Adelheid Rufo

The numb cold started in my fingertips, creeping inward. I watched Chloe, my wife, her face a mask of impatient fury in the dim tent light. Outside, a blizzard howled, the soundtrack to my dying. My miraculous blood, the blood that could heal, drained from my arm, a crimson offering for a dead man. "More," Chloe demanded, her voice sharp. "It' s not enough. You have to bring him back." Her childhood sweetheart, Jake Miller, lay frozen nearby, a corpse. "Chloe, it doesn' t work like this," I rasped, my vision blurring. "I can heal injuries. I can' t raise the dead." "Liar!" she shrieked, her grief a twisted venom. "You can heal anything! You won' t save him because you' re jealous! It' s your fault he went up that mountain! If you hadn' t forced me to marry you, he' d still be alive!" The accusation was a sick joke. I had healed her to repay a debt, a lie used to trap me. I wasn' t a god, just a medical prodigy. As my lifeblood pooled, the world faded to black, her hateful face my last sight. Then, bright, sterile light. I gasped, eyes flying open in a pristine hospital room. My hands were whole, warm. Mrs. Davis, Chloe' s mother, stood by the window, worried but hopeful. This was the day it all began, the day they begged me to heal their daughter. I remembered my profound sense of duty, repaying a girl I believed saved me. That single selfless act led to a year of loveless marriage, resentment, and my own murder. "Dr. Hayes," Mrs. Davis said, trembling. "We' ve heard about your… gift. They say you can perform miracles." She stepped forward, hands clasped. "My daughter, Chloe… she' ll never walk again. But we believe… you can save her. Please, we' ll give you anything." But my gaze was cold. I saw the contempt, the venom of my past in her desperate eyes. I had been a fool. A naive, sacrificial lamb. Not again.

I discovered the dark secret my stepmother Beatrice had been hiding for years. When I threatened to expose the truth to the mafia, my half-brother Angelo and step-sister Carmella locked me in an abandoned Brooklyn warehouse. Carmella stood there in my mother's expensive silk dress, her voice sweet and venomous as she confessed how she had meticulously stolen my life and my father's love. Angelo looked at me with cold indifference, pouring gasoline over my feet before striking a match. "You're insane for threatening to break the code of silence," they laughed, leaving me to burn alive to protect their stolen thrones. My own father turned a blind eye, letting his trueborn daughter turn to ash just to maintain the illusion of his perfect family. The smell of charred flesh filled my throat. Until I died, I didn't understand. I had bled for our survival, even taking a bullet for the terrifying Moretti Matriarch. Why did my father let the bastard children of a Chicago bootlegger steal my inheritance and murder me? Opening my eyes again, the phantom heat of the inferno faded into a cool New York afternoon. I was seventeen again, sitting in the backseat of a Cadillac, just returning from my three-year exile in Switzerland. This time, I wouldn't just scream. I would marry the terrifying Prince of New York and watch my stepmother's entire bloodline burn.

Mob boss Dante Falcone plucked me off the streets and made me his queen. I thought I'd married the most loyal man in the underworld, until I caught him with my cousin Lucia. She was six months pregnant with his child, living in our luxury villa. After the car accident, I needed a blood transfusion to save our unborn baby. The blood bank was empty. Dante had ordered all emergency medical resources redirected to save his mistress. He signed our child's death warrant with his own hand. When I woke up to find my stomach horribly flat, my phone rang. It was Dante, ecstatic because he'd just seen my old pregnancy test results, completely unaware he'd already killed his own heir. "I'm going to build an empire for our child," he promised. I didn't say a word. I hung up, secretly signed the divorce papers, and called my intelligence contact, demanding immediate extraction. After I disappeared, the untouchable Don finally understood what it meant to lose everything. He burned the world down and swore he'd bring me back.

