Reborn To Disown My Son Chapter 1

My son fell in love with a girl who had nothing to her name.

He told me Corinne was pure. He said she was gentle, an angel who didn’t care about our family’s wealth.

Yet I had seen her with my own eyes, lingering outside luxury hotels, slipping into the passenger seats of sleek European sedans driven by married men twice her age.

In my past life, I did what any protective mother would do. I vehemently opposed the relationship. When Parker defied me, I cut off his trust fund, brought him to heel, and arranged his marriage to a poised young woman from an old-money family.

On his wedding day, news broke that Corinne had fallen to her death from a downtown high-rise.

Parker had simply frozen at the altar. No tears, no outbursts. He finished the ceremony with a vacant stare, and as the years slipped by, I foolishly believed he had made peace with reality.

Then came my sixtieth birthday.

Parker booked a private lakeside retreat, telling me he had prepared a special surprise to thank me for a lifetime of devotion. I arrived with a heart full of maternal pride. The moment we stepped onto the isolated dock, he grabbed me by the throat and shoved my head beneath the black, freezing water.

"It’s all your fault," he hissed, his fingers digging like iron claws into the back of my neck as the icy lake filled my lungs. "If you hadn’t torn us apart, Corinne would never have died. Go down there and pay your debt to her!"

The agony of drowning—the burning in my chest, the sheer betrayal of dying at the hands of the child I raised alone—was the last thing I knew.

Until I opened my eyes.

"Mom, this is Corinne. My girlfriend."

The phantom burn of stagnant lake water surged up my throat. My knuckles tightened against the armrest of my armchair as I forced the room into focus. Parker stood in the sunlit foyer of my North Shore estate, his fingers laced tightly through the delicate hand of a young woman in an oversized beige knit sweater.

I took a long, steady breath, letting the icy dread settle into cold steel.

"Corinne, is it?" I smoothed my skirt, tilting my head with a warm, measured smile. "Come in, dear. Let me get a proper look at you."

Corinne ducked her head in rehearsed shyness, stepping forward to hand me a lavishly ribboned box. "Mrs. Sinclair, it’s an absolute honor. I brought you a little something... I hope it suits your taste."

I untied the satin bow and lifted the lid.

A limited-edition Dior cashmere wrap, retailing for just over three thousand dollars.

In our previous life, I had recognized the piece immediately. Knowing her background—a broke college student whose family lived in a rundown Appalachian trailer park—I hadn’t scolded her. I simply pulled Parker aside later and said, *I don’t need luxury gifts, sweetheart; I care about sincere hearts, not empty splurges.*

Parker had run straight to Corinne with my words. The next afternoon, Corinne showed up at my house in hysterics. The second she heard Parker’s car pull into the driveway, she threw herself onto the hardwood floor, weeping at my feet: *Mrs. Sinclair, I truly love Parker! Please don’t look down on me just because I’m poor! Don’t force us apart!*

Parker had stormed in, looked at the scene, and immediately turned on me. *Mom, she’s half your age! Why are you bullying an innocent girl? You’re getting more bitter by the year!*

I had been too stunned to speak. Accused and humiliated by my own son, I had security throw them both out.

That had been the catalyst. But what truly unmasked Corinne was what happened a few weeks later.

While shopping on Michigan Avenue with an old friend, I spotted Corinne draped over a balding, portly man in his fifties, feeding him macarons and purring "Daddy" loud enough for half the boutique to hear. I hired a private investigator that very afternoon.

The dossier landed on my desk three days later, and it was a masterpiece of grift. Young as she was, Corinne was a seasoned operator. She had a roster of wealthy benefactors spanning three different continents, trading her youth for rent, designer bags, and tuition.

To spare Parker’s pride and the Sinclair family name, I never showed him the vulgar photos. I simply gave him an ultimatum: break it off, or be cut off without a dime. Within two weeks of being broke, he had crawled back home and agreed to marry the woman I chose.

And on that wedding day, Corinne died. Parker carried a silent, festering poison in his heart for decades—until he drowned me in that lake.

I looked down at the soft cashmere in my hands, then looked up, gently patting Corinne’s slender wrist.

"What a thoughtful girl," I said, my voice dripping with honey. "You must stay for dinner tonight. A client just sent over a crate of vintage Bordeaux."

Corinne’s smile flickered, a momentary freeze in her dark eyes. "Oh... Mrs. Sinclair, I’m so sorry. I caught a terrible cold this morning and just took some heavy antibiotics. The doctor said absolutely no alcohol."

She offered a meek smile, but her hand instinctively drifted downward, resting protectively over her lower stomach.

Parker, completely blind, chimed in with eager chivalry. "Yeah, Mom, Corinne’s under the weather. Don’t make her drink."

I let my smile fade into a stern, matriarchal frown. "Pressure her? Parker, you are the sole heir to Sinclair Holdings. One day, this entire enterprise will belong to you. As your future wife, she will host galas, entertain international investors, and represent this family. A woman who cannot hold a glass of wine at a banquet will be eaten alive in our circle."

Parker’s eyes widened, practically vibrating with excitement. "Mom... are you saying you approve of us? You’re giving us your blessing?"

I smiled back, soft and indulgent. "Of course, darling."

If he was so desperate to wear a crown of green horns, who was I to deny him? In this life, I would place it upon his head myself—and make sure he wore it to his grave.