Reborn to Marry His Bitter Rival

1 After spending three years playing wingman to my childhood best friend, a bizarre twist of fate made me his bride. Back then, the Rhodes family empire was teetering on the edge of insolvency. A corporate marriage was a treacherous, desperate gamble, and no one in our social circle was willing to throw good money after bad. Only I stepped up, offering my hand solely out of loyalty to twenty years of shared playground scrapes and scraped knees. Our deal was simple: once the financial bleeding stopped, we would quietly file for divorce. Yet when the storm passed and the papers were ready, Tristan backed out. He looked at me over morning coffee and said living out our lives together didn’t sound so bad after all. I thought he had finally let go of the past. I didn't realize that three years later, he would engineer the hostile takeover that gutted my family’s company. Nor did I imagine he would strap me to an operating table when I was nine months pregnant, forcing me to watch while doctors terminated our unborn child. I had screamed, weeping until my vision blurred, begging him to tell me why. His face had been carved from marble. Cold. Unforgiving. "If you hadn't been so calculating—if you hadn't insisted on playing my love guru—Becca never would have misunderstood what we were," he had said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. "My mother never would have forced me into an alliance with you. This baby? This baby is the only way I can prove to Becca that my slate is clean." It was only then, strapped down under the blinding fluorescent lights of an off-the-books clinic, that I realized he hadn't grown fond of me. He had spent years learning to despise me. Then came the second chance. The universe pulled the rug out from under time, hurling me backward to the exact afternoon the Rhodes family sat in our formal receiving room, sliding an alliance contract across our mahogany table. Across the spread of porcelain tea cups, Evelyn Rhodes was pouring on the honeyed charm. "They're practically soulmates, Eleanor," she purred to my mother, smoothing her designer silk skirt. "As parents, our only job is to step aside and bless what they already feel." I blinked against the afternoon glare, reached out, and picked up the heavy linen paper. Then, holding eye contact with both of them, I tore the agreement cleanly down the middle. The sound of thick bond paper ripping apart sliced through the quiet room like a gunshot. Evelyn’s practiced smile froze, her cheek twitching before she managed to recover her southern-prep composure. "Goodness, Paige, darling... did Tristan do something to upset you?" She threw an accusatory glare at her son. "If he’s been stepping out of line, you tell me right this second. I’ll set him straight." Beside her sat Tristan Rhodes—twenty-four years old again. He still carried that effortless Ivy League polish, sharp jawline, and careless grace, looking every bit the golden boy who was used to the world bending to his charm. Except right now, his brows were knotted together. I smiled, letting the torn halves flutter onto the lacquered table. "He didn't upset me, Mrs. Rhodes. Tristan and I have only ever been friends. Throwing words like 'soulmates' around feels a little dishonest, don't you think?" I leaned back, resting my hands in my lap. "And forcing a marriage out of convenience? That feels even worse. Don't you agree, Tristan?" I shifted my gaze to him. His eyes were unreadable, darkening as he stared at the torn contract. Finally, he found his voice. "Who is it?" I widened my eyes in mock innocence. "You don't know? I could have sworn I mentioned him." "Who, Paige?" "Weston Cole." The name landed like a deadweight dropped into still water. The entire room turned to stone. Except for my mother, whose cup rattled violently against its saucer. "Paige Holloway!" she gasped, her knuckles turning white. "Weston Cole is eleven years older than you! He's thirty-five! He’s practically your father’s peer—are you out of your mind?!" "What’s wrong with eleven years?" I replied smoothly. "Older men actually know how to take care of a woman." My mother looked like she was about to pass out from an acute shortage of oxygen. Forgetting that our prospective in-laws were sitting right across from us, she went on the offensive. "Do you have any idea what kind of shark he is? The kind of private equity empire he runs? Thirty-five and unmarried—the entire country whispers about—" "He’s the wealthiest titan on the eastern seaboard," I cut in, unfazed. "I don't care how ruthless his balance sheets are, Mom, as long as he can keep a roof over my head. And for the record, his orientation is perfectly conventional. I know