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I woke up on the day my legal guardian, Beau, became delirious from painkillers. This time, I didn’t stay by his side. I did as he asked and called Claire. In my previous life, I’d fallen in love with Beau—the man who raised me. That day, he’d had an accident and taken too many painkillers, losing himself completely. Instead of calling Claire, I’d stayed with him. A month later, I found out I was pregnant. Beau married me for the baby. On our wedding day, Claire was in a horrific car accident while traveling overseas. Before she died, she called Beau one hundred and ninety-nine times, begging for help. He didn’t answer a single one. Later, Beau stared at those one hundred and ninety-nine missed calls in silence. He didn't break that silence until the day I went into labor, when he locked me in the basement. I begged him to take me to the hospital. He just stood there, watching as our child and I died together on the cold floor. The last thing I heard him say was, “If you hadn’t gotten pregnant, I never would have married you. I wouldn’t have missed Claire’s calls, either. You deserved this.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on that day. ... “Xenia, call Claire. Now.” Hearing those words again jolted me back to reality. I was really back. I grabbed my phone and dialed Claire’s number without a second thought. Beau Mercer’s face was flushed, his breathing shallow and ragged. His eyes were unfocused, lost in the haze of the drugs. Last time, that look had been enough to make me disobey him. It had ended in my own brutal death. This time, I avoided his gaze and slipped out of the room. “Just hold on, Beau. Claire will be here in ten minutes.” The door clicked shut behind me, and I heard him murmur my name. I didn’t answer. I just stood outside the door and waited. Ten minutes later, Claire arrived. Her eyes landed on me first, her expression a complicated mix of suspicion and relief. She scanned my clothes, and only after confirming I was untouched did the tension leave her shoulders. Before pushing the door open, she threw a sentence over her shoulder. “You can go. You’re not needed here.” I turned and went upstairs to my room. It wasn't until late that night that the sounds from downstairs finally faded. I sat on the edge of my bed, the memories of my last life replaying in my mind. Back then, I’d been so in love with Beau that I’d stayed to take care of him myself. A month later, I was pregnant. He married me. But on our wedding day, Claire died in an accident. He lost the woman he’d always wanted to marry. He didn’t lash out right away. He held all that rage inside until I was about to give birth. Then he locked me in the basement. The pain was so blinding I nearly passed out. I cried. I begged. I told him I didn’t care if I died, as long as he saved the baby. But he didn’t move. He just stood there and watched me bleed out, watched our child die before it could even be born. In this life, I did what he wanted and called Claire. And soon, I would leave this place for good. The next morning, Claire was at the Mercer breakfast table. Beau took a bite of his eggs and a sip of coffee before speaking. “Claire is my girlfriend, and I intend to marry her. You will all treat her with respect.” His gaze landed on me, and he tapped his fork against his plate. “Especially you. Show my future wife some respect. Don’t make trouble.” I nodded. The corner of Claire’s mouth twitched into a smug little smile. I ignored her and stood to go back to my room. I’d barely pushed my chair back when Claire’s voice, thick with crocodile tears, stopped me. “Beau, does Xenia not want me here? I know how important she is to you. If she doesn’t like me, maybe I should just go.” A few tears slid down her cheeks as she spoke. Beau’s brow furrowed, his eyes snapping to me.......

