Reborn Heiress: Escaping The Billionaire's Cage

The rhythmic, cold buzzing is the first thing that pierces the fog. It was Sloan Kensington's body that caught it before consciousness could react—every buzzing sound was like a nail, driving hard into her skull. A breath stuck in the throat, producing a rough, damp sound with the smell of rust, along with another pungent, burnt plastic-like smell. Her limbs felt like they were loosely jointed, like a pile of tattered parts barely held together by skin.

She forced herself to open her eyelids. His eyelids felt as heavy as if filled with lead. The room gradually became clear—luxurious, indifferent, cold. This is a private suite on the top floor of New York Presbyterian Hospital. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan's skyline appears as a blurred shadow beneath the dim sky. Car accident. It crashed back into her memories with the harsh sound of tires scraping and the flashback of shattered glass.

The door slid open silently, barely audible amid the constant buzzing. What she looks forward to is her family. She prayed for her family. But the woman who walked in was Belinda Melton—her best friend, a former close friend—dressed in a Chanel tweed suit, radiant. Sloan recognized it as the new model of the season.

"Sloane, my dear." Belinda's voice was as sweet as honey, wrapped in sympathy, but when her gaze swept over Sloan's broken body, a glimmer of victory flickered in her eyes—sharp and cold, like ice. This contrast made something colder than an intravenous drip tremble through Sloan's veins.

Sloane tried to speak, tried to ask questions, tried to scream. But all that came out was a dry, hoarse hiss. Her throat felt as if it had been scraped by sandpaper.

"Don't push yourself, Sloan." Belinda lowered her voice, turning into a conspiratorial whisper. "The doctor said you might not make it through today."

She straightened up, watching the shock spread in Sloan's eyes—a faint, satisfied smile appeared on her perfectly painted lips. "You don't really think that accident was an accident, do you? Oh, you're always so innocent and adorable. ”

Those words hit Sloan's already battered body like fists.

"Of course the brakes were tampered with." Belinda continued as she examined her manicures. "Colleen Austin found the man. For this life-changing service, the price is surprisingly cheap. ”

Colleen. Belinda. She was the most trusted two people in the world. A choked sob escaped from Sloan's lips. Why?

Belinda's smile grew wider. She stroked her lower abdomen—beneath the fitted jacket, there was a faint, barely visible curve. "Because you're blocking the way. Braxton and Me ...... We fell in love. I was pregnant with his child. She paused, letting the weight of those words sink down. The Duke family needs a healthy heir, Sloan. Not something fragile like you—always one step away from collapsing. ”

Braxton. Her fiancé. A man she had known since childhood. The pain in her chest did not come from a broken rib—it was her heart, which was shattering.

But Belinda hadn't finished speaking. She seems to enjoy playing the role of the revealer of cruel truths. "And your parents?" Your dear brother Caleb? And it's not just a random drunk driver. ”

Sloan's already shattered world began to completely collapse.

"That driver is paid to do the job." Belinda spoke in a relaxed tone, as if discussing the weather. "Taking money to drive them out of the streets. This way, the Duke family could more easily acquire Kensington's assets when the industry was in turmoil. What a bargain. ”

The monitor's buzzing became frenzied—sharp, hysterical screams echoing the cries trapped in Sloan's mind. Her family. Her entire family disappeared. It wasn't an accident, but a premeditated murder. A tear—mixed with thick blood from some internal injury—slipped from the corner of her eye.

Belinda watched coldly and contentedly as the blood-red mark spread across Sloan's pale skin. "Oh, one more thing. Your husband. The great Julian Vanderbilt-Aster IV. He has never come to see you even once. Not even once. ”

As if receiving a signal, the door opened again. This time, a man in a stern black suit entered, wearing a professional, indifferent mask—Julian's private lawyer.

He ignored Belinda and turned to face the pile of debris on the bed. "Miss Kensington." His voice was completely emotionless. "On behalf of Mr. Vanderbilt-Astor, I am serving you these divorce papers. He has agreed to waive all terms in the prenuptial agreement. His only request is for you to sign as soon as possible. ”

He placed the brand-new, heavy document on the nightstand. The sharp edges of the paper seemed to be mocking her. That cold and final document was the last piece of her life that was taken away.

Her gaze shifted from the lawyer's expressionless face to Belinda's victorious smile. A surge of anger—so intense, so pure, burning away all the pain—surged and churned within her. If she survives. If she could get another chance. She will make them all pay the price. She will burn their world to ashes and then dance in the ashes.

The monitor emits one last long, sharp wail, then falls silent. The jagged lines on the screen transform into a perfect, smooth green line.

Sloane's consciousness left his body, floating above the bed and room, plunging into an endless and silent darkness.

It's over.

However, it did not.

A fierce, tearing force—like a huge hook hooking her soul—pulled her back.

She took a sharp breath—deep and trembling, completely filling her lungs. Her eyes snapped open. She wasn't choked by blood, but by air, swallowing like a drowning person.

Warm golden sunlight pours in through the gaps in the heavy silk curtains. The air was filled with the scents of white tea and ginger—her favorite scents. She was lying in her own bed. It was her childhood bed, with a ridiculous ruffled curtain.

Adrenaline surged, and she suddenly threw off the blanket and scrambled to her feet. Her legs are strong and steady. She raised a hand and flipped it over. It was perfect: slender, pale, with nails meticulously trimmed. No bruises, no intravenous tubes, no scars.

She staggered to the corner of the room and stood in front of the full-length mirror.

The face in the mirror was hers, but not the one. It was the face of an eighteen-year-old girl—cheeks full of youth, eyes clear and bright, untouched by the horror she had just witnessed.

She reached out, her trembling fingertips touching her smooth cheek. Then, she pinched her own arm hard.

A sharp, clear stabbing pain spread throughout his body.

This is not a dream. This is neither heaven nor hell.

She came back. She is still alive. And she remembers everything.