it, and Tristan knows it." I flashed a sugary smile at Tristan. "Right, Tristan?" His expression had curdled into something thunderous. "Paige. Stop this ridiculous joke." "I’m not joking." "You know damn well how he and I—" He caught himself, swallowing the rest of the sentence. He didn't have to finish. I knew exactly what he was choking on. His precious white-lotus muse, Becca Walsh, was pathologically infatuated with Weston Cole. In my previous life, after my baby was killed and my body was shattered by postpartum complications, my family had been driven to the brink of bankruptcy by Tristan’s orchestrated smear campaigns. Through it all, only the Cole Group had extended an olive branch, offering my father a lifeline. Before I could even attend that meeting with Weston Cole, Tristan had intercepted me. He had locked me in the third-floor guest suite of the Rhodes estate, bolting the heavy oak door from the outside. Back then, he had stood over me, demanding: You know Weston Cole is my sworn rival, Paige. Why are you provoking me? Back then, I still harbored the foolish illusion that some trace of our twenty-year bond remained. I had practically begged him. I told him I would surrender my title as his wife, sign over every asset, and hand the Rhodes name directly to Becca. All I wanted was for him to spare my parents and let me walk away. As for Weston Cole, I promised I would cut all ties and never cross his path again. It had been the first time in twenty years I had spoken to Tristan with my head bowed, trembling on my knees. I thought old memories would buy a sliver of mercy. Instead, he had looked down at me with arctic contempt. Weston Cole showed up at my front gates demanding your release, Tristan had sneered. How exactly do you plan on cutting ties? I never realized it before, Paige. I had stared up at him, hollow and bewildered. Realized what? I never realized what a shameless flirt you are, he spat. Tell me the truth—that miscarriage you had. Was that kid even mine? That was the exact second my heart had turned to ash. I gave up. I met his accusations with absolute silence. In a fit of fury, Tristan had whisked Becca off on a private Mediterranean holiday, leaving me locked in that room without a key, without a phone, and without food. By the time they returned three days later, I was dead. The shadow falling over Tristan's features right now was the exact twin of the vicious, insecure boy from that past life. He inhaled sharply, scraping his chair back as he stood up. "Come outside with me. We need to talk alone." I didn't flinch. "Whatever you have to say, say it right here. We're all practically family, aren't we?" His footsteps halted. His jaw worked, teeth clenched tight. "Did I do something recently to make you mad?" I shook my head. "Not at all." "Then why are you trying to bait me with this nonsense? How did you even get mixed up with someone like Weston Cole?" A dry laugh escaped my lips. "Since when do I need to file a report with you about who I spend my time with?" Tristan closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in forced restraint. "Paige, stop throwing a tantrum. Weston Cole is out of your league. It’s never going to happen." My smile faded, leaving my eyes cool and steady. "Tristan, you can manage Becca Walsh however you please. But you don't get to manage me." "Who on earth is Becca Walsh?" Evelyn Rhodes piped up, her polished facade cracking. In that fraction of a second, Tristan’s expression morphed from irritation to sheer panic. He quickly masked it, his tone stiff. "Just an acquaintance from university." The Rhodes family was old-money strict; they would rather burn their house down than let their heir date a girl who worked the floor at an upscale downtown lounge. During those three years he spent pursuing her, I had been his alibi, his shield, his cover story. In my first life, Becca Walsh had been the fragile, underpaid girl who caught a glimpse of Weston Cole at a charity gala and fell hopelessly, deliriously in love with him from afar. Tristan, who was already hovering in her orbit, was practically dropped the second she laid eyes on the city's reigning kingmaker. Panicked, Tristan had come running to me, begging for advice. And because I was loyal to a fault, I had stepped into the fray. I played double agent, befriending Becca, buying her designer lattes, memorizing her favorite perfumes, and learning every nuance of her taste. Then I set the stage: arranging ‘coincidental’ encounters for Tristan, acting as their unpaid relationship therapist, pumping Tristan with confidence while whispering into Becca’s ear about how dependable and sweet he was. Three years of my life went down that drain. Yet nothing changed. Anyone