I woke up on the day my legal guardian, Beau, became delirious from painkillers. This time, I didn’t stay by his side. I did as he asked and called Claire. In my previous life, I’d fallen in love with Beau—the man who raised me. That day, he’d had an accident and taken too many painkillers, losing himself completely. Instead of calling Claire, I’d stayed with him. A month later, I found out I was pregnant. Beau married me for the baby. On our wedding day, Claire was in a horrific car accident while traveling overseas. Before she died, she called Beau one hundred and ninety-nine times, begging for help. He didn’t answer a single one. Later, Beau stared at those one hundred and ninety-nine missed calls in silence. He didn't break that silence until the day I went into labor, when he locked me in the basement. I begged him to take me to the hospital. He just stood there, watching as our child and I died together on the cold floor. The last thing I heard him say was, “If you hadn’t gotten pregnant, I never would have married you. I wouldn’t have missed Claire’s calls, either. You deserved this.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on that day. ... “Xenia, call Claire. Now.” Hearing those words again jolted me back to reality. I was really back. I grabbed my phone and dialed Claire’s number without a second thought. Beau Mercer’s face was flushed, his breathing shallow and ragged. His eyes were unfocused, lost in the haze of the drugs. Last time, that look had been enough to make me disobey him. It had ended in my own brutal death. This time, I avoided his gaze and slipped out of the room. “Just hold on, Beau. Claire will be here in ten minutes.” The door clicked shut behind me, and I heard him murmur my name. I didn’t answer. I just stood outside the door and waited. Ten minutes later, Claire arrived. Her eyes landed on me first, her expression a complicated mix of suspicion and relief. She scanned my clothes, and only after confirming I was untouched did the tension leave her shoulders. Before pushing the door open, she threw a sentence over her shoulder. “You can go. You’re not needed here.” I turned and went upstairs to my room. It wasn't until late that night that the sounds from downstairs finally faded. I sat on the edge of my bed, the memories of my last life replaying in my mind. Back then, I’d been so in love with Beau that I’d stayed to take care of him myself. A month later, I was pregnant. He married me. But on our wedding day, Claire died in an accident. He lost the woman he’d always wanted to marry. He didn’t lash out right away. He held all that rage inside until I was about to give birth. Then he locked me in the basement. The pain was so blinding I nearly passed out. I cried. I begged. I told him I didn’t care if I died, as long as he saved the baby. But he didn’t move. He just stood there and watched me bleed out, watched our child die before it could even be born. In this life, I did what he wanted and called Claire. And soon, I would leave this place for good. The next morning, Claire was at the Mercer breakfast table. Beau took a bite of his eggs and a sip of coffee before speaking. “Claire is my girlfriend, and I intend to marry her. You will all treat her with respect.” His gaze landed on me, and he tapped his fork against his plate. “Especially you. Show my future wife some respect. Don’t make trouble.” I nodded. The corner of Claire’s mouth twitched into a smug little smile. I ignored her and stood to go back to my room. I’d barely pushed my chair back when Claire’s voice, thick with crocodile tears, stopped me. “Beau, does Xenia not want me here? I know how important she is to you. If she doesn’t like me, maybe I should just go.” A few tears slid down her cheeks as she spoke. Beau’s brow furrowed, his eyes snapping to me.......

Five years into her engagement with Silas Marino—five years as the woman everyone thought he cherished—Romy Rollins finally learned the truth. The heart transplanted into his chest five years ago had never belonged to her late fiancé, Connor. It was a lie spun by her own father. The reason was simple. He wanted Romy to take her stepsister’s place in an arranged marriage. Romy stared at the video her friend had sent. In the clip, her father, drunk at some country club, let the truth slip. A sharp, twisting pain tore through her chest, and she doubled over. A while later, the sounds from the bedroom finally stopped. Silas walked out, bare-chested, and tossed an expensive silk shirt into the laundry basket at her feet. “Take care of it.” Normally, Romy would have already scooped up the shirt and sent it to his exclusive dry cleaner. But today, her gaze fixed on the long, pale scar bisecting his chest. Years ago, at an airport bookstore, she had bought a bestselling psychology book. It claimed that some heart transplant recipients retained traces of their donor’s emotions. She had survived five long years clinging to that belief. Only now did she realize how wrong she had been from the start. Just then, Silas’s latest model—the most recent in a long line of them—walked out wearing his shirt and leaned against his shoulder. “Silas, you got my dress dirty. Miss Rollins, be a dear and send it to the dry cleaner for me, would you? Make sure it’s the best one in the city.” The girl was a dead ringer for the woman Silas had once loved, which explained why she’d lasted longer than the others. Silas took her to business meetings, leaving Romy, his actual fiancée, on the sidelines. They vacationed in the Hamptons, with Romy acting as their chauffeur and personal concierge. When they wanted time alone, they’d leave her waiting on the villa’s porch. But now, Silas just lit a cigarette, impatience flashing in his eyes. “You’re asking for too much. We’re done.” The model froze. “Silas…” “Take a check for five hundred thousand and leave, or get out of New York.” … His voice was glacial. Silas was ruthless in business; no one dared to cross him. The model took one look at him and started to tremble. She scrambled back into her own clothes and fled. Only then did Silas look at Romy. “Didn’t you hear me? The clothes.” When Romy spoke, her voice was hoarse. “I’m on my period. My stomach hurts. I don’t want to move.” Silas gave a cold laugh, snatched the custom-made shirt, and threw it straight into the trash. Romy knew what he was angry about. After the heart surgery, his constitution had always been fragile. For years, Romy had managed every detail of his care. She’d even stop people from smoking in his presence. But today, she had not only refused his request but had also said nothing about the cigarette. Before, she had cared because she believed Connor’s heart beat inside his chest. She had just wanted to keep it close for a little longer. Now, that heart meant nothing to her.An icy silence filled the car on the drive back to the city from the Hamptons. Silas was radiating cold fury, and Romy had nothing to say to him. As they neared the Long Island Expressway exit, Silas broke the silence. “We’re going straight to City Hall when we get back. We’re registering the marriage today.” Romy froze, instinctively starting to refuse. “No, I—” Her phone suddenly rang. Silas held up a hand, gesturing for her to patch it through the car’s speakers. As soon as the call connected, his assistant’s urgent voice filled the car. “Mr. Marino, there’s been an incident. Miss Ava’s husband is having an affair. He hit her.” Silas slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, and Romy’s head snapped back against the seat, her ears ringing. Before she could recover, she heard Silas’s cold command. ......

