Trinity Frost has exactly one goal: keep her father alive.At eighteen, she's juggling a full scholarship at an elite prep school, leading her robotics team to state finals, and watching medical bills pile up faster than she can count. Her father's multiple sclerosis is getting worse, the treatments cost seventeen thousand dollars a month, and she's two payments away from losing everything.Then two strangers walk into her robotics lab at midnight with an offer that sounds like a fever dream.Fifty million dollars. Her father's medical expenses covered for life. All she has to do is marry Dominic Harrington,a thirty-three-year-old billionaire CEO she's never met,and pretend to be the reincarnated soul of his dead ancestor.Because the Harrington family doesn't just believe in reincarnation. They've built their entire inheritance structure around it.Dominic Harrington is running out of time.At thirty-three, he has eighteen months to marry the reincarnated soul of Alistair Harrington,the family founder who died in 1847 or lose his three-billion-dollar empire to his scheming uncle. When his grandmother's psychic identifies Trinity as Alistair returned, Dominic doesn't hesitate. He needs a wife who fits the requirements. She needs money to save her father. It's a simple business transaction.Except nothing about Trinity Frost is simple.She's brilliant, stubborn, and completely unimpressed by his wealth. She agrees to the marriage but refuses to pretend she believes in their mystical nonsense. It's one year, then divorce. Clean. Professional. Purely transactional.Until the visions start.On their wedding night, Trinity sees something impossible.A woman in a red dress, falling from a balcony. Screaming. Dying.The woman is Annabelle Harrington,Alistair's wife, who died the same day as him in 1847 under mysterious circumstances. Trinity has never seen her portrait. Has no way of knowing what she looked like or how she died.But she saw it. Felt it. Lived it.Now Trinity is trapped between two impossible realities: either she's losing her mind from stress, or she actually is the reincarnation of a man who died almost two hundred years ago. A man who built an empire but destroyed his marriage. A man who chose legacy over love and died full of regrets.And the more time Trinity spends in the Harrington estate,in Alistair's wing, reading his journals, walking his gardens,the more the memories surface. Fragments of a life she never lived. Emotions that aren't hers. A love story that ended in tragedy.But the dead don't stay buried in the Harrington family.As Trinity digs deeper into Alistair and Annabelle's story, she uncovers secrets the family has kept hidden for generations. Annabelle's death wasn't an accident. Alistair's heart attack was too convenient. And someone in the present day doesn't want Trinity asking questions about the past.Caught between her growing feelings for Dominic and the ghost of the man he's descended from, Trinity must navigate:A family who believes she's their patriarch rebornA grandmother desperate to communicate with Alistair's soulAn uncle determined to prove she's a fraud and steal the inheritanceA marriage that was supposed to be fake but feels increasingly realAnd memories of a past life that might hold the key to murderThe more Trinity remembers, the more dangerous her situation becomes.Because if she truly is Alistair's reincarnation, then she knows what really happened the day he and Annabelle died. She knows the family secrets buried with them. She knows who had motive to kill.And someone will do anything to make sure those secrets stay buried,even if it means Trinity suffers the same fate as Annabelle.Dominic never expected to fall for his contract wife.She was supposed to be a solution to a problem. A year of pretending, then both of them walk away richer. But Trinity is brilliant and brave and makes him want things he's spent his whole life avoiding. She challenges his obsession with the company. Questions his martyrdom to family legacy. Makes him play piano again just because he wants to.She makes him feel alive in a way he hasn't since before he became CEO.But loving her means protecting her. And the closer they get, the more danger she's in,from his family's expectations, from the media's scrutiny, from whoever wants the past to stay buried, and from the very real possibility that the soul of the man he's descended from might be trying to take over the woman he's falling in love with.THE REINCARNATION CLAUSE is a 80,000-word paranormal romance that blends:Billionaire/CEO romance with actual depth and character developmentContract marriage that evolves into real feelings with genuine stakesReincarnation mystery with dark family secrets and potential murderGothic mansion atmosphere meets modern-day dramaA fierce, intelligent heroine who refuses to be anyone's damselDual timeline storytelling (present day + 1840s flashbacks through memories)Found family dynamics within a dysfunctional weal

