Reborn Heiress: The Cheating Fiancé's Regret

"Quiet, baby. Aria's right next door."

The voice was low. Male. Urgent. It drifted through the crack in the closet door and pulled Aria out of sleep.

A woman's breathy laugh followed. Cassie. Cassie's laugh. High and musical and utterly unbothered.

"Relax. That sedative should keep her out till morning. You worry too much."

A pause. The wet sound of a kiss. Then Blake Sloan's voice, rougher now, the urgency giving way to something darker: "You're a bad influence, you know that?"

"You love it."

"I do." Another kiss. Deeper. "I really do."

Aria Montgomery's consciousness returned, accompanied by a dull, throbbing ache at the back of her skull.

The crystal chandelier overhead stabbed at her eyes. She squeezed them shut, nausea rolling through her stomach.

Silk sheets. Her silk sheets. The presidential suite at The St. Regis. Her bridal suite.

But that wasn't right.

The last thing she remembered was the screech of tires. The brutal lurch as a truck slammed into her car—Blake's car, the one he'd insisted she take that day—and sent it spinning over the cliff's edge. The suffocating darkness as cold, wet earth filled her mouth, her nose, her lungs.

She had died.

Her eyes flew open. She scrambled off the bed on all fours, legs unsteady, and lurched toward the full-length mirror.

The face staring back was hers. Younger. Unbroken. Perfect. No scars. No bruises. No blood.

Her gaze darted to the digital clock on the nightstand. The date glowed back at her in pale green digits.

The day of her wedding to Blake Sloan.

She was back. She had been reborn.

Aria tried to steady herself, but her limbs felt disconnected, drugged. Of course. Just like last time, she'd been sedated at her own bachelorette party. The champagne had tasted slightly off, and she'd been too giddy, too trusting to question it.

She pinched her forearm. Hard. Pain shot through her. Real. Tangible. She was really here, really alive, really back.

Then she heard it again.

A low, breathy moan from the adjoining walk-in closet. Cassie's voice, thick with pleasure. A voice she knew as well as her own.

Blake's voice followed—low, rough, the voice he used in her ear when he was being romantic. "Once I have controlling shares in the Montgomery corporation… the first thing I'll do is divorce her."

Cassie's laugh was sharp and ugly, stripped of its usual sweetness. "What are you so afraid of? That idiot is so in love with you, she'd forgive you even if she caught us. A few sweet words and she'd melt."

Aria's blood turned to ice.

The hatred surged through her, cutting clean through the drug's fog. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, her nails digging into her palms.

She pushed herself off the floor—she'd slid down the wall at some point, she didn't remember when—and crept toward the closet door.

It was slightly ajar.

Through the crack, she saw them. Blake had Cassie bent over the vanity, her bridesmaid dress hiked up around her waist. The lavender silk Aria had spent three weeks choosing with her. It was a scene of cheap, sordid betrayal against a backdrop of wedding garlands and champagne flutes.

"I can't believe you're marrying her tomorrow," Cassie panted. "That woman has nothing but her family name."

"Patience," Blake soothed, his rhythm not faltering. "Once I have controlling shares, I'll divorce her. Then I'll marry you. Properly. The way you deserve."

Aria's rage was a furnace. Then, just as fast, it hardened into ice.

She wouldn't scream. She wouldn't confront them. Not yet.

Her eyes scanned the room and landed on her phone, sitting on the nightstand.

A plan took shape.

She snatched the phone, her movements stealthy. Camera. Video mode. Her hands were surprisingly steady.

Creeping back to the door, she angled the lens through the crack. She adjusted it twice—making certain both faces were clear, the lighting sharp, the audio unmistakable. She had the evidence.

Last time, her foolishness had cost her everything. This time, they would pay.

Suddenly, Cassie froze. "Did you hear something?"

Aria's heart slammed against her ribs.

"It's probably room service," Blake muttered. His voice was tight with impatience. "Don't stop."

Aria held her breath. She pressed herself deeper into the shadow beside the doorframe. The drug made the room tilt slightly, and for one terrible moment, she thought her legs would give out. She locked her knees. Bit the inside of her cheek until the copper taste sharpened her focus.

A long, agonizing pause.

Then Cassie turned back. "You're right. It's nothing."

They finished. Aria recorded every second.

When they emerged, smoothing down their clothes with practiced ease, Aria was already back in the bed. Eyes closed. Breathing even. The phone was tucked beneath the pillow.

Cassie walked to the bedside. Aria felt her shadow fall across her face. Then—the whisper of a blanket being adjusted, tucked gently around her shoulders.

"Poor Aria," Cassie whispered, and the softness in her voice curdled Aria's stomach. "She must be so excited for tomorrow."

Blake leaned down. His fingers traced Aria's cheek—the touch cold and dry. A collector with his prize. His eyes, she knew from memory, were empty of anything resembling love.

Beneath the covers, her fists were clenched so tight her knuckles ached. She forced her breathing to remain even, slow, the breathing of drugged sleep.

The door clicked shut. Footsteps faded down the corridor. The distant noise of the bachelorette party—the one that had continued without her, the one where her maid of honor had slipped sedatives into her glass—swallowed them both.

Only then did Aria open her eyes.

They were dry. Clear. Cold as a winter grave.

She moved fast. The video went to a private encrypted email address. Then to a secure cloud server. Then she deleted the original file from her phone. Then the sent email. Then every trace of the upload. No trail. No mistakes.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face. Again. And again. Each splash washing away another layer of the drug, another ghost of the woman she used to be.

The woman who had loved Blake Sloan.

The woman who had trusted Cassie Summers.

The woman who had screamed at Damian Kensington and called him a monster while he tried to save her.

An image flashed in her mind: the cold, still body of her unborn child, lost on a staircase she'd walked a thousand times. And then another: Damian, his car exploding in a fireball on the interstate, dying to avenge a woman who had never deserved him.

She gripped the edge of the sink. Stared at her reflection. Pale skin. Eyes sharp as glass. A woman she barely recognized.

"Damian," she whispered to the mirror. "This time, I won't fail you."

A cold smile touched her lips.

"And as for you, Blake and Cassie…" She straightened. Dried her face. "I'll see you in hell."

She changed into a simple, elegant dress. Not white. Never white again. The first step of her revenge was complete.

Now, it was time to join the party.