The roar of the ticking clock snapped like a dry twig.
Evelyn's eyes flew open. She lunged upward, gasping for air that didn't taste like copper and rain. Her hands flew to her chest, searching for the jagged pain of broken ribs, but her fingers met only the soft, cool touch of silk pajamas.
She wasn't on the pavement. She was in a bed—her bed. The four-poster mahogany frame, the hand-painted floral wallpaper, the scent of lavender and expensive candle wax. This was her bedroom in the Vance Estate, a room that had been stripped and sold by Marcus's creditors months after her "death."
"A dream?" she whispered, her voice rasping. She grabbed her throat. It was smooth. No scars. No blood.
With trembling hands, she reached for her bedside table. Her phone sat there, sleek and unscratched. She tapped the screen, and the light blinded her for a second.
June 14th, 2023.
The breath left her lungs in a sharp hiss. This was the day of her engagement party. In her past life, this was the night she had blissfully walked into a trap, thinking she was starting her "happily ever after." In reality, it was the night Marcus and Sarah had finalized their plan to siphon her inheritance.
She stood up, her legs feeling like lead. She walked toward the full-length gilded mirror in the corner of the room.
The woman staring back was twenty-four, radiant, and untouched by tragedy. Her skin was porcelain, her eyes bright—but there was something different. The "old" Evelyn had a gaze that was soft, almost apologetic. This Evelyn had eyes like flint. The "frozen rage" hadn't stayed in the alleyway; it had followed her back.
"Three years," she breathed, touching the glass. "I have three years."
A sharp knock at the door startled her.
"Eve? Are you awake?" It was Sarah's voice—sugary, thin, and masking a permanent sneer. "The makeup artists are here. Marcus just sent over a bouquet of lilies. He's so romantic, I'm almost jealous!"
Evelyn's jaw tightened. In the past, she would have opened the door and hugged Sarah, thanking her for being such a supportive sister. Now, she felt a primal urge to wrap her hands around that slender throat.
No, she told herself, forcing her heart rate down. If I kill her now, I go to prison. If I ruin her, I win.
"I'll be out in a minute, Sarah," Evelyn called back. Her voice was steady, devoid of the usual shy tremor.
There was a pause on the other side of the door. Sarah was likely confused by the lack of "sweetness" in Evelyn's tone. "Right... well, don't be late! It's your big night!"
Evelyn heard the retreating click of Sarah's heels. She turned back to her vanity and sat down. She didn't call for the makeup artists. Instead, she opened her private drawer and pulled out a tube of lipstick she usually found too "aggressive"—a deep, blood-toned crimson.
She applied it with surgical precision.
In her past life, she wore pale pinks to appear "approachable." Tonight, she would be a warning. She looked at her reflection, the "vengeance red" lips stark against her pale skin.
"The shy girl died in the rain, Sarah," Evelyn whispered to the empty room. "You're about to meet the woman who replaced her."