Fantastic Novels 11

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.

My husband spent millions on his mistress. Meanwhile, our son was dying. When I came back from the dead, I stopped playing by his rules. Chapter 1 The icy rain felt like needles against Seraphina’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the numbing chill radiating from the small, fragile body in her arms. "Oliver... baby, please," she begged, her voice cracking over the roar of the thunderstorm. The five-year-old’s lips were tinted blue, his breaths coming in terrifying, shallow gasps. His congenital heart condition was acting up, and he needed his medication, a warm bed, a hospital. Instead, they were stranded on the side of a desolate highway. Seraphina fumbled with her phone, her fingers slick with rain, as she pressed the phone to her ear. "Tristan, please," she sobbed into the receiver. "The driver left us. The black card was declined at the pharmacy. Oliver is dying. Please, send a car. You have to save our son." A heavy sigh echoed from the other end of the line, followed by the clinking of a champagne glass. "Stop being so dramatic, Sera," Tristan’s voice dripped with irritation. "I froze that card because Bianca needed the funds to secure the deposit on her new gallery. It was an emergency for her business. You and Oliver can just take a cab home. I don't have time for your attention-seeking stunts." "A cab? In this storm? We have no cash! Tristan, he’s having a heart attack—" "Enough," Tristan snapped. In the background, Seraphina could hear Bianca’s sickeningly sweet giggle, followed by a soft, 'Is she being difficult again, darling?' "Just walk home," Tristan said coldly. "Maybe the rain will wash away your pathetic dependency." The line went dead. Seraphina stared at the screen, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She screamed his name, but the only answer was a clap of thunder. She wrapped her coat tighter around Oliver, pressing her own body heat against him, but it was too late. The tiny chest against hers stopped rising. The faint flutter of his failing heart finally ceased. "No... No!" Seraphina wailed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore from the depths of her soul. The betrayal, the cruelty, the absolute sheer evil of the man she had loved and trusted. Tristan had taken everything—her father’s company, her inheritance, and now, her only reason to live. As the darkness of grief and hypothermia claimed her, she made a final, blood-sworn vow: If I could do it all again, I would tear your empire to the ground. Seraphina gasped, her eyes flying open. She shot up, her chest heaving as she inhaled great, desperate lungfuls of air. She braced herself for the freezing rain, for the cold weight of her dead child. But there was no rain. No darkness. She was sitting in the middle of a plush, king-sized bed, surrounded by the opulent beige and gold decor of the master suite in Tristan’s Beverly Hills mansion. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, mocking glow over the room. Seraphina scrambled out of bed, her legs trembling so violently she nearly collapsed. She didn't care. She stumbled down the hallway, bursting into the adjacent room. The nursery. There, tucked under a weighted blanket patterned with rockets, was Oliver. His chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic slumber. His cheeks were flushed with warmth, not blue with cold. A sob tore from her throat as she collapsed by his crib, pressing her trembling hand over his small chest. She felt the beat of his heart—fragile, yes, but alive. Alive. She wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. Trembling, she pulled out her phone from her pajama pocket. The date flashed on the screen: October 14th. Three months ago. Three months before that fateful night in the rain. She had returned. God, or the universe, had heard her dying curse and granted her a second chance. The door to the nursery clicked open. "What are you doing on the floor, Sera?" Seraphina froze. The voice that had condemned her son to death just moments ago in her memory now echoed through the room. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Tristan. He stood there in a crisp, bespoke Tom Ford suit, looking every inch the billionaire tech mogul the world worshipped. He was handsome, polished, and rotten to the absolute core. Seraphina felt a surge of murderous rage rise in her throat, tasting like copper and ash. She wanted to launch herself at him, to claw his eyes out, to make him feel a fraction of the agony he had inflicted upon her. But she forced the beast down, locking it in a cage of pure, cold logic. She had been the submissive, trusting wife for too long. If she showed her hand now, he would crush her. She needed to be smarter. She needed to be the monster he didn't see coming. "Just... checking on him," Seraphina whispered, keeping her head bowed, adopting the meek persona he was so accustomed to. "He was tossing and turning." Tristan scoffed, checking his Rolex. "Well, get up. You have documents to sign. I left them on the dining table." Seraphina’s mind raced. October 14th. The day he had asked her to sign the final share transfer agreement. The document that would hand over the last 15% of her late father’s equity in Aegis Tech to Tristan, under the guise of "consolidating power for the upcoming IPO." In her previous life, she had signed it without reading, blinding trusting her husband. It was the move that stripped her of all her power, allowing Tristan to legally toss her aside and move Bianca into the house weeks later. "I have a terrible migraine, Tristan," Seraphina said softly, standing up and wrapping her arms around herself. "Can we do it tonight? I need to rest." Tristan’s jaw tightened. He hated delays. "Sera, Bianca has arranged the board meeting for tomorrow. She needs these shares finalized so she can take the VP position without any friction from the old stakeholders." Bianca. Just the name made Seraphina’s blood boil. Bianca was Tristan’s 'first love' and current executive secretary. The world saw her as a sweet, harmless assistant. Seraphina now knew she was a venomous corporate spy, the very woman who had forged the documents that stole her father’s core source code. "I know," Seraphina forced a weak smile. "I just need a few hours. I promise it will be signed by the time you get home." Tristan stared at her for a moment, his lip curling in mild disgust at her apparent weakness. "Fine. By six PM, Sera. Don't test my patience." He turned on his heel and walked out, not even casting a glance at his sleeping son. As the front door slammed shut downstairs, the facade of the weak, sickly wife melted from Seraphina’s face, replaced by a chilling, absolute resolve.