A voice whispered through the darkness.
Soft. Unfamiliar.
"You've suffered enough. Take this one chance… and make them regret ever touching your soul."
Then came the light.
Warm. Blinding. Endless...
Warmth.
That was the first thing she felt—soft, gentle warmth seeping into her skin, as though the world itself had decided to cradle her instead of crush her. For a heartbeat she thought it was another dream, one of those strange flickers of comfort before the dark took her again. But the faint hum of an air-conditioner and the scent of fresh lilies told her otherwise.
Elara's eyes snapped open.
Light spilled across a ceiling she hadn't seen in years: smooth cream paint, the faint crack above the chandelier, the pattern she used to stare at when she couldn't sleep as a girl. Her chest rose and fell too fast. She pushed herself upright, her hands clutching the bedsheets. They were pink. Her pink—the childish set she'd packed away after college.
Her gaze darted to the nightstand. A small alarm clock blinked 6:47 a.m. in bright red numbers. Beneath it sat a glitter-covered frame holding a photo of her and her mother at the beach—her mother's arm around her shoulders, the sun haloing them both. That frame had been smashed years ago during an argument with Margaret. Yet here it stood, whole again.
Elara's breath trembled.
She touched the glass, fingertips brushing the smiling faces.
"This can't be real," she whispered.
But it was.
The faint city noise beyond the balcony—the rhythm of traffic and morning horns—belonged to the Vance family's uptown mansion. The same mansion she'd moved out of after the wedding. Slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her knees wobbled, the floor cool against her bare feet.
A pink flip phone sat charging beside the frame.
Her pulse hammered as she flipped it open.
The date glared at her: June 9, 20XX.
Two days before her wedding.
Her mind spun. The contract signing. The press release. The property transfer her father had insisted on "for legal clarity." Two days before she handed away every piece of her mother's legacy.
A shiver rolled through her. She pressed her palms to her face and breathed.
This is real. I'm back.
The memories flooded in—Damien's betrayal, Lila's smirk, her father's indifference. Every word, every sneer carved itself into her mind again, but instead of breaking her, it steadied her. The river had stripped her down to nothing; whatever had sent her back had given her a weapon: knowledge.
She wouldn't waste it.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Elara, are you up yet?" Margaret's voice drifted through, polished as ever.
Elara's shoulders stiffened. She turned toward the sound, her heartbeat slowing into a calculated rhythm. "Yes, Mother," she answered evenly, the title tasting bitter.
The door opened. Margaret stepped in wearing a silk robe the color of champagne, a mug of coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Her perfume—white roses and control—filled the room.
"You have appointments today," she said without looking up. "The wedding dress fitting, the salon, and then dinner with Damien's parents. I trust you'll be presentable."
Elara forced a pleasant smile. "Of course."
Margaret finally glanced up. "You look pale. Nerves?" She set the mug down on the vanity. "You'll be fine, darling. After the signing tomorrow, everything will be settled. Your father worked hard arranging this merger—"
"Marriage," Elara corrected softly.
Margaret's lips curved. "A merger through marriage. Same thing." She adjusted a strand of Elara's hair, eyes glinting. "Remember, you represent the family now. Don't embarrass us."
Elara caught her wrist before she could turn away—gently, not enough to draw suspicion, but enough to startle her. "Mother," she said sweetly, "has Father prepared the documents already?"
Margaret blinked, thrown by the sudden confidence. "He'll have them ready this afternoon. Why?"
"I just want to read them carefully." Elara released her, her tone light. "It's a big step. I'd hate for any mistakes to slip through."
A pause—barely a breath—and then Margaret's laugh, brittle. "How diligent. You've grown into a fine businesswoman, haven't you?" She patted Elara's shoulder and left.
The moment the door shut, Elara's smile vanished. She exhaled slowly. So the trap is already set. Her father would come later, pretending warmth, asking for her signature. The same script as before.
Only this time, she knew every line.
Downstairs, the mansion buzzed with preparation. Florists arranged white roses in tall glass vases; staff carried garment bags and boxes wrapped in satin bows. Elara descended the staircase with practiced grace, her mind cataloguing details—the seating chart on the console table, the open laptop displaying guest lists, Margaret's planner left carelessly beside it. She caught sight of the page labeled Property Transfer — Moore Industries to Vance Holdings, and a quiet smile touched her lips.
Bold of them to leave evidence in plain view.
"Elara!" Lila's voice chimed from the foyer. She spun around, honey-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, a vision of effortless charm. "You're finally awake. I was worried you'd oversleep on such an important week."
"Good morning, Lila." Elara studied her—every flawless inch, every falsely warm gesture she used to fall for. Now she saw the calculation behind it.
Lila looped her arm through hers. "Come on, I'll show you the centerpiece designs. Damien personally approved them last night."
Of course he did. Elara followed, feigning interest as they entered the sunlit dining room. "He must have good taste."
"Oh, he does." Lila's smile lingered a little too long, that gleam of triumph she couldn't quite hide. "You're lucky, sister. He's such a gentleman."
