Taggart Simon Hudson

I faked my own death to see who would cry at my funeral. My husband didn't even show up for the first hour. But his mistress? She arrived in a brand-new black dress, dabbing dry eyes with a silk handkerchief—the same handkerchief I'd bought for Darren on our anniversary. I stood in the back of the funeral home, disguised in a dark wig and sunglasses, watching every single person who walked through those doors. My best friend Kiera was sobbing uncontrollably. My mother clutched my framed photo to her chest like she was holding me one last time. My colleagues from the hospital whispered how tragic it was—a 28-year-old surgeon, gone too soon. And then there was her. Megan Cross. She walked straight to my casket—which held a wax figure my mother had commissioned—and placed a single white rose on top. Then she turned to the crowd and said, "I promised Vivian I'd take care of Darren. She asked me to, before she passed." My mother's head snapped up. "Excuse me? My daughter never mentioned you. Who are you?" Megan smiled softly—that practiced, delicate smile I'd seen her rehearse in videos Darren didn't know I'd found on his phone. "I'm Darren's colleague. Vivian and I were close. She knew about me and Darren, and she gave us her blessing." The audacity nearly made me blow my cover right there. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. My mother stood up, trembling with fury. "Get out. Get out of my daughter's funeral." But Megan didn't move. She looked toward the entrance and said, "Darren, tell them." And there he was. My husband of three years walked in wearing a suit I'd never seen before. A new suit. For my funeral. He looked—refreshed. Like he'd slept well for the first time in months. He put his arm around Megan's waist. At my funeral. In front of my mother. "Mrs. Cole, I know this is hard," Darren said. "But Vivian was sick for a long time. She told me she wanted me to move on. Megan and I—we didn't plan this. It just happened." I was never sick. Not a single day. The "illness" was his invention—a story he'd been feeding everyone for six months to explain why I looked tired, why I'd lost weight, why I'd stopped coming to social events. The truth? He'd been drugging my food. I only discovered it three weeks ago when my bloodwork came back with traces of sedatives I'd never prescribed for myself. That's when I started planning. My mother slapped him so hard the sound echoed through the funeral parlor. "You disgusting liar. My daughter was perfectly healthy until she married you." Darren's face hardened. He grabbed my mother's wrist. "Don't make a scene. Vivian is gone. There's nothing you can do about it." Kiera jumped between them. "Let go of her, you psychopath!" Security moved in. The room erupted into chaos. And I stood in the back, recording everything on my phone. Because Darren didn't just cheat on me. He didn't just drug me. He was planning to kill me for real—for the $8 million life insurance policy he'd taken out in my name six months ago. The only reason I'm still alive is because I found the policy before he could finish what he started. So I died first—on my own terms. And now, I was going to destroy him. I pulled out my phone and sent one text to my lawyer. "It's time. Release everything." Then I took off my sunglasses and walked toward the casket.

The day I found out my husband was replacing me, I was lying in a hospital bed after my second miscarriage. Ethan Cole didn't come to the hospital. He sent flowers — white lilies, the kind you bring to funerals. His assistant, Derek, couldn't meet my eyes when he delivered them. "Mrs. Cole, Mr. Cole is… in a meeting. He said he'll visit tonight." He didn't visit that night. Or the next. On the third day, I discharged myself and drove home to our penthouse. The elevator doors opened, and I heard laughter — a woman's laughter, bright and careless, echoing through the marble foyer. I stepped inside to find Ethan sitting on our sofa — the one we'd picked out together — with a woman curled against him. She was young, radiant, her belly round with pregnancy. She was wearing my robe. Ethan's hand rested on her stomach, his thumb tracing slow circles. He was smiling — a smile I hadn't seen in two years, not since the first miscarriage. "The baby kicked again," the woman giggled. "He's going to be strong, just like his daddy." Ethan pressed his lips to her forehead. "Our son. I can't wait." Our son. I stood there, IV bruises still fresh on my arms, and watched my husband cradle another woman's belly in the home I had built for us. He looked up. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes — guilt, maybe. Or maybe I imagined it. "Serena." His voice was calm, as if I'd caught him reading a book instead of building a family behind my back. "You're supposed to be in the hospital." "Who is she?" My voice didn't shake. I was proud of that. The woman sat up, and I saw her face clearly for the first time. Young. Beautiful. And utterly unashamed. "You must be the wife," she said, tilting her head with a pitying smile. "I'm Megan. Ethan didn't tell you about me?" I looked at Ethan. He stood slowly, buttoning his jacket — a habit he had when he was preparing to deliver bad news in the boardroom. "Serena, sit down. Let me explain." "How far along is she?" "Seven months." Seven months. That meant he'd gotten her pregnant while I was recovering from my first miscarriage. While he held me at