with eyes could see Becca was keeping Tristan as an insurance policy while waiting for a billionaire who didn't even know she existed. Eventually, exhausted by the games, I had tried to step back. But before I could extract myself, the Rhodes crisis hit, and the marriage proposal trapped me in place. Tristan knew I would save him. Everyone in our social circle knew that while I had plenty of suitors, I was hopelessly unromantic—the idea of falling head over heels for a stranger felt messy and terrifying, whereas spending my life protecting the people I already cared about felt safe. So I signed the contract. And for my trouble, society labeled me a calculating pick-me. The gossip rags whispered that I had spent three years pretending to be Becca's confidante just to snatch her man the moment his family hit rough waters. The insults were vile, but I swallowed them in silence, believing my own conscience was clean. I worked late into the night, leveraging the Holloway network to bail the Rhodes conglomerate out of defaulting loans. I drank scotch with stubborn bankers until my stomach burned, drafted operational turnarounds, and dragged his family out of the gutter. When the company finally stabilized, I asked for the divorce. He refused. By then, Becca had gone abroad, lived through a couple of high-profile affairs, and seemed to have settled down. I genuinely thought Tristan had moved on. Convinced that marrying a familiar friend was safer than facing the heartache of true love, I stayed. It cost me my life. And I died wearing the label of a manipulative snake. If that’s the role history wants to assign me, fine. This time, I’ll own it. Who said I spent all those years coaching Tristan because I wanted him? I was after his rival all along. With the contract ripped in two, Tristan looked sick to his stomach, and his mother sat perched on the edge of her seat, fidgeting with her pearl necklace. "Paige, sweetheart," Evelyn stammered, "you’ve always been so sweet on Tristan. Remember when you two were little? You used to say you were going to marry him! If our families hadn't been so busy with mergers back then, we would have settled the engagement years ago." The desperation in her voice was so tacky that even my mother, usually the picture of Upper East Side politeness, frowned. "Evelyn," my mother said softly, "I think we should table this. If Paige isn't interested, Richard and I aren't going to force her." Evelyn offered a tight, patronizing chuckle. "Of course, of course. Young lovers always have their little spats. They just need time to sort it out themselves. No rush." Young lovers? Seeing that Tristan had no intention of correcting his mother's delusion, I stood up. "Mrs. Rhodes, please don't paste labels onto my forehead. I still have a wedding to plan with someone else." Evelyn’s smile curdled. I didn't wait for a reply, turning on my heel toward the hallway. Behind me, rapid footsteps followed. Tristan caught up, stepping in front of the staircase to block my path. His voice was a strained murmur, pitched low so the parents couldn't hear. "Paige, can you stop the theatrics?" "Excuse me?" "You know my back is against the wall," he hissed, his eyes pleading and furious all at once. "You're the only one who can pull us out of this hole. Just sign the paperwork. Once our liquidity is back, we can go right back to how things were." I let out an incredulous laugh. "What do you think I am, Tristan? A paper towel you throw in the trash when you’re done wiping your mess?" A dark, brooding frustration settled over his brow. He stared at me for several beats, his lips curving into a smug, knowing smirk. "Drop the act, Paige. Don't throw away the best offer you're ever going to get." "What are you talking about?" His eyes flashed with unearned certainty. "All these years, you’ve had guys throwing themselves at your feet, but you only ever revolved around me. Are you honestly trying to stand there and tell me you never loved me?" The hall fell dead silent. Then, the absurdity of it hit me. I started laughing. A quiet chuckle at first, then bubbling up until I was clutching my stomach, laughing so loudly the crystal chandelier seemed to vibrate. Tristan’s face twisted into an ugly mask of confusion and embarrassment. Down the hall, our parents peered out of the receiving room, stunned. It took me a full minute to wipe the tear from the corner of my eye. I looked him dead in the face. "Tristan," I said, catching my breath. "I'm genuinely sorry." He blinked. "From the day we met until right now," I told him, "I never once considered you a man." Not in my last life. And certainly not in this one. I had never loved him. Not even for a second. The Rhodes pair left our house