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In my last life, I gave everything to Ethan Cross—my youth, my company, my body, and finally, my life. He repaid me by signing the organ donation papers while I was still breathing. My heart went to his mistress. Literally. So when I opened my eyes and found myself back at the morning of my wedding—standing in a bridal suite at The Langham, wearing the same white Vera Wang I'd later be buried in—I did the only logical thing. I picked up my phone and called his biggest rival. "Mr. Kessler," I said. "This is Vivienne Ashworth. I have a business proposal. Marry me today, and I'll hand you the 30% stake in Cross Industries that Ethan doesn't know I own." Silence. Then a low, amused voice: "I'll send a car in twenty minutes." I hung up, ripped off my wedding veil, and looked at myself in the mirror. The bruise on my collarbone was already there. Ethan had grabbed me last night when I'd questioned a charge on his black card—$120,000 at Cartier. A bracelet I never received. I knew now who wore it to my funeral. I walked out of the bridal suite and straight into the lobby, where Ethan's mother, Helen Cross, was arranging flowers with the wedding planner. "Vivienne!" She looked up, startled. "Why aren't you dressed? Guests are arriving in two hours." "There's been a change of plans," I said. "I'm not marrying your son." Helen's face went white, then red. "Excuse me?" "I said the wedding is off." "You ungrateful little—" She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging in. "Do you have any idea what the Cross family has done for you? After your father's bankruptcy, we were the only ones willing to—" "To what? Buy me at a discount?" I pulled my arm free. "Tell Ethan he can marry his mistress instead. I hear she needs a new heart anyway." Helen's mouth fell open. That's when the elevator doors opened, and Ethan walked out. God, he was handsome. Even now, knowing what he'd become, I could see why I'd been so blind. Dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of cold blue eyes that made women stupid. I had been the stupidest of them all. "Viv?" He frowned, looking between me and his mother. "What's going on? Why aren't you upstairs?" "Your bride just said she's canceling the wedding," Helen hissed. Ethan's expression didn't change. He just looked at me with that calm, controlling gaze I used to mistake for love. "Vivienne," he said softly, stepping closer. "Whatever this is about, let's talk privately." "There's nothing to talk about." "Is this about the Cartier charge?" A flicker of annoyance. "I told you, it was a client gift." "Her name is Natasha Voss," I said. "She's 24. She's a model with your agency. And she's been in your bed for the past eleven months." The lobby went dead silent. A bellhop froze mid-step. Two of Ethan's groomsmen, who had just walked in, stopped in their tracks. Ethan's jaw tightened. "You're being hysterical," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register. "Go back upstairs. Now." In my last life, that tone would have made me obey instantly. But I'd already died once for this man. "No," I said. A black Maybach pulled up outside the lobby's glass doors. "That's my ride," I said, turning away from the man who would have killed me. "Vivienne!" Ethan's hand shot out and grabbed my arm. Hard. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" I looked down at his hand, then up at his face. "To marry someone else." His grip went slack. I walked out the door and didn't look back.