I’ve spent eighteen hundred days as a silent ghost in the Crawford estate, a place where the air smells of expensive cigars and terror. My father, Senator Jed Bowen, sold me to Alek Crawford to pay off his gambling debts, trading his daughter’s life for a seat in the Senate. Alek doesn’t just want my service; he wants my complete submission. He tracks my every move through cameras and bruises my skin just to see if I’ll flinch. He thinks he owns me because he holds the contract, and his mother ensures I’m kept in my place with slaps and insults. When a scandal involving my half-sister and Alek’s brother hit the news, the house turned into a war zone. Alek cornered me in the dark, his hands stained with blood and ink, whispering that I was nothing but a receipt for his family's money. He’s been forcing me to take pills for years, believing they’ve kept me drugged and mute. "She needs to speak again," he told a surgeon over the phone. "Whatever it takes." He thinks he’s fixing a broken toy, but he’s actually planning to carve the silence into my throat permanently. He has no idea that I’ve been switching those pills for years, or that I’m more awake and more dangerous than he could ever imagine. I’ve endured the biting cold and the crushing weight of his obsession, waiting for a single sign that my nightmare could end. Tonight, a secret message reached me in the rain, confirming that the only man I ever loved has finally finished his mission. Kole is coming back for me. The contract review is tomorrow, but I’m not planning on signing anything. I’m planning on taking back everything they stole from me, starting with my voice.

I spent a year in a Swiss asylum, swallowing pills to cure a madness that didn’t exist. It turned out the medication was just sugar. My insanity was a script written by Jaxon Francis, the Don of New York, just so he could marry a Cartel princess without his ward getting in the way. When I finally escaped and tried to leave him, his new wife staged her own kidnapping and framed me. Jaxon didn’t ask for proof. He didn’t look at the evidence. Instead, he tied a rope around my ankles and dragged me behind a helicopter across the jagged rocks of the Wastelands. He held his wife close and watched as my skin was flayed and my bones shattered, believing he was executing a traitor. He left me for dead in the dirt, convinced he had cleansed his empire. I took the hush money his mother threw at me and vanished, letting Alina Phillips die in that field. Three years later, I returned to New York as "Echo," the elusive artist the world was obsessing over. At a charity auction, Jaxon bid one hundred million dollars for a painting of a woman’s scarred back, desperate to buy redemption for the ghost he thought he killed. He chased me into the rain, begging for a second chance, swearing he had destroyed his wife for me. I looked at the man who once held my heart and simply smiled. Then I turned to the man standing beside me. "Jaxon, meet Darwin," I said, linking my arm through his. "My husband."

I carried a thermal container of stew to my fiancé's private estate, worried he was stressed about our upcoming pack merger. Instead of a meditation retreat, I walked into a nightmare. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I saw Ivan playing on the rug with a secret son, while a woman named Kiera watched like a queen. I froze as I heard Ivan's voice float through the glass. "Aliana is just a placeholder. She smells like antiseptic and fear. Once I get the territory, I'll reject her." My heart shattered, but the knife twisted deeper when he laughed about my parents. "Her folks pay for this villa, Kiera. They know. They prefer a strong alliance over a disappointment of a daughter." My own parents were drugging me to steal my medical patents. They thought I was weak. They thought I was just a submissive Healer. I wiped my tears and unlocked his safe with the admin codes he forgot I installed. I took the financial records, the fake DNA tests, and the theft agreements. That night, at his secret son's birthday party, I didn't bring a gift. I brought a projector. I played their confession for the entire Council, severed the mate bond publicly, and vanished into the North. Six months later, a ruined, homeless Ivan crawled into my clinic, begging for the legendary White Wolf to save him. He looked up, shocked to see me standing there, glowing with silver power. "You rejected the gift of the Goddess," I smiled, letting my Alpha aura crush him to the floor. "Now, get out."

For three years, I believed my fiancé, Daryl, was my savior. He rescued me after a brutal attack-secretly orchestrated by my own sister, Kenisha-shattered my hands and my dreams of being a concert pianist. He gave me a perfect, protected life. Then I discovered the truth on his laptop. I wasn't his beloved; I was "Asset: FB-01." A walking collection of prime organs, being groomed until my sister needed a new heart. My heart. The man I loved became a monster. He forced me to take five pregnancy tests, snarling that he'd "get that thing out" of me himself if I compromised his investment. He locked me in the trunk of his car and later abandoned me on a collapsing rope bridge. To finally break me, he drowned the stray kitten I'd rescued in the washing machine. "You hurt my Kenisha," he roared. "Now you'll know what it feels like to lose something you care about." My entire life with him had been a lie. I was just livestock being fattened for slaughter, and my hands-the ones he once called magic-were just a "non-essential component." After he drained my blood for the sister who wanted me dead, I went home and buried my cat. Then I packed a single bag, booked a flight to London, and vanished. They had created a monster. Now, they were about to meet her.