He married me to destroy my father.I just did not know it yet.For fourteen months I have been Mrs. Adrian Whitmore. The wife of one of the most powerful men in Manhattan. The woman in the red dress on his arm at every gala. The woman who fell asleep on his chest and woke up to flowers I never asked for. The woman who believed, for fourteen months, that the man who had stood in a hospital corridor watching me eat a popsicle with a five year old patient had simply, miraculously, fallen in love with me at first sight.I was wrong about everything.My name is Anaïs Beaumont. I am twenty seven years old. I am a pediatric surgeon at one of the best children's hospitals in New York. I am the daughter of Laurent Beaumont, the French Lebanese billionaire whose name opens any door in Paris, London, and Beirut. I am the woman who broke off an engagement at twenty three because something in me knew the man my father had chosen for me was not the one. And I am, as of five forty seven this morning, the woman who found a dark green silk tie in her husband's drawer with a stranger's handwriting on the tag.One word, in pen. *Mine.*That tie was the beginning.By six thirty, Vienna Ashford was standing in my foyer in a camel coat, smiling at me with the small kind smile women use right before they ruin your life. *Has Adrian ever told you about his father, sweetheart. Daniel. The man your father killed. The man my Adrian married you to avenge.*By seven, my mother was on the phone, crying for the first time in twenty years, telling me about a love she had given up at twenty three because her father did not approve, a man named Daniel who had been my father's best friend, business partner, and victim. A man whose dying months my father spent moving every share of their company into entities his family could not touch. A man whose wife my father took into his own house in Paris while Daniel was still alive. A man whose twelve year old son sat alone with his housekeeper in a flat in West London, reading to his dying father, while his mother lived in our house. That son grew up. That son built an empire. That son walked into my hospital two years ago and waited nine minutes while I finished a popsicle with a child, and decided, in that moment, to make me his wife.By nine, a divorce lawyer dressed as a florist named Lila was sitting at my kitchen island, telling me that my husband has been preparing to use my own signature against me for six months. That my name is on a wire transfer that is going to destroy my father's company. That my mother's name is on it too. That I have eight weeks to perform the happiest marriage in Manhattan while she takes my husband apart from the inside.By eleven, my brother arrived at my door with my husband's mother, a small grey haired woman from Madrid who has not seen her son in seven years. By noon, my best friend, the woman who has called me at six every morning for nine years, was sitting on my sofa holding that woman's hand, and the man I almost married was standing in my foyer in a wet coat, telling me that my husband has set up a trust naming a six year old child as a beneficiary.A six year old child who has been living in my city for six years.A child whose initials are E.W.A child whose guardian, on the document, is named as me.Now my husband is on a plane back to New York. He has eight hours to land. He has a mother in my apartment he has not spoken to in seven years. He has a wife who has been counting the days since he stopped kissing her on the mouth. And he has a card in his wallet, that he has been carrying for two years, with the date of the day we met and one sentence in his own handwriting.*I did not know yet that I was going to ruin my own life for you.*He loves me. I know he loves me. I saw it in the photograph he sent me from the plane this morning before he understood the trap that has closed around him. He loves me, and he is still going to ruin my family, and I am going to let him think I do not know, and I am going to wear the red dress to his company gala on Friday, and I am going to smile at every person in that ballroom, and I am going to clap when he gives his speech.And then in eight weeks, on a Tuesday morning in late January, I am going to file.Or I am not.Because every time he looks at me from across a room, something in him snaps, and every time I cry without telling him why, he gets colder, and there is a small voice underneath all the other voices in my chest that has not stopped saying the same three words since five forty seven this morning.“Adrian. I miss you.”And I do not know yet whether the woman walking into that gala is going to destroy her husband, or save him, or simply stand in front of four hundred people in a red dress and tell the truth.I have eight weeks to decide.He has none.

Elyn Crest has three rules.No weakness. No exceptions. No men.She built Crest Holdings from nothing, runs it with an iron fist, and has never once met a variable she couldn’t control.Then Rhys Calder sits one seat away in her airport lounge and acts like he has absolutely nowhere better to be.He is unbothered. She is unimpressed. Neither will move first. Neither will admit anything. And somehow they keep ending up in the same rooms, across the same tables, in the same orbit that neither of them requested or planned for.She has his number in her jacket pocket.She is absolutely not going to use it.Obviously.Two people. Zero intentions. Four hundred chapters of neither one folding first.Neither Will Fold — F. Blackwood