Stella March - POV
Proof of your own murder is surprisingly easy to find when you already know where to look.
December 19th, 11 PM. I've been at Carter's house for six hours. My eyes burn from staring at screens. My back aches from hunching over his laptop. But we're finding it. All of it.
"Here." I point to a wire transfer on the monitor. "September 15th. Two hundred thousand dollars from an offshore account to the Institute research fund. Same day Ethan submitted my grant renewal."
Carter's fingers fly across the keyboard. "Routing number traces to a shell corporation. Owned by—" He stops. "Helix Pharmaceuticals."
My stomach tightens. Seeing it in black and white makes it real. "They've been funding my research for months. Each payment matches a milestone in my compound isolation."
"Investing in work they planned to steal." Carter opens another file. "October 3rd. Another hundred fifty thousand. November 12th. Three hundred. They were positioning themselves."
"Look at the emails." I pull up correspondence I know is there. "December 1st. Richard Cross to the Institute director. Subject: Acquisition Timeline."
Carter clicks it open. His jaw tightens as he reads. "Contract draft. Delivery date January 2nd. But there's nothing explicit about harming you. Any lawyer makes this look like standard corporate acquisition."
"The attachments."
He opens encrypted files. Reads the clause about "removing competing interests." His expression darkens. "This is coded language. Not enough for murder charges."
"What about Vanessa?" I navigate to financial records. "Small payments to her account. Three thousand here. Five thousand there. Consulting fees that aren't real."
"She's on their payroll." Carter makes notes. "This proves corruption. Proves they're stealing your research. But we need explicit communication about the murder plot."
"It's in Ethan's office. External hard drive in his locked desk drawer."
Carter stops typing. Turns to face me. "How do you know that?"
The question I've been dreading. "I saw him put something there. After he met with his father. He was protective of it."
"You saw him put an external hard drive in a locked drawer."
"Yes."
"And you know it contains evidence of a murder plot."
My throat closes. "It has to be important. Why else lock it up?"
Carter studies me. I can see him calculating. Weighing my impossible knowledge against the evidence I've handed him. "We need that drive. Without it, we have corporate espionage but no murder conspiracy."
"So we get it."
"From a locked office in a secured building."
"Yes."
His eyebrows rise. "That's breaking and entering. That's a felony."
"So is murder." The words come out harder than I mean them. "Which would you rather risk?"
Long silence. Then: "Institute holiday party is December 22nd. Security will be focused on the event. That's our window."
"Okay."
"You understand what you're agreeing to? If we're caught—"
"I understand."
Carter searches my face. "Three days ago you were a law-abiding researcher. Now you're planning a crime."
"Three days ago I didn't know my fiancé was planning to kill me."
Something shifts in his expression. Respect maybe. Or recognition. "Get some sleep, Dr. March. You look like you're about to collapse."
I don't argue. Because he's right.
December 20th, 7 PM. Marcello's overlooks the harbor. White tablecloths. Candlelight. The kind of place Ethan takes me when he wants something.
The waiter brings champagne before we order.
My hands go cold. Golden bubbles rising in crystal glasses. I think of the lighthouse deck. The drugged champagne that tasted normal until my tongue went numb.
"To us." Ethan raises his glass. Smiles. "Ten days until we're married."
I pick up my glass. Lift it to my lips. Pretend to sip. The bubbles touch my mouth but I don't swallow. I set it down and immediately reach for my water instead.
"You barely touched it." Ethan's still smiling but his eyes are sharp.
"Headache. Champagne makes it worse."
"Since when?"
"Since this week. Stress."
He sets down his glass. Studies me across the candlelight. "You've been spending a lot of time at the lab lately. Late nights. Coming home exhausted."
"Just want my presentation perfect."
"That's not for two weeks." His head tilts slightly. "Why so anxious about it now?"
The question is a trap. In my first timeline, I wasn't anxious at this point. Wasn't working late. Wasn't distant. I'm acting wrong and he's noticing.
"I guess I'm just nervous. It's career-defining work."
"Stella." His hand reaches across the table. Takes mine. His grip is warm. Firm. Just slightly too tight. "I love you. But I need honesty. Is there someone else?"
My shock must show on my face. "What? No!"
"Then where are you when I call your office and you don't answer?"
Ice slides down my spine. He's checking on me. Tracking me.
"Sample room. No cell signal in the basement."
"Convenient." His thumb strokes my knuckles. The gesture looks affectionate. Feels possessive. "The wedding is in ten days. Cold feet are normal. Running away isn't an option."
The threat hangs between us. Not a question. A warning.
I look at him in the candlelight. The charming smile. The expensive suit. The way his hand holds mine—ownership, not partnership.
Was he always like this? Or am I only seeing it now because I know what he's capable of?
"I'm not running." I keep my voice steady. "I'm just stressed."
He releases my hand. Picks up his champagne. "Drink with me. Relax. Tonight is just us."
I lift my glass again. Touch it to my lips. Tip it slightly. Let champagne wet my tongue but don't swallow. Set it down before he can see I didn't actually drink.
His eyes narrow. Just for a second. Then the charming smile returns.
We eat. Every bite is cardboard. Every minute stretches like hours. Every word feels like an interrogation I'm failing.
When he drops me at our apartment, his kiss is hard. Possessive. His hand grips the back of my neck.
"Late meeting with Dad," he says against my mouth. "Don't wait up."
I watch his taillights disappear. Wait five minutes. Then drive to Carter's.
Carter opens the door before I knock. Takes one look at my face. "What happened?"
"Ethan's suspicious. He's watching me. Tracking where I go." I step inside. My hands shake. "We're running out of time."
"Then we move faster." He pulls up blueprints on his laptop. "Holiday party tomorrow night. Everyone drinks. Security monitors the event, not the offices. We go in through the south entrance. This camera has a blind spot." His finger traces a path in red. "Get to Ethan's office. Get the drive. Get out."
"That's breaking and entering."
"Yes."
"We could go to jail."
"Yes." His eyes meet mine. "Or you could die on New Year's Eve. Your choice."
I stare at the blueprints. The red line marking our path. In my first life, I never broke a law. Never stole. Never hurt anyone. I was good. Careful. Safe.
That version of me drowned.
"Okay." My voice doesn't shake. "We do it."
Carter studies me. "You've changed in four days. You came here terrified. Now you're angry."
"Anger keeps me alive. Fear gets me killed."
"Smart." He closes the laptop. "Tomorrow night. Wear dark clothes. Bring nothing traceable. And Dr. March? Once we do this, there's no going back. You understand that?"
I think of Ethan's possessive grip. Vanessa's casual questions about Helix. The cold Atlantic crushing my chest. Dying alone while they stole everything.
"I understand."
December 21st, 12:03 AM. I lie in bed listening to Ethan snore. He came home smelling like his father's cigars. Kissed my forehead. Fell asleep within minutes.
Like everything is normal.
Like he's not counting down ten days until I'm dead.
My phone glows under my pillow. Text from Carter: "Tomorrow night. Be ready."
I stare at the message. Tomorrow I become a criminal. Tomorrow I cross a line that can't be uncrossed.
If we're caught, I lose everything—career, reputation, freedom.
If I do nothing, I lose my life.
I type back: "I'll be there."
Delete the conversation. Hide my phone. Close my eyes.
But I don't sleep.
Because tomorrow night, I become someone the old Stella wouldn't recognize.
And I'm terrified that whoever I'm becoming is worse than the people trying to kill me.
Ten days until New Year's Eve.
Tomorrow, I find out if I'm willing to become a monster to stop one.