Reborn Heiress: Reclaiming My Monster Billionaire

Ginny's hands trembled violently. She raised her trembling fingers and pressed them against her cheek. Her skin was smooth.

She looked down at her knees. She was wearing a cheap neon pink sequined slip dress. The rough synthetic fabric was digging painfully into her thighs. The sight sent a chill down her spine, as if her skull had been pierced.

A loud, mocking laugh came from the front seat.

Ginny suddenly looked up.

In the rearview mirror, the driver, Silas, was staring at her. A cold smile curled his thin lips. His gaze swept over her cheap dress without any attempt at concealment, like a man glancing at trash on the sole of a shoe. He shook his head slightly and turned his gaze back to the road.

Ginny reached out and ripped off the sun visor, then opened the vanity mirror.

A clown looked back at her.

Her face was covered in a thick layer of cheap, chalky foundation, three shades lighter than her actual skin tone. Heavy black eyeliner smudged, giving her a panda-like appearance. Her lips were adorned with a sticky, fluorescent pink lipstick that clashed horribly with her dress. The entire makeup look was bizarre, and deliberately so.

Those memories struck her brain like a heavy blow.

She felt as if she were eighteen again. That day, she was taken from the trailer park to the Steele family manor in Silicon Valley. Coretta sent a "professional makeup artist" to the motel where Ginny had stayed the previous night. The woman painted an ugly mask on her face, handed her a tacky dress, and sweetly proclaimed it was the most fashionable attire in high society. Desperate and naive, Ginny actually believed it. She entered the Steele mansion looking like a cheap street prostitute, and all the servants—led by Coretta—kicked her out of her room. This marked the beginning of the destruction of her social career.

Ginny's hands hung limply on her knees, her fingers curled up. Her neatly trimmed nails dug deep into her palms, splitting the skin and drawing a small drop of blood.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the sharp, piercing sensation. She slowly inhaled, held her breath for three heartbeats, and then hissed out through her teeth. She sealed away her burning rage and Bedford's bloodstained face in a tightly closed box in the center of her chest.

When she opened her eyes again, the panic had vanished. Her deep pupils were flat, cold, and sharp as knives.

She raised her hand and pounded the back of Silas's leather headrest with her knuckles.

“Stop at the rest stop a mile ahead.” Her voice was low and devoid of emotion.

Silas glanced in the rearview mirror and rolled his eyes. "No way. Mrs. Anyanet is waiting. We're pressed for time."

Ginny leaned forward, closing the distance between them until her face was almost pressed against the back of the seat. She unleashed the powerful aura she had honed through ten years of brutal workplace struggles into the cramped carriage. It was a cold, overwhelming sense of pressure, undeniably present.

“I told you,” she said in a low, dangerous voice, “pull the car over to the side of the road. Now.”

Silas's hand jerked, gripping the steering wheel. His brow furrowed, his mind racing, trying to process this sudden shift. The complaining, bewildered girl from this morning was gone. In her place was a cold, heavy, chilling sense of authority. It was utterly unbelievable. How could a poor kid from a trailer park act like a CEO ruthlessly eliminating dissent? A chill ran down his spine, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He looked in the mirror again. The dress was still ridiculous, but her eyes—her eyes belonged to an assassin. Her suffocating gaze seemed to choke him. The instinct for survival overwhelmed all pride.

His foot moved without permission. The brake pedal sank.

The heavy Maybach slowed down, its tires screeching over gravel, and veered off the highway, rolling into the parking lot of a public rest stop.

As soon as the car came to a stop, Ginny flung open the heavy door. Her cheap high heels pinched her toes painfully, and she stepped into the scorching California sun, but she didn't stumble. She slammed the door shut and strode toward the low, brick bathroom building.

Inside the car, Silas slammed his fist on the steering wheel, cursing under his breath as he wondered what had crawled into his back seat.

Ginny pushed open the heavy glass door, and a pungent smell of cheap pine disinfectant hit her. She walked straight to a row of stainless steel sinks, put her hands under the sensor faucets, and let the cold water wash over her skin. She cupped her hands around the cold water and splashed it forcefully on her face.

She opened the hand sanitizer bottle, and a puddle of pink industrial hand sanitizer formed in her hand. She began to scrub, her fingers digging deep into her pores, trying to remove the heavy, oily foundation and sticky lipstick. The water flowing into the basin turned murky, tinged with a grayish-pink.

She rinsed it three times until the water ran clear.

Ginny pulled a rough, brown tissue from the tissue box and pressed it hard against her face to absorb the moisture. She put the tissue down and looked up at herself in the mirror.

Water droplets dripped down her chin. Her skin was red from being rubbed, and the marks of friction made her slightly flushed, but everything was spotless. Her true appearance came into view.