The pink and blue balloons were still floating above the dessert table when my husband walked in with a woman and a toddler. I was seven months pregnant, standing in the middle of my own baby shower, surrounded by thirty of our closest friends and family. My mother had spent weeks planning this. The cake read: "Baby Girl Harrison Is Almost Here!" Ryan stopped in the doorway. The woman beside him was holding a little boy who looked about two years old. The boy had Ryan's exact eyes—dark green with gold flecks. I'd fallen in love with those eyes six years ago. The room went dead silent. My best friend Chloe grabbed my arm. "Ivy, sit down." I couldn't sit. I couldn't breathe. I stared at the little boy, counting backward. Two years old. Ryan and I had been married for three years. The woman spoke first. Her voice was soft and apologetic, almost rehearsed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know he was married. He told me his name was James." Ryan's face was white. He opened his mouth, and I already knew what he was going to say because Ryan always had an explanation. He always had a reason. The business trips, the late nights, the second phone he said was for work. "Ivy, let me explain—" "What's his name?" I asked the woman. She blinked. "What?" "Your son. What's his name?" "Oliver." Oliver. Ryan and I had agreed that if we ever had a boy, we'd name him Oliver. I'd told him that name in our first year of dating. He said he loved it. He used our name. He gave our name to the child he made with another woman while lying in our bed, kissing my forehead, telling me I was the only one. My mother dropped a glass. The sound of it shattering broke the silence, and suddenly everyone was talking, moving, reaching for me. Ryan stepped forward. "Ivy, she means nothing. It was a mistake. Please, just let me—" I held up my hand. My engagement ring caught the light—three carats, princess cut. He'd proposed at sunset in Santorini. I'd cried. He'd cried. It was perfect. Everything with Ryan was always so goddamn perfect. "How long?" I asked. Ryan's jaw tightened. "Ivy—" "How. Long." The woman answered for him. "Three years. We've been together for three years." Our entire marriage. Every single day of our entire marriage. My knees buckled. Chloe caught me. My mother was already screaming at Ryan, but her voice sounded like it was underwater. All I could hear was my own heartbeat and the little boy saying, "Daddy, why is everyone yelling?" Daddy. Ryan flinched at the word, but he didn't deny it. He didn't correct the child. He just stood there, looking at me with those gold-flecked green eyes, and I realized I had never known my husband at all. I pulled off my ring and set it on the dessert table, right next to the cake that said Baby Girl Harrison. "Get out of my house," I said. Ryan didn't move. Instead, he looked at me with an expression I'd never seen before—not guilt, not shame. Calculation. "Ivy," he said quietly, so only I could hear, "if you make a scene right now, I will take everything. The house, the accounts, and when that baby is born—I'll take her too. You have nothing without me. So smile, tell everyone this is a misunderstanding, and we'll talk about this later like adults." I looked at the man I'd loved for six years, the father of my unborn daughter, and I felt something inside me snap. Not break—snap. Like a bone resetting itself. I picked up the cake with both hands and smashed it into his chest. "Now get out of my house." Ryan looked down at the frosting dripping from his shirt, then back at me. His eyes were cold. "You're going to regret that." But for the first time in years, I felt nothing but clarity. Because standing behind Ryan, in the doorway he'd just walked through, was a face I hadn't seen in six years—my older brother, Dominic, who Ryan had systematically cut me off from. And Dominic was already on the phone. ================================

The night I died for Rowan Ashford, he was in bed with my sister. I know because the last thing I saw—before the car that hit me sent my body flying twenty feet across the intersection—was his Instagram story. Him and Sienna, bare shoulders peeking above white hotel sheets, captioned with a single red heart emoji. I'd been crossing the street to bring him soup. He'd told me he was working late at the office. Funny how dying clarifies things. But here's the part no one expected—least of all me. I woke up. Not in a hospital. Not in heaven. I woke up two years in the past, in my old apartment, on the morning of my wedding day. I sat up so fast I nearly blacked out. My hands flew to my body—no injuries, no scars, no blood. The date on my phone confirmed it: June 15th, two years ago. My wedding to Rowan Ashford was in six hours. My phone buzzed. A text from Rowan: "Can't wait to make you mine, babe." I stared at those words until the screen went dark. In my first life, that text had made me cry with happiness. Now it made my stomach turn. I remembered everything. Every night he came home smelling like Sienna's perfume. Every time he gasped her name in a "dream." Every holiday he ruined. Every lie I swallowed because I loved him more than I loved myself. And I remembered dying on that cold street, alone, with his betrayal glowing on a cracked phone screen three feet from my broken body. My maid of honor, Kendra, burst through the door holding a garment bag. "Rise and shine, bride! Why aren't you dressed? The car's coming in—" She stopped. "Adeline? You look like you've seen a ghost." I had. My own. "I'm not going," I said. Kendra blinked. "What?" "I'm not marrying Rowan." The garment bag hit the floor. "Addie, this isn't funny. Three hundred guests. Your mother flew in from London. The Ashfords booked the entire Waldorf—" "Let them un-book it." I was already reaching for my laptop. In my previous life, I'd turned down a job offer the week before my wedding—a senior developer position at Nextera Technologies, one of the top AI firms in the country. Rowan had convinced me I didn't need a career. He said he'd take care of everything. What he actually meant was: he'd take away everything. I pulled up my old emails. The offer letter was still there, waiting for my response. The deadline was today. I hit accept. Kendra grabbed my shoulders. "Adeline Marie Thorn, you are scaring me. What happened? Did Rowan do something?" I looked at her—really looked at her. In my first life, Kendra had tried to warn me about Rowan and Sienna. I'd cut her off. Called her jealous. We didn't speak for the last eight months of my life. Eight months. That's all I'd had left, and I'd wasted them defending a man who let me die alone on a street corner. "Kendra." My voice was steady. "Rowan is sleeping with Sienna." Her face went white. "He has been for a while. And he won't stop. So I'm not walking down that aisle. Not today. Not ever." She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then she sat down on the bed beside me and said, "Okay. What do you need me to do?" That was when my phone rang. Rowan. I answered. "Baby, my mother wants to know if you prefer the ivory or champagne napkins for the head table. Also, Sienna's here helping set up. She says hi." The audacity almost made me laugh. "Rowan," I said calmly, "the wedding is off." Dead silence. Then: "What the hell did you just say?"

