Reborn General: The Tycoon's Untamed Fiancée

The city lights beyond the alley mouth were a blinding assault of garish commercialism. Towering glass monoliths pierced the smog, their digital billboards flashing advertisements for luxury watches, electric vehicles, and designer perfumes.

Justine walked along the sidewalk, her gait measured, her posture upright despite the burning exhaustion in her newly claimed muscles.

This 21st-century world was primitive compared to the antimatter-powered megacities of the Star Alliance, but it was vast, complicated, and entirely ruled by capital.

She assessed her status. Zero funds. No mobile device. Her cocktail dress was torn at the hem, splattered with street grime and flecks of Rocco's blood.

To the pedestrians hurrying beneath black umbrellas, she looked like a high-society trainwreck staggering home from a bender.

A quarter-mile ahead, traffic had ground to a complete standstill due to a multi-car collision.

Among the idling vehicles sat a midnight-black Bentley Mulsanne. Its sleek, reinforced chassis and privacy-tinted glass practically screamed old-money authority.

Through the slightly lowered rear window, Justine caught sight of a man sitting in the leather interior.

He wore a tailored charcoal-grey three-piece suit that cost more than an average family's annual income.

Gold-rimmed spectacles sat on his high nose, framing eyes as sharp and emotionless as diamond blades. He was reading a financial portfolio on an encrypted tablet, radiating an aura of cold, untouchable power.

A military commander never ignored an opportunity for tactical mobility.

Justine stepped off the curb, walked directly up to the Bentley, and tapped her knuckles twice against the tinted glass.

The window descended another three inches.

Jennings Callahan turned his head, his cold grey eyes locking onto the disheveled woman outside. The moment he registered her face, the subtle indifference on his aristocratic features hardened into sheer, frigid revulsion.

He knew that face. Every tabloid in Manhattan knew that face.

Justine. The pathetic, unhinged heiress who had made a national sport out of stalking Jared.

The woman currently bound to him by his late grandmother's dying decree—a betrothal agreement that threatened to tie his multi-billion-dollar empire to a walking public disaster.

Jennings looked at her torn dress, the dirt on her cheekbones, the faint smear of red on her knuckles.

His mind instantly constructed the scenario: she had spent the night in some degenerate dive bar chasing her ex-lover, gotten into a drunken brawl, and was now wandering the streets like a stray dog.

"Get lost," Jennings said, his voice flat, icy, and dismissive.

Justine didn't flinch. She didn't recognize him—the original Justine's shallow memories were so consumed by Jared that high-tier corporate titans like Jennings existed only as distant background noise.

But she recognized arrogance. And she knew how to play weak when resources were scarce.

She lowered her chin, letting a tremor run through her shoulders. She widened her hazel eyes, letting them pool with manufactured, helpless tears.

"Sir, please," she whispered, her voice cracking with calculated desperation. "My purse was stolen. My phone is gone. Some men tried to grab me near the pier. If I don't get to the Estes estate right now... I don't think I'll survive the night."

Jennings's fingers tightened on the edge of his tablet. Every instinct warned him not to get involved with this toxic creature.

His legal team had spent the last three weeks looking for a loophole to destroy the engagement contract without triggering the grandmother's clause.

Wait.

A cold, ruthless deduction clicked in his mind. His grandmother's trust stipulated that the betrothal could only be annulled without penalty if Justine was guilty of 'irreparable moral depravity.' If he brought her home looking like this—ruined, smelling of street vice, surrounded by the wreckage of whatever crime she'd committed tonight—her father would be forced to acknowledge her total disgrace. The scandal would be undeniable.

"Unlock the rear door," Jennings commanded coldly to his driver.

The locks clicked open. Justine slipped inside, taking the far leather corner and ensuring she didn't leave mud on his pristine upholstery.

"The Estes estate in Westchester," she murmured softly.

Jennings didn't answer. He didn't even look at her. He tapped the divider glass, raising the soundproof partition, leaving them in heavy, suffocating silence as the car bypassed the bottleneck via the shoulder lane.

Across town, inside the vaulted, marble-clad living room of the Estes mansion, the atmosphere was thick with champagne and cruel anticipation.

Darlene sat cross-legged on the silk settee, idly browsing an auction catalog while sipping Earl Grey. Her daughter, Julissa, paced back and forth, admiring her diamond manicure under the crystal chandelier.

"Mother, Rocco hasn't called yet," Julissa whined, checking her phone for the tenth time. "What if she somehow managed to run?"

Darlene laughed softly, a delicate, venomous sound. "Run where, darling? Rocco's men use horse tranquilizers.

By now, your foolish sister is either being photographed in an abandoned warehouse or she's already taking a swim in the harbor. Either way, Jared is officially yours, and the family trust stays with us."

Ding-dong.

The heavy front door chimed. A moment later, the middle-aged butler, Thomas, entered the room, carrying a silver salver. On it lay a waterlogged, pearl-inlaid music box.

"Madam, Miss Julissa," Thomas said quietly. "A courier left this at the front gate. It was addressed to Miss Julissa."

Julissa's eyes lit up with malicious glee. "It's Jared's birthday gift! Justine's stupid music box! Rocco took it from her body as proof!"

She snatched the box off the tray, laughing as she undid the clasp. "Look at this cheap trash, Mother—"

She flipped the lid open.

There was no tinkling music. Only the thick, metallic stench of fresh human blood. Resting on the white satin lining was a jagged, yellowed molar with pieces of raw gum still clinging to its root.

Julissa's victorious laugh choked in her throat. She dropped the box with a bloodcurdling shriek. It shattered against the Italian marble, and the bloody tooth bounced, rolling until it bumped against the tip of Darlene's velvet slipper.

Darlene shot to her feet, knocking her teacup to the floor, her aristocratic face draining of every drop of color.

The plan hadn't worked. Rocco hadn't sent proof of a kill. Justine was alive—and she had just mailed them a declaration of war.