For ten years, I was my family' s living scandal. After being framed for a crime that nearly destroyed our company, I was cast as the pariah, forced to serve the very people who had stolen my future. At my parents' 40th anniversary party, the humiliation reached its peak. My brother, the CEO who built his career on my ruin, stood at the podium. "Can you not do one simple thing without creating a disaster?" he hissed at me in front of everyone. "For one night, can you just try not to be a complete and utter liability?" His fiancée, the true architect of my downfall, watched with a triumphant smirk. My mother looked on in horror-not at his cruelty, but at the scene I was causing. My father simply turned away in disappointment. They had all chosen their sides long ago, and I was not on it. After a decade of absorbing their contempt for a crime I didn't commit, something inside me finally snapped. The guilt, the shame, the silence-it was all a lie I was no longer willing to live. But I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I calmly walked out of that ballroom, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I found online. A gravelly voice answered. "Mccormick." "My name is Charlotte Gallegos," I said, my voice clearer and stronger than it had been in years. "I need to hire you."

The afternoon sun warmed my art studio, a sanctuary I' d built for myself, far from my chaotic family. Life was good, my canvas humming with color, ready for final touches. Then, the phone rang, a cold dread seizing me as Leo' s name flashed across the screen. He demanded money, as always, his voice a familiar, entitled growl. Our conversation was sharp, escalating quickly, ending with his chilling threat: "I'm outside your building. Come down here right now, or I'm coming up." A cold fear snaked down my spine; this was my sanctuary, not his to invade. He was waiting, his face thin and angry. When I refused him, he sneered, calling me "little miss perfect artist," shoving me. I stumbled, caught off balance, and then he shoved me again, harder. I fell backward, right into the street. Everything happened at once: the screech of tires, a blaring horn, blinding headlights. A massive force slammed into me, pain exploding through every nerve. Then, only darkness. I died. But then I opened my eyes. Confined to a tiny, unfamiliar body, in my old childhood bedroom, the calendar on the wall screamed 2007. I was seven years old again. It wasn't a dream. It was a second chance. A chance to change everything. A chance to stop Leo from becoming the monster who would one day cause my death.

My life as Senator King' s cherished daughter was a meticulously crafted dream. My future seemed certain: marrying my devoted fiancé, Beau Carter, with my closest 'companion,' Daisy Mae, always by my side. But behind velvet curtains, a venomous plot brewed. My brother, Randy, consumed by petty jealousy, and Beau, blinded by ambition, fell under Daisy's insidious, manipulative spell. Their true, ugly intentions burst forth. They orchestrated my ruin, a horrifying act of "revenge." I was cast out, forcibly married to a brutal criminal, stripped of family, fortune, and hope. Trapped, I endured relentless abuse until I finally died, alone and utterly broken, in a desolate, forgotten place. In my agony, the truth, sharp as a blade, shattered my illusions. Randy and Beau, my own flesh and supposed love, engineered my downfall, all for her – for Daisy, the viper I foolishly called 'friend.' The unfathomable betrayal burned hotter than any physical pain. How could they? Why her? But destiny wasn't done. My eyes snapped open, a gasp catching, back in my childhood bed, morning sun streaming. Every horrifying memory of my agonizing future was brutally fresh. This time, I wouldn't just survive. This time, the Kings would have their vengeance. The game has already begun.

