Reborn General: The Tycoon's Untamed Fiancée

The black Bentley glided smoothly through the towering iron gates of the Estes estate, crunching over the wet gravel driveway before coming to a halt before the sweeping marble staircase.

Justine reached for the door handle. Before opening it, she paused, turning her head slightly toward the silent billionaire beside her.

Her posture had completely shifted. The pathetic, shivering girl who had begged for a ride on the rain-soaked avenue was gone.

In her place sat a woman with a spine straight as a bayonet, her eyes dark, penetrating, and entirely unbothered by his wealth.

"You gave me transit when I needed an extraction," Justine said, her voice dropping into a clean, level baritone that sounded remarkably commanding. "I do not remain in debt. Whatever it is you want in this city, consider one favor owed."

Jennings looked up from his tablet, genuinely startled.

For a second, the cold arrogance on his face slipped. Those were not the eyes of an unhinged, lovesick socialite.

There was an ancient, terrifying steadiness in her irises—the look of a veteran officer who had watched cities burn and didn't care about the ashes.

Before he could speak, she pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the drizzling rain. She didn't look back once as she strode toward the brightly lit entrance of the mansion.

"Sir?" the driver murmured from the front. "Should I notify Mr. Sterling that she has arrived safely?"

Jennings stared at her retreating silhouette through the raindrops on the glass, a deep furrow forming between his dark eyebrows. "No. Tell Sterling to hold the draft. And put an intelligence team on her. Something about her... isn't matching the file."

Inside the mansion, the air was ready to detonate.

Victor Estes stood by the fireplace, his heavy face flushed red with bourbon and rage.

Darlene was weeping softly into a linen handkerchief, while Julissa sat on the sofa, shivering hysterically with a glass of brandy in her hands. On the coffee table lay the shattered remnants of the pearl music box and the solitary, blood-caked tooth.

"This is an outrage!" Victor bellowed, slamming his fist onto the mahogany mantelpiece. "To send such a disgusting, violent threat to her own sister! She has completely lost her mind!"

"Daddy, she's going to kill me!" Julissa wailed. "She found out that Jared came to dinner last night, and she snapped! She hired mafia thugs to intimidate me!"

Darlene sniffled delicately, leaning into Victor's chest. "Victor, you have to be firm this time. Justine has crossed the line into criminality. If the press finds out about this... the Callahan family will cancel the betrothal contract immediately. Our stock will collapse."

SLAM.

The heavy front double doors swung open, banging hard against the foyer walls.

Justine walked into the room.

Her hair was damp, plastered against her neck. Her cocktail dress was torn at the shoulder, streaked with oil and blood. Yet she didn't slink inside with her head hung low.

She walked into the vaulted room like a conqueror entering a captured bunker.

"Justine!" Victor roared, his veins bulging against his collar as he marched toward her. "Look at you! Crawling back from whatever filthy gutter you've been rolling in, looking like a common tramp! And you have the audacity to send this... this butcher's scrap to terrorize your sister?"

He pointed a shaking, furious finger at the coffee table.

Justine didn't stop. She didn't even look at the bloody tooth. She walked straight past her screaming father, ignored Darlene's gasps, and sank effortlessly into the large leather wingback armchair at the head of the room—the chair that historically belonged exclusively to Victor.

She crossed one slender leg over the other, resting her elbows on the armrests, and looked at the three of them with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing lab rats.

The utter disrespect left Victor paralyzed in mid-sentence.

"You speak of terror, Father?" Justine said, her voice quiet, resonant, and entirely free of panic.

She turned her gaze slowly toward Julissa. The younger girl shrank back against the sofa cushions, an icy prickle of sheer dread crawling over her skin.

"My dear little sister," Justine continued, a slow, razor-edged smile touching her lips. "If I had decided to terrorize you tonight, that tooth wouldn't belong to a nameless thug in an alleyway.

It would be yours. And you wouldn't be sitting here drinking brandy—you would be in the trauma ward, begging the surgeons to let you die."

The living room went dead silent. Even the grandfather clock seemed to tick quieter.

Victor's breath hitched. Darlene's fake tears froze on her cheeks.

The woman sitting in that armchair wasn't the weak, desperate girl they had kicked around for years.

She was a predator. And she had just marked them as prey.