Three days before my wedding, I received a shared album. The sender was Sloane Pike, the widow of my fiancé’s best friend. Inside were photos of my fiancé, Ethan, half-naked in our Newport wedding suite. Sloane was asleep beside him. My first reaction wasn’t to cry. It wasn’t to demand an explanation. It was to call my grandfather. “Notify the lawyers. Withdraw our marriage license application and halt the prenup.” “And freeze all joint assets tied to the wedding.” When Ethan called, his voice was thick with indulgent patience. He thought I was throwing a tantrum. He even brought Sloane—that “emotionally fragile” woman—to our wedding tasting, introducing her to everyone as family who needed looking after. He didn’t know. This wasn’t a tantrum. This was a liquidation. And he was the bad debt about to be written off. … I opened my iPad. A new folder sat on the desktop. Inside were photos from the wedding tasting two days ago and the anonymous email I’d received three hours earlier: a link to a shared album titled “A Surprise for Avery.” A surprise. I opened it and forced myself not to look away. Every photo was sharp enough to sting. Ethan, lying half-naked on the bed, his familiar lines blurred and suggestive in the suite’s dim lighting. Sloane, pressed against him like a viper. On the chest of her silk robe, two words were embroidered in glaring gold thread: “Mrs. Ward.” Her future last name. My future last name. I’d first realized Ethan was taking her side two days ago, at the tasting. That dinner was supposed to be my formal introduction of Ethan to the Caldwell family trust committee—the final, unspoken approval before our marriage. But Ethan brought Sloane. Throughout the meal, he cared for her with a meticulous attention that set my teeth on edge. He instinctively blocked the champagne someone offered her, tested the temperature of the chef’s recommended dishes with his own fork before sliding them her way, and when Sloane complained the air-conditioning was too cold, he took off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders without a second thought. The tenderness that had once been mine and mine alone was now being poured, without restraint, over another woman. Around the table, the committee members exchanged subtle glances. My friends fell into an awkward silence. I could feel the blood draining from my face, but I held my smile, maintaining the dignity expected of a Caldwell heiress. “Sloane’s husband—my best friend—his death anniversary is coming up,” Ethan whispered in my ear afterward. “She’s been a wreck. I have to keep an eye on her. Avery, you have to understand.” At the time, I’d believed him. I’d even felt a pang of shame for my own jealousy. Until three hours ago, when I received this “surprise.” In that moment, the world shattered. Shock, humiliation, rage—a bitter tide rose, drowning me. I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face again and again, forcing myself to calm down. I could not lose control. Absolutely not. After drying my face, I walked out of the bedroom just in time to see Ethan entering the Newport estate—a Caldwell property—with his arm wrapped around Sloane. I stood at the top of the second-floor landing. I didn’t hide. I didn’t move. Our eyes met. A flicker of concern crossed Ethan’s face before he casually dropped his arm from Sloane’s waist. He took a few steps toward me, reaching out as if to cup my face, the way he always did. “Avery, what are you doing up so late?” I tilted my head, avoiding his touch. My gaze slid past him to the woman standing behind him, wearing my spare robe. Sloane met my eyes with a provocative smirk, a victor’s smile playing on her lips. “Avery, let me explain.” Ethan immediately stepped between us. “Sloane had a breakdown. I had no choice but to bring her here for the night so I could look after her. You kno......

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