The recurring nightmare was a constant torment, a horrifying glimpse into my future. Every night, I watched myself trapped, broken, married to Ethan Vanderbilt, his cruel eyes and chilling smile haunting my sleep as Brittany Miller, his manipulative girlfriend, whispered poison in his ear. But this time, it hit differently. I jolted awake, heart hammering, but the terror wasn't just residual dream-fear. The details were sharper, the pain more intense. It wasn't just a bad dream; it felt like a memory, a terrifying premonition burned into my soul, a stark warning of the life awaiting me as Mrs. Ethan Vanderbilt. My familiar East Coast bedroom did nothing to calm the dread. My engagement, meticulously planned by our influential families and celebrated by society, was no longer a gilded cage – it was a death sentence. I couldn't breathe. I saw my very spirit withering in a silent, opulent prison, completely at his mercy. How could my aunt, bound by her powerful Senator husband and their family alliances, only see an "advantageous match" when I saw a monster? They feared the scandal of breaking the engagement; I feared losing my entire self. "What's more important?" I choked, "His career, or my life? Because I' m telling you, marrying Ethan will destroy me." The fear was a cold knot in my stomach, but a desperate, burning resolve ignited. I couldn't accept this fate. I had relived my end, and I refused to walk that path again. Looking at my pale, haunted reflection, I whispered, "No. I won't let him. I'll change it." My desperate fight for freedom began at that very moment.

Seven years. That's how long I'd been with Sarah, building a future, planning our wedding. Meeting her parents formally was supposed to be a joyous step, a celebration of us. But at dinner, Sarah casually suggested a terrifying plan: mortgaging or selling the townhouse-the one I paid for-to fund her deceased brother's friend's dubious startup. Her parents enthusiastically agreed, openly admiring the 'visionary' friend, David. They dismissed my shock as "selfishness," accusing me of caring "always about money." Sarah herself rolled her eyes, questioning my "support." Then, they ambushed me at my college, publicly humiliating me with baseless accusations of emotional abuse and fraud. My career, built on years of hard work as an adjunct professor, hung by a thread. How could the woman I loved betray me so utterly for mere convenience and blind family loyalty? Were my life savings, my future, so easily disposable to them? The injustice burned, revealing a deep-seated contempt I never truly saw. I cancelled the wedding, ready to fight for what was mine. But just as her CEO prepared to reprimand me, a sleek black car pulled up, and a quiet man stepped out, about to expose a secret that would shake their world to its core. They had no idea who they were really dealing with.

My family was crumbling, clinging to the last vestiges of a once-great name. My upcoming marriage to Ethan was supposed to save us, his new money cushioning our fall. But rumors painted Julian Thorne, a reclusive tech billionaire, as a monster who ruined women, and his people chose my beautiful half-sister, Hailey, as his next "companion." Then Ethan, my fiancé, panicked, pulling me into a desperate elopement. In a cheap motel room, he revealed his true plan: I was to pretend we'd been secretly married before Hailey's selection. He needed me as a convenient shield, a deniable wife, so he could keep Hailey, and her potential connection to Thorne, on a string. My stomach churned; this wasn't love, it was a transaction. Back home, my family, desperate to "save" Hailey, demanded I support Ethan's lie, threatening to cut off funding for my cherished art project. They called me "strong" when they wanted me to bear their burdens, to be a doormat. The disgust was a bitter taste in my mouth, realizing I was just a pawn in their cruel, self-serving games. Why was I always the one sacrificed, always the "strong" one meant to suffer in silence? The thought of living Ethan' s fabricated life, a life of quiet humiliation and deceit, suddenly felt infinitely worse than facing any rumored monster. A cold fury rose in me, sharp and clean. I would not be their pawn, their disposable currency. Looking my father dead in the eye, I declared, "If Hailey is too delicate for Mr. Thorne, then I will go in her place." I' d rather face a monster with my eyes open than be a fool' s secret.

Because I was greedy for a cheap place to live, I moved into a haunted house. The old beggar downstairs warned me in terror, "Miss, this house is haunted, you can't live here!" I smiled and reassured him, "It's okay, I'm even poorer than the ghosts, so if I move in, I'll be the one causing trouble." He didn't know that I've been able to see ghosts since I was young, and just last night, I stayed up late giving psychological counseling to a ghost.