The night I died for Rowan Ashford, he was in bed with my sister. I know because the last thing I saw—before the car that hit me sent my body flying twenty feet across the intersection—was his Instagram story. Him and Sienna, bare shoulders peeking above white hotel sheets, captioned with a single red heart emoji. I'd been crossing the street to bring him soup. He'd told me he was working late at the office. Funny how dying clarifies things. But here's the part no one expected—least of all me. I woke up. Not in a hospital. Not in heaven. I woke up two years in the past, in my old apartment, on the morning of my wedding day. I sat up so fast I nearly blacked out. My hands flew to my body—no injuries, no scars, no blood. The date on my phone confirmed it: June 15th, two years ago. My wedding to Rowan Ashford was in six hours. My phone buzzed. A text from Rowan: "Can't wait to make you mine, babe." I stared at those words until the screen went dark. In my first life, that text had made me cry with happiness. Now it made my stomach turn. I remembered everything. Every night he came home smelling like Sienna's perfume. Every time he gasped her name in a "dream." Every holiday he ruined. Every lie I swallowed because I loved him more than I loved myself. And I remembered dying on that cold street, alone, with his betrayal glowing on a cracked phone screen three feet from my broken body. My maid of honor, Kendra, burst through the door holding a garment bag. "Rise and shine, bride! Why aren't you dressed? The car's coming in—" She stopped. "Adeline? You look like you've seen a ghost." I had. My own. "I'm not going," I said. Kendra blinked. "What?" "I'm not marrying Rowan." The garment bag hit the floor. "Addie, this isn't funny. Three hundred guests. Your mother flew in from London. The Ashfords booked the entire Waldorf—" "Let them un-book it." I was already reaching for my laptop. In my previous life, I'd turned down a job offer the week before my wedding—a senior developer position at Nextera Technologies, one of the top AI firms in the country. Rowan had convinced me I didn't need a career. He said he'd take care of everything. What he actually meant was: he'd take away everything. I pulled up my old emails. The offer letter was still there, waiting for my response. The deadline was today. I hit accept. Kendra grabbed my shoulders. "Adeline Marie Thorn, you are scaring me. What happened? Did Rowan do something?" I looked at her—really looked at her. In my first life, Kendra had tried to warn me about Rowan and Sienna. I'd cut her off. Called her jealous. We didn't speak for the last eight months of my life. Eight months. That's all I'd had left, and I'd wasted them defending a man who let me die alone on a street corner. "Kendra." My voice was steady. "Rowan is sleeping with Sienna." Her face went white. "He has been for a while. And he won't stop. So I'm not walking down that aisle. Not today. Not ever." She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then she sat down on the bed beside me and said, "Okay. What do you need me to do?" That was when my phone rang. Rowan. I answered. "Baby, my mother wants to know if you prefer the ivory or champagne napkins for the head table. Also, Sienna's here helping set up. She says hi." The audacity almost made me laugh. "Rowan," I said calmly, "the wedding is off." Dead silence. Then: "What the hell did you just say?"

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