Evelyn's POV
Three days married, and I still wasn't used to the ring on my finger.
I twisted the platinum band—simple, elegant, expensive. So different from the gaudy diamond Marcus had given me. That ring had screamed "look at me, I'm rich." This one whispered "I'm claimed."
Damien's ring matched mine. I'd watched him put it on in that Vegas chapel, his gray eyes never leaving my face as he'd said "I do" like a promise. Like a threat to anyone who'd try taking me away.
Mrs. Evelyn Ashford. The name still felt strange on my tongue.
"Stop fidgeting," Damien said from across the breakfast table. He was reading the financial section, perfectly composed in his suit. Ready to destroy companies before lunch. "The ring isn't going to fall off."
"I know." I dropped my hand. "I'm just—"
"Nervous about calling Sophia."
He knew me too well already. Three days, and he could read my moods like a book.
"She's my best friend. Was my best friend." I stared at my untouched eggs. "I disappeared the night of my engagement party. She probably thinks I'm dead."
"She thinks you're on your honeymoon." Damien folded his newspaper. "James leaked a story to the press about our whirlwind romance. Billionaire CEO sweeps away heartbroken socialite. Very romantic."
"Very fake."
"Sometimes fake is safer than real." He stood, buttoning his jacket. "Call Sophia. Tell her you need to meet. But do it somewhere public. Your father has eyes everywhere."
My father. The man who'd planned my murder. The man who'd hit me and called me crazy and let everyone believe I'd lost my mind.
The man I was going to destroy.
"There's a coffee shop on Fifth," I said. "Sophia loves their chai lattes. We used to meet there every week before—" Before I got engaged to Marcus and stopped having time for friends who actually cared about me.
"Perfect." Damien moved behind my chair, his hands resting on my shoulders. "Take security. Don't go anywhere alone. And if anything feels wrong—"
"Call you immediately." I tilted my head back to look at him. "I know the rules."
His thumb brushed my neck. Just once. Just enough to make my pulse jump.
"Good girl." His voice went low. Dangerous. Then he straightened, back to business. "I have meetings until three. Dinner at home tonight. We need to discuss the next phase."
He kissed the top of my head—casual, easy, like we'd been married for years instead of days—and left.
I sat alone in the huge penthouse, staring at my phone. Sophia's number stared back at me.
Just call. Stop being a coward.
My finger hit dial before I could overthink it.
Two rings. Three. Four.
"Hello?" Sophia's voice was cautious. She didn't recognize the new number.
"It's me." My throat tightened. "It's Evelyn."
Silence. Then: "Oh my GOD. Evelyn? Are you okay? Where ARE you? I've been calling for days! Your parents said you had a breakdown, but then I saw the wedding photos and—"
"Can we meet?" I cut through her panic. "I need to talk to you. In person."
"Yes. Of course. Where?"
"Our coffee shop. Fifth and Madison. Thirty minutes?"
"I'll be there in twenty." Her voice softened. "Ev, what's going on? Are you really married to Damien Ashford?"
I looked at the ring. At the marriage certificate on the counter. At the evidence of my new life spread across expensive marble.
"It's complicated," I said. "I'll explain everything when I see you."
I hung up before she could ask more questions.
The coffee shop was exactly how I remembered—small, cozy, smelling like espresso and cinnamon. Our corner table was empty. Sophia hadn't arrived yet.
I ordered her chai latte and my usual vanilla coffee, then sat facing the door. The security guard Damien had assigned—Marcus's opposite in every way: professional, quiet, deadly—stood outside, watching through the window.
Being protected felt strange. But also... safe.
The door chimed. Sophia burst in like a hurricane—all wild curls and bright lipstick and worried eyes. She spotted me and ran.
"Evelyn!" She grabbed me in a hug so tight I couldn't breathe. "Oh my God, you're alive. You're okay. I was so worried."
"I'm fine." I hugged her back, breathing in her familiar jasmine perfume. "I promise. I'm fine."
She pulled back, studying my face. Her eyes caught on my bruised cheek—faded now, but still visible.
"Who hit you?" Her voice went deadly quiet.
"My father."
"That BASTARD." She sat down hard, still holding my hands. "Okay. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything."
So I did.
I told her about finding Marcus and Isabelle. About my parents knowing Isabelle was alive for months. About the slap and the public humiliation. About running into Damien and his impossible proposal.
I didn't tell her about the consciousness transfer. Not yet. That was too big. Too impossible. She'd think I was crazy.
"You married Damien Ashford," Sophia said slowly. "The Ice King. The man who destroys companies for breakfast."
"Yes."
"Because he proposed revenge."
"Yes."
She stared at me. Then she started laughing. Not mean laughter. Amazed laughter.
"That's the most badass thing I've ever heard." She grabbed her chai latte. "So what's the plan? How do we destroy your awful family?"
"We?" I asked.
"Oh honey, I was destroying them the second your father hit you." Her smile went sharp. "I've been investigating Whitmore Pharmaceuticals for three months. Something about your family's company has always felt wrong."
My heart stopped. "What do you mean?"
Sophia pulled out her phone, scrolling through photos. "I'm an investigative journalist, remember? I dig into things. And there have been some weird stories coming out of Whitmore facilities."
She showed me a photo. A newspaper article from two years ago: "Miracle Recovery: Coma Patient Wakes After Three Years."
"Look at the hospital name," Sophia said.
Whitmore Medical Center. My father's facility.