Elena died on the operating table, betrayed by her husband, her unborn child already gone. But death? Just her intermission. She woke up in a whole new world-a beastmen's world, where females are rarer than diamonds and the strongest males go mad without a woman's mark to calm them down. And her? Labelled the weakest female alive. An F-rank body with a joke of a status. But hidden inside? Unlimited mental power. Just as she's figuring out this mess, a system pops up with one hell of an offer: Complete the missions. Bond with assigned males. Save this world. Do all that, and you get a one-way ticket back home. for revenge. Sounds simple? Think again. A Wolf General, colder than a blizzard, who should have ended her-ended up letting her mark him. A Fox Prince, all charming smiles and secret schemes, who started playing games only to lose his own heart. A golden Dragon, sunshine-bright and fiercely possessive, who declares her his destined treasure. A shadowy Serpent, too patient and too dangerous, watching her every move from the dark. A Phoenix King, whose love burns so hot he'd reduce empires to cinders for her. They all need her mark. They all want her. And sharing? Not in their vocabulary. Too bad for them- She's not here for love stories. She's here to survive. To climb. To turn their legendary power into her own stepping stones. And one day. To go back and make her betrayers wish they were never born.

The sensation of falling wasn't like flying; it was heavy, violent, and smelled of burning flesh. Above us, on the crumbling balcony of the Sears manor, Duke Cato Sears turned his back, shielding his cousin Bianca from the smoke as he walked away, leaving my sister Blossom and me to drop into the abyss. As the darkness slammed shut like an iron door, I realized my entire life had been a cruel script written by the people I called family. In my first life, I was the sacrificial lamb of the Dawson manor, sold to a man who eventually watched me die without blinking. My sister Blossom had pushed me into Cato's arms to avoid his rumors, only to laugh when the fire finally consumed us both. My father had measured my value like a piece of livestock, and my step-grandmother didn't even acknowledge my existence while I was being led to the slaughter. I died in that fire, feeling the heat scorch my skin and the weight of a hatred so potent it tasted like bile. I spent twenty years being the weak, manipulated shadow of a girl, only to end up as nothing more than a phantom scorch mark on a "hero's" estate. I couldn't understand why my own blood treated my life like a game they could discard. The injustice of it all burned hotter than the flames that took my last breath. Then, I sat up, sucking in air that tasted of lavender and air conditioning, not smoke. I was back in my bedroom, three days before the engagement ball that ruined my life. Blossom stood at the door, her "sweet" mask slipping as she tried to manipulate me into the Duke's path again. She thought she was the only one who had come back, but she didn't realize that this time, I was going to let her have exactly what she wanted: the Duke, the bankruptcy, and the living hell that awaited her in that house.

I stood in the Royal Hall, clutching a glass of warm champagne while watching Senator Levine laugh. To the crowd, he was a pillar of the community; to me, he was the parasite who had already destroyed my life once. In my past life, this gala was the night the monarchy began to bleed. Levine successfully planted his cameras, the Vance empire funded a coup, and the kingdom I loved was sold off to the highest bidder. I lived through the consequences of my silence. I watched my sister, Seraphina, die in childbirth because the medical supplies were intercepted by traitors. I watched the man I loved, Duke Elliot, stripped of his titles and branded a criminal. I spent my final days in a damp, freezing cell, listening to the executioner sharpen his blade while the people cheered for our demise. The injustice burned in my throat like lye. I died wondering how I could have been so naive, how I could have let these monsters walk among us while I played the part of a perfect, quiet wife. Why did the gods let the wicked prosper while my family’s blood watered the palace gardens? What would I have given for just one chance to strike first? Then, the world shifted. I opened my eyes to find myself back at the gala, the scent of sandalwood and rain surrounding me as Elliot rested a possessive hand on my back. I wasn't just a Duchess anymore; I was a ghost from a future that would never happen, and I was ready to erase every name on my list.

Chloe Miller and Blake Harrison were husband and wife, a title that masked three years of mutual hatred and separate beds. Then, a gang abducted and brutally murdered Chloe. But instead of peace, she woke to the Grim Reaper' s voice: "Ms. Miller, you have desires you have not resolved. You cannot be reborn yet." She was granted ten days to return to life and fix her problems, or risk eternal damnation. Chloe returned to find Blake celebrating her "death" with her adoptive sister, Amelia Miller, the woman Blake truly loved. Blake, believing her to be a manipulative ghost, grabbed her throat. "You have the nerve to come back!" he snarled. He thought she faked her kidnapping, mocking her with twisted accusations alongside Amelia and her parents. Chloe, overwhelmed, saw the prayer beads she' d gotten for Blake during his accident, a symbol of her wasted devotion. Her past devotion felt like a torment now, a chain she needed to break. She pulled the beads from his wrist, scattering them, severing their hold. "I' m tired, Blake," she said, her voice clear and firm. "Let' s get a divorce." His eyes widened in shock. He refused. He' d always refused. But this time, Chloe wasn' t fighting for him. She was fighting for herself. She was finally ready to rewrite her own story, leaving behind the shattered pieces of her past.