night and told me we'd try again. While I injected hormones that made me sick, desperate to give him the heir he wanted. He'd already found someone else to do it. "I was going to tell you after the birth," Ethan said, as though the timing was the problem. "The company needs an heir. You know that. Your body—" "Choose your next words very carefully," I whispered. He paused. Then, with the cold precision that made him a billionaire: "Your body can't carry a child to term. I had to make a decision." I nodded slowly. Megan placed a protective hand on her belly, watching me with wary satisfaction. She'd already won, and she knew it. What she didn't know was that I had never been the kind of woman who fights over a man. I fight to destroy him. "Well then," I said, pulling off my wedding ring and placing it gently on the coffee table. "Congratulations to you both." I walked into the bedroom and locked the door. Behind me, I heard Megan whisper: "That went better than expected." She had no idea. I pulled out my phone and called the one person I trusted. "Becca, I need you to do something for me. Quietly." "Name it." "I need the divorce papers drafted tonight. And I need you to find out exactly how much of Cole Enterprises was built with my family's investment." The answer, when it came, would shake Ethan Cole to his foundation. Because he'd forgotten one crucial detail: before I was his wife, I was Serena Ashford. And the Ashfords don't get discarded. We collect what's owed.

I satisfying my husband's every need for seven years. Then I caught our nanny doing it for me. Let me be specific. I don't mean she was folding his laundry. I came home from a twelve-hour shift at the hospital — I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon, I save lives for a living — and found them on my kitchen counter. The granite countertop I picked out. The kitchen I designed. The house my salary paid for. She was wearing my apron. Just my apron. My husband, Derek Ashford, had the decency to look horrified for exactly three seconds. Then he said the words that burned a hole straight through my chest: "Sophie, it's not what it looks like. And honestly? Maybe if you were home more, this wouldn't have happened." The nanny — Jade, twenty-four, hired six weeks ago to care for our five-year-old daughter Lily — didn't even climb off the counter. She just looked at me with this slow, satisfied smile. Like she'd been waiting for this moment. Like this was the whole point. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I stood there in my surgical scrubs, still smelling like the operating room where I'd just spent four hours repairing a man's aorta, and I felt something inside me go very, very quiet. "Where is Lily?" I asked. Derek blinked. "What?" "Our daughter. Where is she?" Jade finally slid off the counter, pulling my apron tighter around her body. "She's in bed, Mrs. Ashford. I put her down an hour ago. She's perfectly fine." She said it like she was the mother. Like I was the guest. I walked past them without another word. Down the hallway. Past the family photos on the wall — me holding newborn Lily, Derek kissing my forehead at our wedding, the three of us at Disneyland. A timeline of a life I thought was real. I pushed open Lily's door. She was asleep, her small body curled around her stuffed elephant, her dark hair fanned across the pillow. Safe. Peaceful. Completely unaware that her world was about to shatter. I kissed her forehead. She stirred, murmuring, "Mommy?" "I'm here, baby," I whispered. "Mommy's here." Behind me, I heard Derek's footsteps in the hallway. He appeared in the doorway, jeans hastily pulled on, shirt still unbuttoned. He had the nerve to look concerned. "Sophie, can we talk? Please? You're overreacting." Overreacting. I'd given this man everything. My youth, my earnings, my body, my loyalty. I'd funded his failed startup — twice. I'd paid off his student loans. I'd carried his child while completing my surgical residency, working eighty-hour weeks with swollen ankles and morning sickness that lasted all day. And when he said he needed a nanny because raising Lily alone while I worked was "too hard," I hired one. I hired the woman who was now wearing my apron and nothing else. I straightened up, smoothed my scrubs, and turned to face him. "We'll talk," I said calmly. "In the morning. Through my lawyer." His face went white. "Sophie, come on. Don't be dramatic. It was one time—" "The apron was custom-embroidered with her initials, Derek." His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. I'd seen it. Jade's initials, not mine, stitched in pink thread on the apron I thought was a gift from my mother. She hadn't just been sleeping with my husband. She'd moved into my life, stitch by stitch, and I hadn't even noticed. I walked back to the kitchen. Jade was still there, now leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, watching me with those calculating eyes. "Mrs. Ashford," she said sweetly. "I hope we can handle this like adults." I opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a long, slow drink. Then I looked at her. "You're fired," I said. She laughed. Actually laughed. "You might want to check with your husband about that." I turned to Derek, who had followed me like a lost dog. "Tell me she's lying." He couldn't meet my eyes. And that's when I knew — this wasn't a one-night mistake. This was a plan. And I was the last one to know.

