Savage Reborn: Dumped Him to Marry the Billionaire

Chapter 1: The Cold Asphalt

Gravity was a monster, and it was pulling at her ankles.

"Don't struggle, Vespera. You'll only make it messy."

Lysander Thorne’s voice was smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly calm. His hand was a vice around her throat, the only thing keeping her from plummeting forty stories to the neon-lit grid of Aethelgard City below.

The wind roared in her ears, whipping her hair across her face, blinding her. Her heels scrambled for purchase on the slippery ledge of the penthouse balcony, finding nothing but empty air.

"Lysander, please!" The plea scraped out of her crushed windpipe. "The company... I built it for you! The IPO launches tomorrow!"

"Exactly." Lysander leaned closer. The scent of bergamot and expensive cigars filled her nose—the smell of the man she had loved for five years. The smell of her executioner. "The IPO launches tomorrow. The stock will skyrocket. And a grieving widower polls significantly better with the shareholders than a divorced husband."

Vespera’s fingers clawed at his suit jacket—the Italian wool she had selected for him. She stared into his eyes. There was no madness there. No passion. Only the cold, dead calculation of a ledger being balanced. An asset liquidation.

"Elara needs the liquidity, darling," he whispered against her ear, intimate as a lover. "She’s pregnant. My child, obviously. We need your trust fund to secure the family legacy. You were a wonderful tool, Vespera. Truly. The best ghostwriter I could have asked for. But the contract is up."

A tool.

The word hit her harder than the freezing wind. For five years, she had been the shadow behind his light. She had written the code, strategized the takeovers, and destroyed his rivals, all while letting him take the bow. She had carved out her own heart to build him a throne.

And this was her severance package.

"You didn't build anything," Vespera hissed, a sudden, diamond-hard rage piercing through her terror. "I did. And if I die, the empire falls."

Lysander smiled. It was a beautiful, vacuous smile. "The code is already submitted, Vespera. I don't need the architect once the building is finished."

He didn't blink. He didn't hesitate. He simply opened his hand.

The release was instant.

Vespera’s stomach lurched into her throat. The balcony, the penthouse, the man she had married—they all shot upward, shrinking into the dark sky.

The rush of air was deafening. The city lights blurred into streaks of violent color. There was no time to pray. No time to bargain.

As the ground rushed up to meet her—a slab of unforgiving concrete illuminated by a flickering streetlight—Vespera didn't scream. She locked her eyes on the shrinking figure of Lysander above.

I will drag you to hell.

The thought was a jagged vow, cut from the very marrow of her soul.

If there is an afterlife, I will crawl out of it and bury you.

Impact.

***

GASP!

Air. Burning, freezing air flooded her lungs.

Vespera shot up in bed, her body convulsing. A scream ripped from her throat, raw and animalistic, echoing off the walls.

She scrambled backward, her heels kicking frantically against the mattress. Her brain screamed *System Failure*, anticipating the shattered vertebrae, the blood, the ruin.

But the sensory input was wrong.

The sheets were silk, not asphalt. The smell was old lavender, not the metallic tang of blood or the bergamot of betrayal.

Vespera hyperventilated, her vision swimming with black spots. The phantom sensation of hitting the pavement rattled her bones, but her body remained whole.

"Status report," she whispered, the command slipping out unconsciously. "Damage assessment."

She slapped her own face. Hard. The sting was sharp, electric. Real.

She dragged herself to the edge of the bed. Her legs, usually her reliable instruments, had betrayed her, systems overloaded with adrenaline and shock. She stumbled toward the ensuite bathroom, gripping the doorframe to stay upright.

She needed data. She needed visual confirmation.

She gripped the porcelain sink, staring into the mirror.

The face staring back was hers, but the version was outdated.

Younger.

The stress lines around her mouth—structural cracks from five years of managing Thorne Enterprises from the shadows—were gone. Her skin was luminous, unblemished by the sleepless nights of the merger wars.

And her hair.

Vespera reached up, trembling fingers touching the platinum blonde locks that cascaded over her shoulders.

In her life—in the life where she died—she had dyed her hair jet black two years ago because Lysander said blonde made her look "unserious" for the board members. She had altered her own blueprint to fit his design.

"This is Version 1.0," she breathed.

She spun around, scanning the room frantically for a reference point. Her eyes landed on her phone sitting on the nightstand. It was an older model.

She lunged for it, tapping the screen. The light flared.

07:00 AM

The time didn't matter. It was the data point below it that made her heart stop.

September 15, 2022.

Vespera dropped the phone. It bounced on the carpet with a dull thud.

September 15th. The morning of the Golden Gala. The day she publicly announced her engagement to Lysander. The day she signed over her trust fund and her intellectual property to Thorne Enterprises.

The day she eagerly, stupidly, handed him the knife he would eventually use to cut her throat.

A sudden vibration buzzed from the floor. Her phone.

Vespera picked it up. A calendar notification flashed on the screen:

*Reminder: Finalize Merger Contracts with Lysander. Make him proud.*

She stared at the words she had written herself, three years ago. *Make him proud.* The naivety of it tasted like ash in her mouth. She had been a genius at code, but an idiot at human variables. She had failed to account for the greed parameter.

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence.

The doorknob turned, and the door swung open. Mrs. Thorne stepped in, holding a garment bag like it was a weapon.

"Vespera, you’re awake," Mrs. Thorne snapped, her voice grating. "Good. We don't have time for your laziness today. Wear the beige dress. You know Elara is sensitive about her complexion, and we don't want you washing her out in the photos."

Mrs. Thorne. The woman who had treated Vespera like a glorious servant for twenty years.

In her last life, Vespera had apologized. She had worn the beige dress. She had faded into the background so Elara could shine.

Slowly, a smile spread across Vespera’s face. It didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes were cold, calculating—the eyes of an architect surveying a building rigged for demolition.

"The beige dress?" Vespera asked, her voice steady.

Mrs. Thorne blinked, unsettled by the tone. "Yes. The beige one. Don't be difficult."

Vespera walked over to the sink in the corner of the room. She took the garment bag from a confused Mrs. Thorne, unzipped it, and pulled out the frumpy, dull beige gown.

"You're right, Mother," Vespera said. "I shouldn't wear this."

She turned on the tap, pulled a lighter from her desk drawer, and flicked the flame.

"What are you doing?" Mrs. Thorne shrieked.

Vespera held the flame to the hem of the silk dress. It caught instantly. She dropped the burning fabric into the porcelain sink and watched the beige turn to black ash.

"Get out," Vespera said softly.

Mrs. Thorne, too stunned to argue, fled the room, slamming the door behind her.

Vespera turned back to the window. "You wanted my assets, Lysander? I'll ghostwrite your downfall."

She leaned against the windowsill to steady her shaking hands. As she did, her foot kicked something under the radiator.

A glint of gold paper.

Vespera knelt, her breath hitching. She reached under the metal grates and pulled out a small, crumpled ring of paper.

A cigar band. *Montecristo Platinum.*

The smell hit her then—faint, but unmistakable. Bergamot and expensive tobacco.

Her blood ran cold.

Lysander didn't smoke in the house three years ago. He hadn't started smoking this brand until the IPO launch—the launch that wasn't supposed to happen until tomorrow in the future timeline.

This cigar band shouldn't be here.

Vespera crushed the gold paper in her fist. The past wasn't just waiting for her to change it. It had already been contaminated.