looking like they had been slapped with wet cement. My mother watched their town car pull out of the driveway, her arms crossed, hesitating. "You used to defend that boy with your life, Paige. What happened to you today?" I broke into a wide grin, throwing my arms around her neck and burying my face in her shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Mom. From now on, my only job is keeping you and Dad safe and happy. If you tell me to turn left, I won't even glance to the right." In my past life, my father had been framed for corporate fraud, dying behind bars with his reputation in tatters. My mother had worn herself down to the bone trying to clear his name, her hair turning snow-white before she buried me. That tragedy was never going to happen again. That night, I slept like a baby. When my eyes opened the next morning, my phone was blowing up. Group chats were buzzing with gossip about whether the Rhodes family had formally brought an alliance proposal to our house. At 1:00 AM, Tristan had called me four times. And at 3:00 AM, Becca Walsh had left a text. Paige, Tristan is completely wasted. He’s passed out across my bed and won't leave. He’s terrified his mother will find out where he is, so he won't let me call him an Uber home. If you're free, could you come pick him up? Three in the morning. Where on earth did she get the audacity to assume I’d be "free" to play chauffeur to her drunk companion? I hovered my finger over the delete button, but paused. Setting Tristan aside, Becca and I had technically played the part of close girlfriends for three years. Some debts needed to be settled out in the open. I texted her back with an address: an upscale Korean barbecue joint we used to frequent downtown. When I arrived and slid into the booth, however, there was a second person sitting across from her. Tristan. Catching my pause, Becca offered an apologetic, deer-in-the-headlights look. "Tristan was worried we’d have some sort of misunderstanding, so... he insisted on coming along." I shrugged, sliding onto the leather bench. "Fine by me." Before I could even unfold my linen napkin, Tristan barked an order. "Go mix the sauces first. The counter gets crowded once the lunch rush hits." I didn't argue. I stood up, walked over to the sauce bar, and returned carrying two small ceramic dishes. The moment I set them down, Tristan scowled. "Why did you dump so much chili oil in there? You know my stomach can't handle spicy food." I stared at him like he had grown two heads. "I didn't make these for you." "Well, Becca can't have them either," he snapped defensively. "Her cycle starts in two days. This is terrible for her." A snort slipped past my lips. "Tristan, open your eyes. One is dry chili rub, the other is spicy sesame paste. They're both for me. Nothing here is going to hurt your delicate systems." I picked up the metal tongs, placing several thick slices of pork belly onto the sizzling tabletop grill. "Weren't you worried about the line? Why aren't you up there mixing your own?" Tristan’s jaw clenched. He took a heavy breath and stood up to head for the counter. That left just Becca and me. I cut straight to the bone. "I assume you heard about yesterday afternoon?" Her eyes instantly rimmed with pink. She nodded slowly, biting her lower lip. "Paige, you don't have to explain anything to me. Truly, I understand. If you two have to get married for the families, it's just... circumstance..." "Stop right there," I cut her off. "I invited you here today to clear the air," I said evenly. "Moving forward, whatever happens between you and Tristan Rhodes is none of my business. So please, don't ever send me a text like the one you sent at three in the morning." She looked as though I had struck her, tears trembling on the edge of her lashes. "I only reached out because I thought he needed you. As far as other women go... you've always been the one closest to him." I let out a cold laugh. "By that logic, his mother is the woman closest to him. Did you think about texting her?" Becca choked on her breath. I used the tongs to flip the pork belly, the fat crackling against the iron grill. "Drop the wide-eyed innocent act, Becca." Her breath hitched. "You don't want to let go of the Rhodes family trust fund, but you're also praying Weston Cole will notice you and pull you up into the stratosphere," I continued, voice steady and quiet. "You knew I didn't have feelings for Tristan, but you also knew I was fiercely loyal. So you turned me into your safety tether—a buffer to stand between you two so you'd never have to commit, ensuring you wouldn't walk away empty-handed if your billionaire fantasy fell through." I looked up, meeting her gaze dead-on. "You’ve got a lot of