The pregnancy test showed two lines. I stared at it for a long time, sitting on the cold bathroom floor of the hotel suite my husband had booked for my thirtieth birthday. Two lines. A baby. I wanted to cry from happiness. Alexander and I had been trying for three years. Three years of hormone injections, failed IVF cycles, and quiet grief that we never spoke about in daylight. I pressed the test against my chest and whispered, "Finally." I couldn't wait to tell him. The birthday dinner downstairs could wait. This was the only gift that mattered. I fixed my makeup, tucked the test into my clutch, and took the elevator down to the hotel's rooftop garden, where two hundred guests were waiting to celebrate my birthday. Alexander had planned everything himself. That's what his assistant told me. Every flower, every song on the playlist, every name on the guest list — he had personally approved. The elevator opened. The rooftop was stunning. Fairy lights hung like stars. A string quartet played Debussy. Roses everywhere — white ones, my favorite. But I didn't see Alexander. I scanned the crowd. His business partners, our mutual friends, my college roommates — everyone was here. Everyone except my husband. And my sister. I texted him: Where are you? I have something amazing to tell you. No reply. I found his assistant, Luke, by the bar. He was sweating even though the night air was cool. "Where's Alexander?" Luke wouldn't meet my eyes. "He — he stepped away for a moment. Business call." "On my birthday?" "You know how he is, Mrs. Sinclair. He'll be back before the toast." Something cold settled in my stomach. Not suspicion — not yet. Just the instinct that comes from loving someone for twelve years and knowing when the air around them changes. I smiled at Luke. "Which room is he in? I'll surprise him." Luke's face went white. "I — I don't think—" "Luke." He swallowed. "Suite 1207." I walked toward the elevator, clutching the pregnancy test in my purse like a grenade. Suite 1207 was on the floor directly below the rooftop. I could still hear the music above me as I walked down the corridor. The door was ajar. Not open. Not closed. Just slightly ajar, as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to shut it properly. I pushed it open. The first thing I saw was the dress. It was red. Valentino. I recognized it because I had bought it. I had bought it for my younger sister, Clara, for her twenty-fifth birthday last month. It was on the floor. The second thing I saw was Alexander's watch on the nightstand. The Patek Philippe I had given him on our tenth anniversary, engraved on the back: A & Vivienne, until every star burns out. The third thing I saw was them. My husband and my sister, tangled together on the white hotel sheets, so consumed by each other that they didn't even hear me open the door. Clara's head was thrown back. Alexander's mouth was on her throat. Her fingers were in his hair — the same hair I had stroked this morning when I kissed him goodbye. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I stood there and felt something inside me simply — switch off. Like a light in a room no one was using anymore. Clara saw me first. Her eyes went wide. She shoved Alexander's shoulder and whispered, "Alex — Alex, stop—" He looked up. For exactly one second, my husband looked at me with the expression of a man who had been caught, and in that second, I searched his face for guilt, for horror, for the devastation I was feeling. What I saw instead was annoyance. He was annoyed that I had interrupted them. I closed the door quietly, the way you close a door when someone is sleeping and you don't want to wake them. Then I walked back to my own birthday party, sat down at the head table, and placed the pregnancy test face-down beside my wine glass. Two hundred guests were waiting for the toast. So I raised my glass and smiled. "Thank you all for coming tonight. This has been the most unforgettable birthday of my life." And I meant every word.

