Rain pounded against the glass like a war drum, each drop echoing through the grand halls of the Ross estate. Thunder cracked above the mansion, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside.
Maria Sinclair knelt on the cold marble floor, her chest heaving. Warm blood soaked through the silk of her white dress, turning it scarlet. Her trembling fingers pressed against the wound—too late. Too deep.
She never imagined she'd die like this.
Above her, the man she had loved more than life itself stood with a gun in his hand. Ian Ross. The billionaire. The husband. The man she gave up everything for.
And beside him, smiling like a cat who had finally caught its prey, stood Dana—her best friend. Or at least, the woman she thought was her best friend.
"Stop struggling," Dana said, her voice as smooth as silk. She crouched beside Maria and tilted her head mockingly. "You're making a mess. Not that it matters now."
Maria's throat burned with words that wouldn't come. Her body was growing numb. She looked up into Dana's eyes and saw no sympathy. No regret. Only triumph.
"You know what the funny part is?" Dana leaned closer. "You were always too kind. Too trusting. It made you weak." She turned her gaze to Ian and added with a pout, "I told you she wouldn't take it well."
Maria's world spun. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, not from fear, but from heartbreak. Ian knew. He had known all along. This wasn't a betrayal—it was a death sentence wrapped in silk and diamonds.
"She loved you," Dana whispered, brushing a strand of Maria's blood-matted hair from her face. "She would have died for you. And now she has."
Ian said nothing. His cold, unreadable eyes stared down at Maria, as though she were a business deal that had gone bad. Not a woman. Not his wife. Just... collateral damage.
A bitter laugh rose in Maria's throat, but it came out as a weak cough. Blood coated her lips.
If she had the strength, she would have cursed them both. But there was nothing left. Only the sound of Dana's smug giggle and the cold marble beneath her cheek as her body gave in.
And then, silence.
---
There was no light. No pain. Just darkness and stillness, like the world had stopped turning.
Until—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Maria's eyes flew open.
The sharp, repetitive sound of an alarm clock screamed through the quiet of the room. Sunlight streamed through pale curtains. She gasped and sat up, her hand flying to her chest.
No pain. No blood. No wound.
She looked around, disoriented. She was in a bed—her old bed. The familiar scent of lavender. The white-and-gold wallpaper. The plush gray carpet.
She stumbled to the mirror, hands shaking. The face staring back at her wasn't the woman who had died on a marble floor—it was younger. Her cheeks were fuller. Her eyes hadn't yet been hardened by betrayal.
"This… this isn't possible," she whispered.
She turned to her nightstand and picked up her phone.
July 5th, 2020.
Five years ago.
Three days before the engagement party. Before the wedding. Before everything fell apart.
Maria sat on the edge of her bed in silence. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her mind spun like a carousel of disbelief. But the longer she sat there, the more the truth settled in:
She was alive. She was back.
Not a dream. Not a second chance handed with grace. No—this was war.
She wasn't here to fall in love again. She wasn't here to beg Ian for affection or let Dana sink her claws in a second time.
This time, she had come back with a purpose.
To ruin them both.
---
The knock on her door startled her. "Maria?" her mother's voice called out from the hallway. "You're going to be late for the fitting."
The fitting. The gown she had worn to her engagement party.
Maria stood slowly and looked at her reflection again. "I remember everything," she murmured.
The poison Dana slipped into her wine. The whispered phone calls late at night. The affair they thought she didn't know about. How Ian's distance wasn't just emotional—it was calculated.
She closed her eyes. Her stomach twisted. The memories were too vivid. Too fresh.
But they were a weapon now.
She would play the same game—but this time, on her terms.
With a calm voice, she replied through the door, "I'll be down in ten minutes."
She stared at herself one last time.
If she was back… she'd use every moment to prepare. No more soft smiles. No more second-guessing. No more love.
She was no longer the Maria Sinclair who had been broken and buried.
Now, she was the woman who had crawled out of her own grave.
And she wasn't afraid anymore.