She scrolled to another article. "Impossible Survival: Car Crash Victim Defies Doctor Predictions."
Same hospital.
Another. "Family Celebrates: Daughter Returns From Near-Death Experience."
Same hospital.
"Four cases in five years," Sophia said. "All impossible recoveries. All connected to Whitmore facilities. And all the patients came back... different."
My hands shook. "Different how?"
"Families say they're not the same person. Wrong memories. Strange behaviors. Like they're acting instead of living." She looked at me carefully. "Like Isabelle."
The coffee shop went quiet. Or maybe the roaring in my ears drowned out everything else.
"You know," I whispered.
"I know something's wrong. I don't know what." Sophia leaned closer. "But I've been trying to find medical records, interview families, get inside those facilities. Everything's locked down tight. NDAs everywhere. People too scared to talk."
"They should be scared." I thought of my father's cold eyes. Of Elena's car going off a cliff. "People who ask questions about Whitmore Pharmaceuticals end up dead."
Sophia's face went pale. "Evelyn, what are you saying?"
I made a decision. Right there. In our coffee shop with our favorite drinks and our lifetime of friendship.
"I'm saying my father is doing something impossible," I said quietly. "Something that requires killing people to keep secret. And Isabelle is proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That dead people can come back. Sort of." I met her eyes. "If you help me, you might die. If you walk away right now, I'll understand. But I need someone I can trust. And you're the only person who's ever really seen me."
Sophia was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
"I'm in," she said. "Whatever it takes. We're taking them down."
Relief flooded through me. I wasn't alone in this. Damien was my husband, my protector, my weapon. But Sophia was my friend. My sister in all the ways Isabelle never was.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"What do you need from me?"
"Everything you've found. Names, dates, locations, victim testimonies." I squeezed her hand. "Damien's been investigating for seven years. Between his resources and your journalism, we can—"
My phone buzzed. Damien's name flashed on the screen.
I answered. "Hello?"
"Turn on the news." His voice was tight. Controlled. Angry. "Any channel. Now."
Sophia pulled out her phone, searching. Her face went white.
She turned the screen toward me.
Breaking news. My father standing at a podium, looking grave and concerned. The headline read: "Pharmaceutical CEO Addresses Daughter's Mental Health Crisis."
"—deeply concerned for Evelyn's wellbeing," my father was saying. "Her recent behavior, culminating in this impulsive marriage to Mr. Ashford, suggests a severe mental break. We've consulted with specialists who believe she may be a danger to herself. We're exploring legal options to ensure she receives the care she desperately needs."
Legal options. That meant—
"He's trying to get you declared incompetent," Damien's voice said through the phone. "If he succeeds, he can have you committed. Control your inheritance. Everything."
On screen, a reporter asked: "What about the allegations that Isabelle Whitmore is alive? That she was seen at your home?"
My father's smile was perfect. Practiced. "Isabelle remains deceased. These delusions are part of Evelyn's breakdown. We're heartbroken watching her spiral like this."
Delusions. He was calling the truth delusions.
"There's more," Damien said. "Check your email."
I opened my phone. An email from an unknown sender. No subject line. Just a photo attachment.
I opened it.
And my blood turned to ice.
It was me. From this morning. Walking into the coffee shop. The timestamp was from ten minutes ago.
With a message below: We're always watching, little sister. Love, I.
I looked up at the coffee shop windows. At the street beyond. At the hundreds of people walking past.
And saw her.
Isabelle. Standing across the street. Staring directly at me.
She raised her hand.
Waved.
Then disappeared into the crowd.
"Damien," I whispered into the phone. "She's here. Isabelle's here."
"Get out. Now. Security's coming in."
The door burst open. But it wasn't my security guard.
It was three men in suits with a legal document and a very concerned doctor.
"Mrs. Whitmore," the doctor said gently. "I'm Dr. Harrison. Your father asked us to help you. Please come with us quietly."
They were here to take me.
To lock me away.
To make me disappear just like Isabelle had.
Sophia stood, blocking them. "She's not going anywhere."
"Miss Chen, please step aside." The lead man showed a badge. "We have a court order for emergency psychiatric evaluation."
My father had planned this. While I'd been drinking coffee and making plans, he'd been destroying me legally.
The security guard pushed through, hand on his weapon. "Mrs. Ashford isn't going anywhere without her husband's permission."
"Mrs. Ashford?" The doctor looked confused. "The order says Mrs. Whitmore."
"Her legal name is Evelyn Ashford," the guard said coldly. "The order is invalid."
"That marriage is under investigation for fraud," the suited man argued. "Until it's verified—"
"It's verified." Damien's voice cut through the chaos as he strode through the door, James behind him with a briefcase full of weapons: legal documents. "My wife is legally my responsibility. You have no jurisdiction."
The three men hesitated. Looked at each other. At Damien's deadly expression. At James's cold smile.
"Mr. Whitmore won't be happy," one said.
"Mr. Whitmore can sue me." Damien's hand found mine, pulling me close. "He'll lose. He always does."
They left. Slowly. Reluctantly. But they left.
The coffee shop had gone completely silent. Everyone staring.
Damien looked at Sophia. "You're the journalist."
"Sophia Chen. Investigative reporter." She didn't look intimidated. "And Evelyn's best friend."
"Good." He turned to me. "We're moving up the timeline. Your father just declared war. It's time we showed him what war with an Ashford really looks like."
My phone buzzed again. Another photo.
This time it was my parents' mansion. On fire.
With a message: Oops. –I