The pregnancy test showed two lines. I was sitting on the bathroom floor, crying happy tears, when I heard my husband's phone buzz on the nightstand. Then buzz again. Then again. I wasn't the type to check his phone. Five years of marriage, and I had never once looked through his messages. But something — call it instinct, call it fate — made me pick it up. "Last night was incredible. I can't stop thinking about you." The message was from someone named "V." My hands went cold. I scrolled up. Photos. Videos. Dates and times that matched every single "late meeting" and "business trip" Ryan had taken in the past eight months. Eight months. He'd been sleeping with someone else for eight months while I was working double shifts at the hospital to support his so-called startup that never made a dime. I heard the shower turn off. Ryan walked out with a towel around his waist, still humming. When he saw me holding his phone, the color drained from his face. "Sophia, I can explain—" "Eight months, Ryan." "It's not what you think—" "There are videos. It's exactly what I think." He lunged for the phone. I stepped back and held it out of reach. "Who is she?" "Nobody. She's nobody. It was a mistake." "Eight months is not a mistake. Eight months is a decision. Who. Is. She." Ryan sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. The performance of a lifetime. "Her name is Victoria. She's... she works in finance. Sophia, please, I love you. It didn't mean anything." I looked down at the pregnancy test still clutched in my other hand. Two pink lines that had meant everything to me five minutes ago. Now they meant nothing. No — they meant everything. Just not in the way I'd imagined. "I want a divorce." "Sophia, don't be dramatic—" "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being clear. I want a divorce, I want you out of this apartment by Friday, and I never want to see you again." I threw his phone on the bed and walked out. I didn't cry again that night. I sat at the kitchen table and did the math. The apartment lease was in my name, but I'd burned through my savings covering Ryan's failed business expenses. My credit cards were maxed. I had exactly $2,340 in my checking account, and rent was $1,800. The next morning, I called my best friend Dana. "I need a job. A real job. Not nursing — I can't do twelve-hour shifts anymore." I put my hand on my stomach. "Not in my condition." "What condition? Sophia, what happened?" "I'm pregnant. And I'm getting divorced." Silence. Then: "I'm coming over." Dana showed up with coffee and a laptop. She'd already pulled up three job listings. "This one," she said, pointing to the screen. "Executive assistant at Whitmore & Associates. It's a big consulting firm downtown. The pay is incredible — $75,000 base, full benefits, and they're hiring immediately." It was perfect. Too perfect. "What's the catch?" "The CEO is supposedly a nightmare. They've gone through four assistants in the past year." I didn't care if the CEO was the devil herself. I needed that salary. I needed those benefits. I needed health insurance before my first prenatal appointment. I applied that night and got a call the next morning. The interview was scheduled for Thursday at 9 AM. I put on my best blazer — the one I'd bought for Ryan's company launch party that never happened — and walked into the most beautiful office building I'd ever seen. The receptionist smiled at me. "You're here for the EA position? Take the elevator to the 30th floor. Ms. Ashford is expecting you." Ms. Ashford. The elevator doors opened to a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows. A woman stood with her back to me, looking out at the city skyline. Her dark hair was pinned up perfectly. Her posture radiated power. "Sit down," she said without turning around. I sat. She turned slowly, and my entire world collapsed. I knew that face. I had stared at it for hours last night, burned into my memory from every photo and video on Ryan's phone. "V" wasn't just a letter. Victoria Ashford — my husband's mistress — was about to become my boss.

