Reborn as the Boss Lady novel Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Is He Insane?

Wynne turned at the sound of his voice.

Morning light spilled across the room, catching on the man lounging by the window. He wore a black robe, loosely belted, the fabric falling open just enough to reveal hard, sculpted muscles beneath. Long legs stretched out with effortless ease, one hand holding a cup of coffee, the other resting on an open file.

The faint sway of the black rosary on his wrist accentuated his dangerous air, making him look like an unfathomable abyss in the depths of a winter sea.

That was the first thing she saw.

Wynne dragged her tongue along the back of her teeth, a spark of wild defiance still flickering in her eyes.

“You—”

He looked up.

The instant their gazes locked, everything rushed back—the warehouse, the fight, the moment she’d blacked out.

On the bed, the massive white python slithered lazily across the sheets. Its sheer size should’ve been terrifying, yet there was something oddly… docile about it.

“Rolly.”

Jerome’s voice was low and cold.

Rolly?

Wynne’s brow twitched. Naming a giant snake something that cute? This man had to be out of his mind.

At the sound of its name, the python slid off the bed, coiling neatly beside him before draping its heavy head over his shoulder like it belonged there. It even nudged him, almost affectionately.

Wynne stared for half a second longer than she meant to.

Then she looked back at him. “So—you’re Dylan’s father?”

She needed to make this clear. She wasn’t part of the kidnapping. She’d been tied up right along with the kid.

Jerome didn’t answer.

His fingers moved slowly over the python’s head. His gaze stayed fixed on her—cool, unreadable.

The kind of look that made your skin prickle.

Then, as if by accident, the file on his lap slipped.

Photos scattered across the floor.

Wynne stopped mid-sentence.

Because every single photo—was of her.

Childhood. Adolescence. Recent.

A full dossier.

So he already knew.

He knew I had nothing to do with the kidnapping… yet he still said nothing?

Is he…testing me?

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her body leaning back against the headboard, relaxed but alert.

“Mr. Cromwell,” she said coolly, “you enjoy messing with people?”

No answer.

He simply lifted a hand and pointed to the side.

Wynne frowned, then spun around—and froze.

Wait, a mirror?

The face staring back at her was a total hot mess: her thick smoky eye makeup was smudged all over like someone’d knocked a paint palette right into her face. A whole handful of skull ear cuffs were clipped all over her ears. She looked like the poster child for that over-the-top 2000s scene subculture style.

It was chaos. Full-on trashy punk.

Wynne blinked once.

“…That’s me?”

She reached up and touched her face, disbelief flickering across her expression. Beneath the mess, though, her features were sharp—refined, delicate, almost strikingly so.

The makeup couldn’t hide that.

“Mr. Cromwell,” she muttered, already throwing the blanket aside and stepping onto the cold floor barefoot, “I need to fix this.”

…

Steam fogged the bathroom mirror.

Wynne wiped it clean with one sweep of her hand.

A completely different face emerged.

Bare, flawless skin—clear as porcelain, still flushed from the heat of the shower. Her fox-like eyes blinked softly, revealing a warm amber glow beneath long lashes. Innocent at a glance—but distant. Untouchable.

There was a quiet chill to her beauty, the kind that kept people at arm’s length.

A small beauty mark rested just below her collarbone.

Her long hair fell down her back in smooth, glossy waves.

She studied herself for a moment.

Still nothing.

No memories. No past.

Just a name.

Wynne Sinclair.

When she stepped out, the room was empty.

No Jerome. No snake.

Only the scattered photos and files remained.

She crouched, picking them up one by one, flipping through.

“Wynne Sinclair. Eighteen…”

Expelled from First High. Chronic truancy. Failing grades. Rebellious. Estranged from family.

A glass vase flew straight at them, smashing against the wall into a thousand shards.

Wynne raised a brow.

The floor was worse—fragments everywhere, not a single safe place to step.

“…Impressive.”

She glanced at Brian. “He did all this alone?”

Brian nodded so hard it looked like his neck might snap.

Wynne walked in.

The deeper she went, the worse it got.

Servants stood off to the side, silent, not daring to intervene.

“Replace them. Let him keep smashing.”

Jerome’s voice cut through the room—cold, absolute.

No softness. Just command.

Within moments, more antiques were brought in—rare pieces, each one worth a fortune.

Dylan stood in the middle of the chaos, tiny fists swinging at anyone who got close.

“Hmph! Hmph!”

Rolly coiled beside him, letting the boy climb onto its body, guarding him like a living throne.

Wynne’s gaze dropped.

The kid was exhausted. On the verge of collapsing.

Barefoot.

Broken glass littered the ground at his feet.

Something in her expression snapped cold.

She turned sharply to Jerome. “Are you insane?”

Dylan shifted, trying to step forward.

“Don’t move.”

She stepped toward him, slow and steady, eyes locked on his.

“I’m coming to you,” she said, her tone softer—but firm. “Stay right there.”

The moment Dylan saw her, his eyes lit up—and immediately filled with tears.

His lips trembled. He looked like he’d been holding it in for far too long.

Then he lifted his small arms toward her.

Silent. Needing.