Elara's lips curved faintly. "Gentlemen usually don't spend nights texting other women."
The statement landed like a dropped glass. Lila's grip faltered. "What—what do you mean?"
Elara tilted her head innocently. "Nothing. Just thinking out loud." She brushed past her toward the window, admiring the garden. "You should wear blue for the rehearsal dinner. It suits your complexion."
Lila blinked, uncertain whether she'd just been insulted. Elara kept her expression serene, savoring the unease flickering in her stepsister's eyes.
At noon her father arrived from the office, still in his tailored suit, the same cologne she remembered—strong, sharp, impersonal. Charles Vance smiled the way men do when they need something.
"There's my beautiful daughter," he greeted, arms open.
Elara accepted the hug, stiff as stone. "You're early."
"Busy week," he said, already moving toward the study. "Let's go over some paperwork. Just routine formalities before the wedding."
There it is.
She followed him inside, closing the door behind them. The study smelled of leather and ambition. Papers lay neatly stacked on the mahogany desk. Among them, the familiar folder—cream-colored, embossed with the Moore Industries seal.
Charles gestured for her to sit. "It's just a quick transfer of certain assets to ensure legal stability once you and Damien marry. You'll still hold a symbolic share, of course."
"Symbolic." She repeated the word, tasting its emptiness.
"Yes, well, the board prefers consolidated leadership." He opened the folder and slid the papers toward her. "Sign at the bottom of each page. Margaret's already notarized everything."
Elara skimmed the first page. Transfer of Shares — Moore Industries (Elara Moore Vance) to Vance Holdings Group. Beneath it, a space for her signature.
The same trap. The same betrayal.
She looked up, expression calm. "Father, may I have my lawyer review these first?"
He blinked. "Your lawyer? That's unnecessary."
"Perhaps," she said evenly, "but Moore Industries was my mother's. I'd feel better ensuring everything's in order."
His jaw tightened. "Elara, don't complicate things."
"I'm not," she replied, voice still gentle. "I'm protecting our family's interests. Surely you understand that."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then he forced a chuckle. "You've been spending too much time around Damien. Always cautious. Very well, take a copy. But don't delay—these need signing before the ceremony."
"I'll review them tonight," she promised, sliding the folder into her bag.
He studied her for a beat, something wary flickering in his eyes, before he nodded and dismissed her. "Dinner at seven. Don't be late."
Outside the study, Elara leaned against the wall, heart racing—not from fear, but exhilaration. Step one accomplished.
The rest of the afternoon blurred through fittings and polite chatter. She smiled for the seamstress, nodded at the florist, and allowed herself to be photographed by a society magazine representative, all while her mind ran like clockwork.
Every contact, every potential ally flickered through her thoughts. Her grandfather's former assistant, Mrs. Gray, might still be working at the Moore Industries headquarters. If she could reach her quietly, there'd be a way to access the original ownership records. She needed evidence—proof that the shares rightfully belonged to her. Once that was secure, she could choose whether to expose her family or destroy them more slowly.
As the sun dipped below the skyline, Elara retreated to her balcony overlooking the city. The streets glittered with traffic lights; far away, the Hale Corporation tower gleamed silver against the darkening sky. Somewhere in that building, Damien was likely sipping whiskey, preparing for a marriage that would make him richer.
Her lips curved faintly.
"You have no idea what's coming, Damien."
She went inside, retrieving the folder from her bag. Page after page of legal jargon, each one designed to rob her. She photographed every document with her phone, then tucked the originals back neatly. Tomorrow she'd "sign" them—but not before making her own additions.
The printer in her study still had blank paper with the same watermark. A little editing, a swapped page or two, and the transfer would look genuine while preserving her control. She'd watched Damien forge contracts before; he'd never suspect she'd learned from him.
For the first time since waking, she allowed herself a small, real smile.
That night, dinner was a theatre of civility. Margaret recited tomorrow's schedule, Charles discussed reporters, and Lila gushed about floral arrangements. Elara played her role perfectly—listening, nodding, laughing in all the right places.
Only once did she falter: when her phone buzzed with a new message. Damien: Miss you already. Can't wait to call you mine.
Her stomach turned. She typed back, Counting the hours, and pressed send. Let him think she was still the obedient bride. Let them all think she was still the same naive woman.
When the plates were cleared and the household quieted, she slipped back to her room. The city lights reflected in the glass, casting twin sparks in her eyes. She sat at her desk, pen in hand, rewriting her fate line by line.
Tomorrow she would smile, sign, and hand her father the papers he wanted—just not the ones he expected.
And when the time came, when every last signature was used against them, they would look back on this week as the moment the real Elara Vance was born.
Near midnight she paused, listening to the hum of the mansion settling. The moonlight painted her reflection silver in the mirror. She barely recognized the woman staring back—no longer frightened, no longer meek.
"I won't waste this life," she whispered.
Outside, thunder murmured far off, a promise rather than a threat.
Two days left until the wedding.
Two days until she began taking everything back.