A sharp pain shot through my head, pulling me from a deep darkness. I opened my eyes to my luxury penthouse, but I shouldn't have been there. I remembered dying. The memory was cold and sharp: my protégé, Dustin, sold me out, and my husband, Graves, watched our company crumble, leading to my fatal heart attack. Then, Graves appeared, his charming, empty smile unchanged. But he wasn't alone. A young woman, Alex Salazar, stood behind him, clutching her cheap handbag. Graves introduced her as an intern, saying she had nowhere to stay and would be living with us. My eyes fell to her neck, where a dark hickey was partially hidden. The date on the nightstand confirmed it: I had traveled back in time to the exact day Graves brought Alex home in my previous life, the beginning of my long, painful nightmare. Last time, I had screamed and thrown things, starting my humiliation. A strange calm washed over me. I had been given a second chance, not to win him back, but to escape. "Of course," I said, my voice even, "The poor thing. We should take care of her." Graves looked surprised, then relieved. He thought he had won. "In fact," I continued, pulling out divorce papers, "I'll make sure she's comfortable. You just have one small thing to do for me." I wanted the Malibu property. "Give me that, and I'll walk away quietly. You can have your new life. You can take care of this... orphan."

The numb cold started in my fingertips, creeping inward. I watched Chloe, my wife, her face a mask of impatient fury in the dim tent light. Outside, a blizzard howled, the soundtrack to my dying. My miraculous blood, the blood that could heal, drained from my arm, a crimson offering for a dead man. "More," Chloe demanded, her voice sharp. "It' s not enough. You have to bring him back." Her childhood sweetheart, Jake Miller, lay frozen nearby, a corpse. "Chloe, it doesn' t work like this," I rasped, my vision blurring. "I can heal injuries. I can' t raise the dead." "Liar!" she shrieked, her grief a twisted venom. "You can heal anything! You won' t save him because you' re jealous! It' s your fault he went up that mountain! If you hadn' t forced me to marry you, he' d still be alive!" The accusation was a sick joke. I had healed her to repay a debt, a lie used to trap me. I wasn' t a god, just a medical prodigy. As my lifeblood pooled, the world faded to black, her hateful face my last sight. Then, bright, sterile light. I gasped, eyes flying open in a pristine hospital room. My hands were whole, warm. Mrs. Davis, Chloe' s mother, stood by the window, worried but hopeful. This was the day it all began, the day they begged me to heal their daughter. I remembered my profound sense of duty, repaying a girl I believed saved me. That single selfless act led to a year of loveless marriage, resentment, and my own murder. "Dr. Hayes," Mrs. Davis said, trembling. "We' ve heard about your… gift. They say you can perform miracles." She stepped forward, hands clasped. "My daughter, Chloe… she' ll never walk again. But we believe… you can save her. Please, we' ll give you anything." But my gaze was cold. I saw the contempt, the venom of my past in her desperate eyes. I had been a fool. A naive, sacrificial lamb. Not again.

The screams of the "Proving" ceremony were the first thing I heard when I woke up. My eyes shot open, and the scent of pine, sweat, and something metallic filled my lungs. I was back in this godforsaken survivalist compound, mysteriously transported from my office job. A hand grabbed my arm, and it was Gabrielle Chadwick, or Gabby, her terrified eyes pleading. "Molly, help me! Please! They're going to hurt me!" This was the ritual where young men would strike unmarried women with leather belts, and the one enduring the most blows was deemed "most desired." In my past life, I shielded Gabby, taking every blow for her, believing I was protecting a friend. My sacrifice made me the "most honored," granting me first choice of a partner, and I chose Caleb Scott, the compound leader' s son. But my life with Caleb was a private hell of control and brutality, while Gabby, seething with resentment for what she thought was her rightful place, pretended to be my friend. She eventually got her revenge, pushing me off a cliff during a foraging trip. Now, reborn at the start of that same horrifying ceremony, Gabby was playing the same part, her hand clamping my arm, her voice a desperate plea for me to be her shield again. I looked at her, at the calculated fear in her eyes, remembering the sharp, final impact of falling. Not this time.