In my past life, I trusted my husband's sweet-faced sister, Vivian, when she moved into our home. She repaid me by sleeping with my husband, stealing my company, and convincing my own children I was crazy. When I confronted her, she laughed in my face. "You were always too stupid to see it, Claire. Jake never loved you. He loved me from the very beginning." Then she handed me divorce papers — already signed by Jake — and had security escort me out of my own house. I lost everything. My home. My children. My business I'd built from nothing. Six months later, I was found dead in a run-down motel. They ruled it suicide. But it wasn't. Vivian had paid someone to make it look that way. After I died, she married Jake. She raised my children. She took my name off the company I'd founded and replaced it with hers. My parents died heartbroken, believing their daughter had abandoned them. And Vivian? She lived like a queen, wearing my life like a stolen coat. So when I opened my eyes and found myself back on the morning of my wedding day — seven years before Vivian would ever set foot in my home — I didn't cry. I smiled. Because this time, I would be the one doing the destroying. "Claire, you look so beautiful." Jake stood behind me in the mirror, adjusting his tie, his eyes warm with adoration. I stared at his reflection. In my past life, that warmth had been a lie. Or maybe it had been real once, before Vivian sank her claws into him. It didn't matter anymore. "Jake," I said, my voice steady. "Tell me something honestly." "Anything." "If your sister ever needed a place to stay, would you take her in?" He blinked, surprised. "Vivian? I mean, she's family. Of course I would. Why?" I turned to face him. "If I said no — if I said she could never live with us, no matter what — would you respect that?" His smile faltered. "Claire, where is this coming from? You've always liked Vivian." No. I'd always been blind. "Just answer the question." He studied my face, then nodded slowly. "If it mattered that much to you, then yes. I'd respect it." I held his gaze. In my past life, he'd said similar things. Sweet, agreeable words that crumbled the moment Vivian turned on the tears. This time, words wouldn't be enough. This time, I needed proof. Insurance. Weapons. "Good," I said, smoothing down my wedding dress. "Because I have a feeling she's going to ask." Jake laughed nervously. "You're being weird today." I leaned up and kissed his cheek. "You have no idea." What Jake didn't know — what no one knew — was that in exactly eleven months, Vivian would show up at our doorstep, sobbing, claiming her boyfriend had beaten her and thrown her out. Every word of it would be a lie. She'd manufactured the entire story to infiltrate my home, my marriage, and my life. And the man she'd claim had abused her? She was still secretly seeing him the entire time she lived with us. In my past life, I'd opened the door with open arms. This time, I'd be ready with a sledgehammer. But first — I had a wedding to get through, and a plan to build. Because Vivian wasn't just coming for my husband. She was coming for everything. And she had no idea that this time, I already knew every single move she was going to make.

I died on a Tuesday. My husband, Ryan, poisoned my coffee. I know because I watched him do it — through the kitchen camera he never knew I'd installed. I was lying on the cold tile floor, my body convulsing, foam spilling from my lips. My six-year-old daughter, Emma, was screaming, shaking my shoulders. "Mommy! Mommy, wake up!" Ryan pulled her away. Not gently. He yanked her by the arm and threw her toward the hallway. "Shut up, Emma. Mommy's just tired." Then he called someone. "It's done. Come over. Bring the dress." Twenty minutes later, while I was still dying — still conscious, still feeling every nerve in my body shutting down — his mistress, Kendra, walked through my front door. She was wearing my wedding dress. She looked down at me, tilted her head, and smiled. "You should've signed the papers, Sophia. Would've been so much easier." I died staring at my daughter's face through the hallway bannister. Emma's eyes were wide. Terrified. She understood more than any child should. That was my last life. When I opened my eyes again, it was Tuesday morning. The coffee was brewing. Ryan was in the kitchen, his back to me. Whistling. I watched his hand reach for the small vial hidden behind the spice rack. My blood ran cold — then hot. This time, I didn't drink the coffee. This time, I had a plan. I walked calmly into the kitchen. Ryan turned, startled to see me up so early. "Morning, babe. Made you coffee." He smiled. That perfect, practiced smile. "Thanks," I said. "But I think I'll skip it today." Something flickered in his eyes. Just for a second. "You sure? It's your favorite blend." "Positive." I picked up Emma from her bed, grabbed the emergency bag I'd packed in my previous life but never got to use, and headed for the door. "Where are you going?" Ryan's voice sharpened. "Emma has a doctor's appointment." "Since when?" I didn't answer. I just walked out. In my last life, I'd been a fool. A trusting, devoted fool who believed her husband loved her. I ignored the signs. The late nights. The secret phone calls. The way Kendra always seemed to be around — at every dinner party, every family gathering, always touching Ryan's arm a beat too long. I ignored it all because Ryan told me I was paranoid. "You're crazy, Sophia. She's just a friend." I believed him. Right up until the moment he killed me. Not this time. I strapped Emma into the car seat and pulled out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror, I saw Ryan standing at the front door, phone already pressed to his ear. He was calling Kendra. I was sure of it. My phone buzzed. A text from Ryan: Where are you really going? Then another: Don't do anything stupid. Then a third: Remember what happens to women who don't listen. I stared at that last text, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. In my previous life, that threat would have made me turn the car around. I would have apologized. Made excuses. Swallowed my fear and walked back into that house like a good wife. But I wasn't that woman anymore. I'd already died once for being obedient. I turned off my phone and drove toward the one person Ryan didn't know about — my old college roommate, Diane, who happened to be a prosecutor. But I didn't make it to Diane's. Because three miles from her office, a black SUV pulled up beside me and ran me off the road. The car spun. Emma screamed. When the dust settled, I looked up through the cracked windshield. Kendra stepped out of the SUV, wearing designer sunglasses and a smirk. "Ryan said you might try to run."

