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On my wedding day, my fiancé’s childhood friend, Chloe, showed up in a white gown nearly identical to my own. Her excuse? She wanted to match the theme. From the bridal lounge, I watched the livestream on the big screen. I watched her and my fiancé, Julian, laugh as they touched noses. It was a private ritual from their childhood, something that belonged only to them. The emcee was on stage, asking where the bride was. Then I heard Julian’s voice, a low laugh carried by his microphone. “Let her wait. She won’t leave me. This project is everything to her.” I killed the feed and walked out onto the stage. The ballroom fell silent. “Julian. Chloe. My sincerest congratulations on your everlasting friendship.” I signaled to my lawyer. The screen behind me, which was supposed to be playing a slideshow of our love story, flickered and changed. A new document filled the space. Exclusive Patent License Termination Agreement: The Vance Method. “This license was my wedding gift to the Astor Group,” I said, my voice carrying through the silent hall. “But the foundation of that partnership—trust—is gone.” And just like that, in front of everyone, I personally demolished the Astor family’s dream of reviving their ten-billion-dollar project. ... All of this happened five minutes ago. The emcee held the microphone high, his voice booming with practiced, playful humor. “Before our beautiful bride makes her grand entrance, let’s invite the groom and his best friend to share a little piece of their Newport childhood with us!” A ripple of good-natured laughter went through the room. I watched Julian, my impeccable fiancé, take Chloe’s hand with effortless grace and press a gentlemanly kiss to the back of it. Chloe laughed, pulled her hand away, and then leaned in, tapping the tip of her nose with one finger in a teasing gesture. It was a signal only their inner circle understood. Julian didn’t hesitate. He lowered his he......

At the public stress test for New York’s landmark Sky Bridge, the fire sprinkler system suddenly went off. In an instant, the multibillion-dollar project became a waterfall. My husband, Julian, heir to the powerful Croft construction dynasty, went ashen in front of livestream cameras broadcasting to all of New York. He had been counting on this test to secure his position as the family’s heir. And I, the bridge’s chief designer, just watched. Coldly. Because in my last life, I had fought tooth and nail in the boardroom to stop this very test and save his reputation. But when the bridge eventually collapsed due to substandard steel supplied by his lover, he forged evidence without a second thought and made me the scapegoat. I died in prison. He stepped over my bones and went on with his life as the pampered scion of a wealthy family. Now, I had been reborn two hours before the test was set to begin. As I watched his lover’s assistant sneak off to trigger the alarm, I said nothing. This time, I wanted to see how my dear husband would face this globally televised humiliation—one I had personally allowed to happen. … The cold memory of prison, steeped in the scent of disinfectant, hadn’t yet faded when my eyes flew open. Before me was the familiar office of the chief designer for the Sky Bridge project. Beyond the one-way glass, the New York skyline stretched out in all its glory. The air smelled of expensive paper and freshly ground coffee. “Elena? Are you all right? You look drained.” My assistant, Mark, held out a glass of water, his expression full of concern. “Are you exhausted?” I lifted my head, dazed. My gaze landed on the glowing tablet on the desk. On the schedule, bold red letters marked the day’s main event: 10:00 a.m., Sky Bridge Public Stress Test. The digital clock on the wall read eight o’clock in the morning. There were exactly two hours left before the global livestream that would nail my husband to......

“I was only protecting the honor of the Connally family.” When Ella, a general’s daughter, spoke those words to her husband, a West Point instructor, she had already decided to destroy him with the very code he prized most. It had all started when her husband, Mark, chose to sacrifice her younger brother at West Point to protect the son of a “hero’s widow,” a woman named Chloe. Ella didn’t cry. She didn’t scream or argue the way she once would have. Instead, without him knowing, she drained her savings and hired a top military attorney to defend her brother. When Mark heard the news, he stormed into their quarters. “What the hell are you trying to do?” He couldn’t stand losing control of the situation. But even more, he couldn’t stand this cold distance from Ella. Ella looked at his furious face, and a profound silence settled deep inside her. What was she trying to do? She was going to make him pay the most painful price for every act of favoritism, for every self-righteous “sacrifice.” This hearing was only the beginning. ... He was about to say more when the voices of two officers’ wives passing by cut through the frozen air like blades. “Did you hear? Major Callahan personally quashed the Connally boy’s appeal, all for Chloe’s son.” “That’s not all. My husband said Major Callahan spends at least three nights a week ‘tutoring’ the Jennings kid. He cares more about him than his own cadets. I guess being a hero’s orphan gets you special treatment.” Mark Callahan’s pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. He could already picture it: Ella, exploding, quoting West Point regulations, questioning his impartiality, and wielding the Connally family honor like a weapon. It was her usual tactic, a battlefield he had long ago prepared himself to fight on. But Ella did nothing. She didn’t even glance at the two women as they hurried away. She just turned, her slender figure already moving away from him, a numbness in......

At the public stress test for New York’s landmark Sky Bridge, the fire sprinkler system suddenly went off. In an instant, the multibillion-dollar project became a waterfall. My husband, Julian, heir to the powerful Croft construction dynasty, went ashen in front of livestream cameras broadcasting to all of New York. He had been counting on this test to secure his position as the family’s heir. And I, the bridge’s chief designer, just watched. Coldly. Because in my last life, I had fought tooth and nail in the boardroom to stop this very test and save his reputation. But when the bridge eventually collapsed due to substandard steel supplied by his lover, he forged evidence without a second thought and made me the scapegoat. I died in prison. He stepped over my bones and went on with his life as the pampered scion of a wealthy family. Now, I had been reborn two hours before the test was set to begin. As I watched his lover’s assistant sneak off to trigger the alarm, I said nothing. This time, I wanted to see how my dear husband would face this globally televised humiliation—one I had personally allowed to happen. … The cold memory of prison, steeped in the scent of disinfectant, hadn’t yet faded when my eyes flew open. Before me was the familiar office of the chief designer for the Sky Bridge project. Beyond the one-way glass, the New York skyline stretched out in all its glory. The air smelled of expensive paper and freshly ground coffee. “Elena? Are you all right? You look drained.” My assistant, Mark, held out a glass of water, his expression full of concern. “Are you exhausted?” I lifted my head, dazed. My gaze landed on the glowing tablet on the desk. On the schedule, bold red letters marked the day’s main event: 10:00 a.m., Sky Bridge Public Stress Test. The digital clock on the wall read eight o’clock in the morning. There were exactly two hours left before the global livestream that would nail my husband to......