The blade sank into my side. In my previous life, that was just the beginning. For Christie, he let his men throw me down a flight of stairs. For Christie, he stood by as she desecrated my mother's ashes.
And in the end, the two of them murdered me in a staged car crash, leaving me to die in a heap of twisted metal.
But I woke up, not dead, but in my bed.
A full year before they killed me. This time, things would be different. I had a plan.
Chapter 1
I woke up with the phantom pain of a car crash. The memory was sharp, a brutal flash of twisted metal and Declan' s face, cold and unconcerned, as his new lover, Christie, slammed the accelerator. They had left me to die.
But I wasn't dead. I was in my bed, in Declan' s mansion. The morning sun streamed through the window. It was a day I remembered from my past life. A day one year before my murder.
I had been given a second chance.
I threw the covers off and stood up, my body still weak from a memory of abuse that hadn't happened yet in this timeline. The resolve was instant, solid as a rock in my chest. I would not let it happen again.
I walked out of the bedroom and down the grand staircase. My father, Albert Avery, was in the living room, reading the newspaper. He looked up and smiled when he saw me.
"Morning, sweetheart. Declan still sleeping?"
I didn't answer his question. I walked straight to him, my hands clenched at my sides.
"Dad, I want to break the engagement."
His smile vanished. He put down his paper, his brow furrowed with confusion. He looked at me, really looked at me, and his expression softened with concern.
"Emily, what' s wrong? Did you and Declan have another fight?"
He thought it was just another fight. He didn' t know the half of it. He didn' t know about the nights Declan, in a blind rage, would throw things, his voice a roar that echoed in my head for days. He didn' t know about the bruises I covered with makeup.
A tremor ran through me. I squeezed my hands tighter, my nails digging into my palms. The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the storm of memories.
"I can' t do it anymore, Dad. I just can' t."
My voice was a hoarse whisper. It was a vague answer, but it was all I could give him without sounding insane.
He didn't press, just watched me with worried eyes. He knew. He must have known some of it.
The memories flooded in, unwanted and sharp.
I remembered Declan before the accident. We were childhood sweethearts. He was the brilliant, confident CEO, and I was his proud fiancée. Our life was a fairy tale. He was gentle, adoring. He would bring me flowers for no reason and hold me like I was the most precious thing in the world.
Then came the car wreck. A drunk driver T-boned his car. He survived, but a traumatic brain injury changed everything.
He came home from the hospital a different man. The gentle Declan was gone, replaced by a monster plagued with severe PTSD and intermittent explosive disorder.
His rages were terrifying. The smallest thing could set him off. A misplaced book, a meal that wasn't to his liking, a question he didn't want to answer.
One night, he broke my arm. He' d thrown a heavy glass statue, aiming for the wall, but I had moved the wrong way.
When the rage passed, he was a wreck. He saw my arm, the unnatural angle of it, and he crumpled to the floor. He sobbed, banging his own head against the hardwood until it bled, begging me to forgive him. He looked so broken, so full of self-hatred.
And like a fool, I had knelt beside him, my own tears mixing with his blood.
"It' s okay, Declan. I' m not leaving you. I' ll never leave you."
I said it over and over, a mantra of my own doom. I believed his illness was the enemy, not him. I loved the man he used to be, and I was determined to wait for him to come back.
Then his family hired Dr. Christie Howard. She was a brilliant therapist, renowned for her work with TBI patients. She was supposed to be our savior.
At first, she seemed professional, caring. But soon, things started to change. Declan began to rely on her completely. Her word was law.
His focus shifted from me to her.
"Christie says I need absolute quiet."
"Christie says your visits are stressing me out."
He started canceling our dates to have extra sessions with her. He bought her expensive gifts, "for her excellent care," he' d say. He defended her when I questioned her methods, which seemed designed to isolate me.
The abuse escalated. Christie would subtly provoke him, then step back and watch the explosion with a clinical, detached look in her eyes. I became his punching bag, both literally and figuratively.
The final betrayal in my last life was Christie desecrating my late mother' s ashes. In my grief and rage, I' d confronted her. Declan had walked in, seen Christie crying with a scratch on her arm, and he' d beaten me unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was in their car, with Christie behind the wheel, a triumphant smirk on her face as she drove us into a concrete barrier.
Now, standing in the living room, the memory was so vivid I could almost smell the gasoline.
"He' ll never let you go, Emily," my father said, his voice grave, pulling me back to the present. "You know how he is. He' s possessive. He' ll go crazy."
"I know," I said, my voice steady now. "His love isn' t love. It' s a cage."
And I had no intention of being a bird in a cage again. Not in this life.
"I have a plan," I told my father. "But I need help. Someone Declan fears. Someone he can' t control."
There was only one person who fit that description. Holt Brewer.
Holt was a reclusive, enigmatic billionaire. His power rivaled, and in many ways surpassed, the Phelps family fortune. He and Declan were fierce business rivals. Declan hated him with a passion, seeing him as a constant threat.
"Brewer?" My father looked skeptical. "He' s a ghost. Why would a man like that help us?"
"He will," I said with a certainty that surprised even myself.
Because in my past life, after I was dead, Holt Brewer had destroyed Declan. He had unearthed every crime, every dirty secret of the Phelps corporation and laid them bare for the world to see. He had done it for me.
And I remembered something else. A small, almost forgotten detail. A few years ago, at a charity auction, a man had anonymously paid a ridiculous sum for a simple bracelet I had donated, a piece my mother had left me. The money had gone to a children's hospital. I later found out the anonymous buyer was Holt. He'd had the bracelet returned to me with a simple note: "Some things are too precious to be sold."
He had loved me from afar, silently, for a decade. I was betting my life, and my father's, that this love was real.
"I' m going to ask him to help us fake our deaths," I said, the words tasting strange and drastic on my tongue. "It' s the only way to escape Declan for good. We' ll leave the country and start over."
My father stared at me, his face pale. The extremity of my plan finally seemed to make him understand the depth of my desperation.
Just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hall.
"Emily, darling, I' m home."
It was Declan' s voice. And he wasn' t alone. I could hear Christie' s soft footsteps beside his.
I quickly smoothed the expression on my face, pushing the terror and hate down deep inside. I had to play my part, just for a little while longer.
Declan walked in, a handsome smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. Christie was beside him, looking at me with a fake, sympathetic tilt of her head.
"You look pale, Emily," Declan said, his brow creasing in feigned concern. "Are you feeling unwell?"
"Just a headache," I lied smoothly.
He nodded, accepting the lie without question. He turned to Christie.
"Christie had a long session today. Her throat is a bit sore. Could you make her some honey lemon tea, Emily? The way you do."
It was a command disguised as a request. In my past life, I would have argued. I would have pointed out that we had staff for that. My defiance would have earned me a slap later, in private.
I remembered the sting of his hand, the coldness in his eyes.
I hated him. I hated the sight of him. And I hated the woman standing beside him, her eyes gleaming with a possessive victory she thought I couldn't see.
This time, I just smiled. A calm, empty smile.
"Of course, Declan."
I turned and walked towards the kitchen, feeling their eyes on my back. Christie' s gaze was sharp, surprised by my easy compliance.
Let her be surprised. This was just the beginning.
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