angles, Becca. Tristan isn't smart enough to see through them, which is his problem. But I am officially done playing along. After this lunch, do not drag my name into your mess. And I will be telling Tristan the exact same thing." Becca sat rigid, the blood draining from her cheeks. I didn't spare her another glance, focusing entirely on cutting the meat into bite-sized strips until a soft, pathetic sniffle broke the silence. I looked up. Tears were streaming down her face in silent, dramatic tracks. "Paige... is that really what you think of me? Do you think I'm that vile?" Before I could open my mouth, a furious roar exploded from behind me. "Paige! What the hell did you just say to her?!" Tristan slammed two small bowls onto the table so violently that hot oil splashed across the front of my cream cashmere sweater. He shoved Becca behind his shoulder, glaring at me as if I were a venomous snake. "If you have an issue, take it out on me! Whatever's between us, leave Becca out of it!" I reached into the dispenser, pulled out a napkin, and slowly dabbed at the dark grease stain sinking into my wool. "You've got it backward," I said, throwing the soiled napkin onto the table. "Whatever is between you two, keep me out of it." The stain wasn't coming out; the sweater was ruined. I grabbed my purse and stood up. "Consider this our final conversation, Tristan. Don't call me again." I left the restaurant without looking back. Back home, I took a scalding shower to scrub away the lingering smell of charred pork and cheap drama. I cooked myself a massive bowl of comforting pasta, ate every bite, and curled up on the oversized sectional in my silk pajamas, letting an old comedy special run in the background. I was midway through laughing when the heavy double doors of the foyer swung open. Our housekeeper gasped in surprise. "Oh! Mr. Holloway, Mrs. Holloway, you're back early? And... you brought a guest?" I rested my chin on the back of the sofa, glancing toward the foyer window, only to see a midnight-black Rolls-Royce Cullinan parked in our driveway. A heartbeat later, a commanding silhouette stepped across the threshold. The television comedian was still howling with laughter, but the sound seemed to mute itself the moment our eyes locked. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, draped in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit that screamed old-world power. But what stopped the breath in my throat was his face: sharp, aristocratic features paired with heavy-lidded, devastatingly striking eyes that softened the moment he saw me. Weston Cole. "Mr. Cole, please, let's step into the study..." My father entered right behind him, trailing off the second he spotted me huddled on the couch in flannel pajama pants. My dad looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "Ahem. Paige... this is Mr. Weston Cole, Chairman of the Cole Group. Mr. Cole, this is my daughter, Paige..." Weston smiled. It wasn't a corporate smirk; it was a slow, radiant grin that completely dismantled the lethal aura surrounding him. "I know who she is, Richard. In fact, Paige is the only reason I'm here." My brain short-circuited. I looked past him toward my mother, who was standing in the hall looking utterly bewildered, her hands clasped together in nervous anticipation. Weston seemed completely oblivious to the sheer panic radiating through the Holloway household. He kept his eyes locked on me, his smile deepening. "It was poor form on my part to let you make the first confession," he murmured, his deep baritone rolling over the room like warm velvet. "From here on out, let me take the lead." I froze. "What?" His gaze turned impossibly tender, a trace of helpless affection flickering across his features. "I'm here to present our marriage proposal, Paige." My entire cognitive system shut down. By the time I rebooted, Weston had already followed my father into the mahogany-paneled study down the hall. My mother walked over, tapped my forehead with an exasperated finger, and shot me a look that said I hope you know how to clean up this mess, before heading into the kitchen to supervise the espresso machine. The study door was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, the low rumble of masculine voices drifted into the living room. "...Five residential properties in Manhattan, five commercial developments upstate, an unrestricted trust, an explicit waiver of any prenuptial agreement, and... ten percent of non-voting equity in Cole Holdings transferred directly to her name." The more I listened, the wider my eyes stretched. When Weston caught me peeking through the crack for the third time, he didn't look annoyed. Instead, he flashed me an eager, almost puppyish look of devotion from across the room. The realization hit me like a freight train. Weston Cole... actually liked me. No, scratch that. He was completely gone for me. Why? How? When? While I was drowning in an existential crisis, my mother was practically floating on air. By the time we walked Weston to the front door, her smile was wide enough to split her face in two. "Paige, darling," she whispered gleefully in my ear, "you were entirely right. Eleven years older is marvelous. Older men know how to spoil a girl!" Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my palm. It was a text from the contact I had just saved five minutes ago. Paige, if there's anything in the contract you dislike, tell me immediately. We can change anything. Just please don't say no. The text reeked of a terrifyingly humble, eager-to-please husband-to-be. It was giving me whiplash. Before I could even process it, another notification banner slid down my screen. Paige, Becca is in terrible shape. I took her out to the Hamptons to clear her head. When you're ready to apologize, call me. We don't have to keep acting like strangers. I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt and immediately muted the thread. Over the next seventy-two hours, Weston Cole gave a masterclass in what it meant to have unlimited capital and zero impulse control. Every single morning before sunrise, a fleet of black sedans would idle silently outside the Holloway estate gates. When our groundskeeper went out with his morning coffee, he nearly had a stroke finding a line of immaculately suited couriers waiting patiently on the curb holding velvet-wrapped packages. Bespoke couture gowns, vintage diamond clips won at private auctions, pastries flown in from a boutique patisserie in Paris that had a six-month waiting list... My father was a wine enthusiast, so Weston had crates of unreleased Grand Cru hauled directly from a private vineyard in Bordeaux. My mother collected vintage estate jewelry, so he had several kilos of antique Cartier and Tiffany delivered across three consecutive afternoons. On the third day, I finally called him and told him to rein it in. "It looks less like you're courting me and more like you're paying a ransom," I told him over the line. His voice sounded genuinely wounded. "You don't like them, Paige? I just... every time I see something beautiful, I think of you, and I can't stop myself from sending it over. I've never pursued anyone before. I don't really know the rules." Who on earth starts a courtship by presenting a binding marriage contract first? Yet, to my own profound embarrassment, I found myself thoroughly, shamelessly charmed. In my past life, I hadn't asked for money, status, or protection. I had asked only for a clean conscience and a decent partnership, and it had bought me an early grave on a cold floor. In this life, I wasn't expecting fairy-tale romance anyway. If a devastatingly handsome billionaire was offering to drop an empire at my feet, why the hell should I turn him down? I held out for all of three days before agreeing to the match. That very evening, the famously private Cole family stunned high society by announcing a formal engagement gala. The guest list was a who’s who of old wealth, hedge fund royalty, and political heavyweights. When my town car pulled up to the grand entrance of the private club, the first person I saw waiting near the valet was Tristan Rhodes. He was wearing a tailored tuxedo, but his bow tie was crooked and his hair was wind-whipped. The moment he spotted me stepping out of the vehicle, his eyes flared with relief, followed immediately by irritation. "What are you wearing, Paige? You look like you're trying to upstage the bride." I paused on the pavement. It dawned on me: he still had no idea who Weston Cole's bride was. Tristan let out a ragged breath, extending his left elbow toward me. "Come on. I know how much you hate these stuffy networking events. I took a red-eye straight from the Hamptons to make sure you wouldn't have to walk in alone." I looked down at his outstretched arm. For the first time in twenty years, I didn't take it. He frowned, turning his head. "Paige? What's..." A collective murmur rippled through the grand courtyard. Tristan turned toward the sound. Parting through the sea of senators, heiresses, and CEOs, the man who had been holding court on the terrace stood up. Weston Cole was walking toward us, his strides long, steady, and purposeful. In the blink of an eye, he was standing directly in front of me. He didn't spare the crowd a glance. His lips curved, and he offered me an open, upturned palm. His voice, deep and resonant, cut through the sudden silence of the garden. "You're finally here, my bride."