The pregnancy test was still warm in my hand when I heard them through the bedroom door. "She's just a surrogate, Marlee." My husband's voice—low, tender, the way he used to speak to me before our wedding became a transaction. "Once she delivers the heir, I'll file the annulment. You and I can finally stop pretending." "But she's so clingy, Dominic." A woman's laugh, soft and poisonous. "She actually thinks you love her." My fingers closed around the plastic stick so hard it cracked. Two pink lines. Positive. I'd been trying to tell him for three days. The door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I could see them on our bed—our bed—Dominic's hand tangled in Marlee Ashford's copper hair, his lips brushing her temple with a gentleness that made my stomach heave. Not because of the morning sickness. Because he'd never once touched me like that. My wolf stirred inside me—weak, suppressed, barely a whisper. She'd been fading since the day I married Dominic Cross, Alpha of the Ironveil Pack, in a contract ceremony that smelled like old paper and obligation. No mating mark. No bond. Just a signature and a promise that I'd carry his bloodline heir in exchange for my dying mother's medical treatment. The treatment had been paid for. My mother had died anyway, three months ago. And now I was pregnant with his child, standing outside his bedroom, listening to him plan my disposal. I should have walked away. Should have gone downstairs, packed my bag, disappeared into the night like the nobody he'd always treated me as. That's what the old Ivy would have done—the orphan, the packless wolf, the girl who'd learned to survive by making herself small. Instead, I pushed the door open. Dominic's head snapped toward me. For one fraction of a second, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or just annoyance at being caught. Then his expression hardened into the cold, aristocratic mask I knew so well. "Ivy." He didn't move away from Marlee. Didn't even have the decency to pretend. "How long have you been standing there?" "Long enough." My voice came out steadier than I expected. I held up the pregnancy test. "I came to tell you something." His eyes dropped to the test. I watched his pupils dilate—wolf instinct, recognizing his offspring before his human brain could process the information. "Is that—" "Positive." I set it on the dresser with a click. "Congratulations, Alpha Cross. Your contract is fulfilled." Marlee sat up in the bed, the sheet pooling around her waist, and I noticed she wasn't even trying to cover herself. She looked at me with an expression of such calculated pity that my wolf—dormant, dying, barely there—growled for the first time in months. "Oh, Ivy," Marlee sighed. "This must be so hard for you." "Get out," Dominic said to me. Not to her. To me. "We'll discuss this in the morning." "No." The word surprised all three of us. "We'll discuss it now. Specifically, we'll discuss paragraph fourteen of our contract—the clause that guarantees me full custody rights and a settlement upon confirmed pregnancy." Dominic's jaw tightened. "You're not in a position to make demands." "I'm in exactly that position." I pressed two fingers to my wrist—an old habit, counting my own pulse to stay grounded. "I'm carrying your heir. And according to Lycan contract law, that makes me the most powerful person in this room." The silence that followed was delicious. Then Marlee whispered something in Dominic's ear, and the look on his face changed to something that made my blood run cold. "Actually," he said slowly, "there's been an amendment to the contract." "What amendment?" He reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a document I'd never seen before. "The one," he said, "that removes your custody rights entirely."