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I died on a satisfie, bleeding out on my kitchen floor while my husband watched. The last thing I saw was Connor stepping over my body to answer his phone. "Hey, babe. Yeah, she's handled. The house is ours now." Then everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, I was twenty-two, standing at the altar, about to say "I do." And just like before, a stream of glowing text scrolled across my vision— [Here we go again. The moment she satisfie her life.] [Connor marries her for the inheritance, gets his mistress pregnant within a year.] [By twenty-five, he poisons her slowly with her own anxiety medication.] [By twenty-eight, he kills her and makes it look like suicide.] [And the mistress? She wears Mia's wedding ring to the funeral.] My bouquet slipped from my fingers. The church went silent. Three hundred guests stared. Connor's hand found my elbow, squeezing just hard enough to bruise. His smile never wavered, but his whisper was ice: "Pick it up, Mia. Don't embarrass me." In my first life, I obeyed. I always obeyed. I picked up the bouquet, said my vows, and walked into seven years of hell. But now? I looked at Connor—his perfect jaw, his practiced smile, the way his eyes slid to the third pew where a woman in a cream dress sat watching us. Vanessa. She was already here. At my wedding. Wearing cream. Almost white. The audacity would have destroyed me before. Now it just confirmed everything. The priest cleared his throat: "Do you, Mia Ashford, take Connor Reid to be your lawfully wedded husband?" The words floated before my eyes again— [Say no. SAY NO. This is her only chance!] [But if she doesn't marry him, she loses access to everything she needs to take him down.] [The Ashford inheritance clause requires marriage by twenty-two or the money goes to her stepmother.] [She's trapped either way.] My throat tightened. They were right. My father's will was iron-clad. Marry by twenty-two, or my stepmother, Diane, inherits the entire Ashford estate. Diane, who had been feeding Connor information for years. Who had introduced him to Vanessa in the first place. If I said no now, I'd lose everything. No money, no leverage, no proof. But if I said yes, I'd be walking back into the cage. Unless this time, I was the one holding the key. I smiled—a real smile, the kind that made Connor's eyes narrow with suspicion. "I do." The church erupted in applause. Connor kissed me, and his lips felt like a brand. But as we walked down the aisle, I caught Vanessa's eye. She smirked at me—triumphant, possessive, already counting the months until she'd replace me. I smiled back. She had no idea that I'd already memorized the date she would try to open a joint account with my husband. The restaurant where Connor would first slip crushed pills into my wine. The exact moment Diane would forge my signature on the revised will. This time, every trap they set would snap shut on their own fingers. As we climbed into the limousine, Connor's phone buzzed. He tilted the screen away from me, but I didn't need to see it. I already knew the text by heart. It was from Vanessa: "How long until we get rid of her?" In my first life, the answer was six years. In this life, they wouldn't last six months. But first—I needed to find the one person who had tried to warn me before I died. The voicemail I'd deleted without listening. The call I'd ignored because Connor told me she was crazy. My mother's best friend, Ruth. The woman Connor had murdered three months before he murdered me.

The doctor said my husband had three hours to live. I was signing the organ donation form when a woman in red-soled heels clicked into the ICU waiting room, dragging a little girl by the wrist. She walked straight up to the nurses' station and slammed down a document. "I'm here to collect. My daughter needs a heart transplant, and her father"—she pointed toward my husband Ethan's room—"already signed the donor agreement." I stared at her. Then I stared at the little girl. She had Ethan's eyes. His exact amber-flecked eyes. The ground tilted beneath my feet. The woman turned to me, looked me up and down, and smiled. "You must be the wife. I'm sorry you have to find out this way, but Ethan and I have been together for four years. This is Lily. She's three." Four years. We'd been married for five. The nurse at the station looked between us, frozen. "Ma'am," the woman continued, her voice dripping with rehearsed sympathy, "I know this is hard. But Lily is dying. Ethan wanted his heart to go to her. He signed the papers months ago. You just need to authorize the hospital to proceed." She held out a pen to me like she was offering a business card. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't have held it if I wanted to. "Ethan never mentioned—" "Of course he didn't mention me. He was protecting you." She tilted her head. "Or protecting himself. Either way, the paperwork is legal. Check with your lawyer if you want, but every minute you waste is a minute my daughter doesn't have." The little girl tugged on her mother's sleeve. She looked pale, fragile, genuinely sick. And then— A small, breathless voice appeared inside my head. Not from the girl's mouth. From inside her mind. "Mommy said if I cough a lot, the lady will feel sorry for me and sign faster." The girl coughed twice, weakly, perfectly timed. I stopped breathing. "Mommy also said Daddy isn't really dying. The medicine Mommy's been giving him just makes him sleep really deep. Once they take his heart out, Mommy gets the insurance money AND I get a new heart from the organ bank Mommy's doctor friend set up." My vision went white. I looked at the woman in her red-soled heels, her practiced grief, her steady hands. She wasn't here to save her daughter. She was here to murder my husband and collect the payout. And she needed my signature to do it. I set the pen down. "No." Her smile didn't waver, but something behind her eyes shifted—something cold and calculating, like a snake recoiling before a strike. "Mrs. Cole, I understand you're emotional. But if you refuse to authorize the donation, and Lily dies..." She lowered her voice so only I could hear. "I will destroy you. I have texts, photos, hotel receipts. I will prove to every person in your life that your husband loved me, not you. And when the public finds out you let a three-year-old die out of jealousy—" "I said no." The little girl's thoughts slithered into my mind again. "Uh-oh. The stupid wife isn't cooperating. Mommy's going to have to use Plan B." What was Plan B? Before I could react, the woman pulled out her phone, hit a button, and burst into loud, theatrical sobs. "Please! Someone help! This woman is refusing to save my dying daughter! Her own husband wanted to donate his heart, and she's blocking it out of spite!" Heads turned. Phones came out. Someone was already filming. And in the little girl's mind, a gleeful whisper: "Plan B is making the whole world hate her."

