed to lower the room's temperature even further.