The last thing I remembered was freezing to death in my garage, alone. My fiancée, Jenny, had taken all our savings, not for us, but for her lover Mark Todd's son, Leo. She didn't even seem sad when she found me, just annoyed my death inconveniently interrupted Leo's birthday plans. I gasped, my eyes flying open to a warm morning sun in my own bed. The date on my phone was a full year before my demise. A second chance. My old auto shop teacher called, offering a full scholarship to an automotive engineering program in California. In my first life, I turned him down, sacrificing my dreams to stay with Jenny in our small Ohio town. But this time, a cold, hard resolve filled me. "I'll take it," I said, my voice firm and clear, my heart an ice block. Just then, Jenny walked in, laughing with Mark and Leo, acting like they owned my house. Leo, the spoiled kid, demanded I make him mac and cheese, and Jenny instantly defended him, whispering, "He's just a kid! Don't be so petty." I watched her doting on them, making them dinner with practiced ease, completely ignoring me and my own cold meal. Why did I let her walk all over me, drain my bank account, and destroy my future? This time, I felt nothing but a powerful decision. I was already gone. They just didn't know it yet.

The stale smell of burnt coffee and dread filled the air. I knew this night. The final, all-night document review for a billion-dollar merger. Last time, my husband, Mark, the senior partner, abandoned his post for his intern mistress, Chloe, after she ruined critical documents. Their negligence cost us the deal and ruined Mr. Thompson, our biggest client. They pinned it all on me. I was disbarred, sued into oblivion, and died poor and alone, while Mark and Chloe thrived, protected by her powerful family. Now, I was back. Reborn on the worst night of my life, with only four hours to save everything. But the past was insistent. Chloe, with her shrill apologies, again spilled coffee-this time directly onto the irreplaceable signature page. Mark, predictably, jumped to defend her, leaving the crucial filing to comfort his "distressed" mistress. "Chloe needs me!" he hissed, as his phone blared with her manipulative threats: "If you don't come to me this second, I'm going to the clinic! I'll get rid of it!" He shoved me aside, spitting, "The firm has malpractice insurance for a reason." And just like last time, he was gone, leaving chaos in his wake. How could a man jeopardize a billion-dollar deal, his reputation, and his client' s legacy for a flighty intern? How could such selfish, incompetent people rise to power while I was destroyed? This time, I wouldn't just watch. I wouldn't break. With pain in my heart and hip, I walked to the head of the abandoned table. The game had changed. This time, I' d take the lead. And this time, I wouldn' t just survive-I' d make sure they burned for it.

My own father, David, drowned me in the cold Caribbean, tying the anchor chain to my ankles himself, his voice devoid of emotion as he declared it was "for Chloe," my adopted sister, blaming me for her demise. But instead of death, I gasped awake, not underwater, but on our luxury yacht, the *Serenity*, hours before the terrifying pirate attack I'd already endured, realizing I was trapped reliving my darkest nightmare. My frantic warnings dismissed, my father abandoned us *again*, taking all able-bodied security and crew for a dolphin chase with Chloe, only to explicitly tell my terrified mother on the phone that I was "shark bait *again*," a chilling confirmation that he remembered my original death and was willing to let it happen once more. The injustice was soul-crushing: while my brother, Mike, bravely sacrificed his arm fighting the invading pirates, even our closest ally, Uncle Ben, initially sided with David and Chloe, believing their manipulative lies about my supposed "jealous drama." However, the grotesque discovery of Mike's severed limb in the open ocean finally shattered Uncle Ben's blind faith, transforming him into an unlikely ally and igniting within me an unyielding resolve to uncover the shocking truth: my "sweet" adopted sister, Chloe, was the actual orchestrator of every horrific betrayal, and I would make sure she paid for every single one of our recurring nightmares.