The nurse ripped my daughter from my arms while I was still bleeding. "No!" I screamed, clawing at the hospital sheets, my body broken from twelve hours of labor. "Give her back to me! Give me my baby!" But the nurse didn't even look at me. She walked straight to the door, where Alpha Dominic stood with his arm around another woman—Vanessa, his mistress, the woman who had been sleeping in my bed while I was confined to the pack's medical wing for a high-risk pregnancy. Vanessa smiled. That perfect, poison-sweet smile she always wore when she was destroying my life. She reached out and took my newborn daughter—my Lily—and cradled her against her chest like she had any right to touch her. "She's beautiful, Dom," Vanessa cooed, stroking my baby's cheek with her manicured finger. "She looks just like you." I tried to get up. My body screamed in protest—the C-section stitches pulling, blood soaking through the bandages—but I didn't care. I would crawl across broken glass to get to my daughter if I had to. "Dominic, please," I begged, hating the weakness in my voice. "She needs me. She needs her mother. Please—" He finally looked at me. My mate. My fated mate. The man whose mark still burned on my neck like a brand. His dark eyes swept over me with the same expression he'd give a stain on his shirt. "The pack doctor will take care of her," he said flatly. "And from now on, Vanessa will be her mother. It's already been decided." The world tilted. "Decided? She's MY daughter! I carried her for nine months! You can't—" "I can." His voice hardened into the Alpha command that made every wolf in the Blackstone Pack submit. Every wolf except me. Not anymore. "You're not qualified, Serena. You've been unstable throughout the pregnancy. The elders agree—Lily is better off with Vanessa." Unstable. That's what he called it when I cried after finding Vanessa's lingerie in our bedroom. Unstable, when I begged him to attend even one ultrasound appointment. Unstable, when I had a panic attack after his mother told me I was "replaceable." "This is what you want!" I whispered, the truth crystallizing like ice in my veins. "You kept me isolated. You told the pack doctor to put me on bedrest so I couldn't leave. You planned this from the beginning." Something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? No. Dominic didn't feel guilt. He felt inconvenience. "You should rest," he said, already turning away. "The rejection ceremony will be in three days. After that, you're free to leave pack territory." Rejection ceremony. The words hit me like a physical blow. He wasn't just taking my baby. He was severing our mate bond—publicly, ceremonially, in front of the entire pack. The ultimate humiliation for a Luna. Vanessa paused at the door, my daughter still in her arms. She looked back at me with those cold green eyes and whispered, just low enough that only I could hear: "I told you I'd take everything." The door closed. I sat in that hospital bed, bleeding, broken, and alone, and I felt something inside me snap. Not break—snap. Like a bone resetting itself. Like a wolf baring its teeth for the first time. They thought I was weak. They thought months of isolation and emotional abuse had hollowed me out, turned me into the fragile, submissive Luna and they could do whatever they wanted to me. They were wrong. I pressed my hand against the mark on my neck—the mark that still connected me to Dominic, that still let me feel the echo of his heartbeat—and I made a vow. I would get my daughter back. I would burn their world to the ground. And Dominic would learn what it meant to take something from a mother who had nothing left to lose. But first, I had to survive the next seventy-two hours. Because what I didn't know yet—what no one in the Blackstone Pack knew—was that my blood carried a secret. A secret that would change everything. And it had already begun to wake up.

My sister wore my wedding dress. My sister married my fiancé. And my sister stood at my father's grave, smiling, as they lowered him into the ground. I didn't cry. I just watched her press a black-gloved hand to her stomach—four months pregnant with the heir to my family's empire—and whisper to me across the open grave: "Don't worry, Eleanor. I'll take good care of everything that used to be yours." The relatives nodded. They always nodded for Vivienne. She had a way of making theft look like generosity, cruelty look like love. She'd perfected it over seventeen years—ever since the day my mother brought her into our home and said, "Eleanor, this is your new sister. Be kind to her. She has nothing." By the time she was finished, I had nothing. She took my bedroom because hers "faced the cold side of the house." She took my piano scholarship because "Vivienne's so fragile, she needs the joy." She took the boy I loved at nineteen, then handed him back broken once she was bored, like a doll she'd grown tired of. And now, standing over my father's coffin, she'd taken the last thing—the Ashford fortune, the company, the legacy that should have carried my name. My mother gripped my arm, her nails digging in. "Smile, Eleanor. People are watching. Don't you dare embarrass this family the way you always do." So I smiled. I smiled because they had no idea. They didn't know that three months ago, I'd flown to a city none of them had ever heard of. They didn't know whose hand I'd shaken in a glass office forty floors above the rain. They didn't know that the will being read tomorrow morning had already been rewritten—and that the lawyer in the front pew worked for me. Vivienne thought she'd won. She thought the dress, the man, the baby, the money—she thought it was all hers now. She had no idea she'd just inherited a debt she could never repay. I dropped a single white lily onto my father's coffin. "Goodbye, Daddy," I whispered. "I'll fix everything you let her break." And as I turned to leave the cemetery, my phone buzzed once against my palm. A single message. From a number my entire family would have killed to have. [It's done. The trap is set. Come home, Mrs. Ashford—the real one.] I slid the phone into my coat and walked past my smiling sister. Past my mother's accusing eyes. Past the man who'd once promised to marry me, now standing with his hand resting on Vivienne's swollen belly. None of them saw my smile widen. Because tomorrow, at exactly 9 a.m., in a room full of the relatives who'd spent their lives telling me I was the disappointment— I was going to bury them all.

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