Back to the Day of His Fake Death

...

I bolted upright in my dorm bed, drenched in sweat.

My roommate, Alice Hoyle, hovered over me, her brow furrowed with worry. "Elena, you alright? A nightmare?"

I blinked at her familiar freckled face, then scanned the room.

It was my college dorm, and I was alive.

With doubt in my mind, I grabbed my phone and checked the date.

It was 9 a.m., August 13th. On the same day, my dad had orchestrated his "death".

I realized I had been given a second chance to change my fate.

Leaping out of bed, I fumbled for my phone to hail a cab. "Alice, cover for me in class. I need to head home."

In my previous life, the "attack" had hit at 10:30 a.m.

My mom had crumpled under the news. By the time she came to and reached me, Hank Cook's remains were already a pile of ash.

I barreled home from campus, but the grim news hadn't broken yet.

Beth Cook was in the garden watering flowers.

She had grown up as an only child in a world of privilege. Her parents had built a business empire from the ground up.

Hank had charmed his way into her heart and taken the reins of the company after their wedding. Beth, blinded by love, had happily traded boardrooms for homemaking, trusting him implicitly.

She'd been a sheltered debutante before marriage and, afterward, a pampered wife who saw the world through rose-tinted glasses.

So, when Hank's fake death blindsided her, she shattered without a hint of suspicion.

Part of me felt a twisted relief that she'd gone to her grave oblivious to the betrayal. Her "devoted" husband had a mistress on the side, complete with a ten-year-old son, and they'd plotted to stage his demise, siphon off every penny, and abandon us to rot in a sea of debt.

Beth blinked. "Sweetie, you on break already? Why didn't you call the driver to swing by and pick you up?"

I took in her elegant silk dress fluttering in the breeze, her warm smile lighting up her face. Her makeup was impeccable.

At 42, she could pass for 30, radiating that effortless glow. After Hank's fake death, she had been reduced to a gaunt, hollow-eyed shadow.

I felt a pang in my chest, vowing to shield her from that nightmare.

"Yeah, the break started early. I hitched a ride with some friends," I replied, ducking into my room to stash my bag.

Then I dialed Beth's lawyer and then my uncle, Rufus Gardner.

Glancing at the clock, I hurried downstairs. Beth's phone lay abandoned on the plush sofa. When it buzzed, I snatched it up before she could.

"Madam, hurry to the hospital. Mr. Cook had a heart attack. He didn't make it."

I drew in a steadying breath, ended the call, and pocketed a nearby decorative cone. Stepping out, I kept my tone even. "That was Laura from the office. Dad is under the weather and checked into the hospital. We should go see him right now."

Panic flickered in her eyes. "The hospital? Oh God, is it serious?"

I squeezed her hand, forcing calm into my voice. "It'll be fine, but brace yourself. It doesn't sound good."

She barely registered my words, already calling out for the driver in a frantic voice.

I motioned for the nanny and whispered quick instructions.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded firmly. "You can count on me. I'll take care of Mrs. Cook."

We sped through the city streets.

At the hospital entrance, Laura Jenkins and her entourage were already wheeling out a covered gurney.

Spotting Beth, Laura faltered for a split second, her composed mask cracking before she plastered on a look of solemn sympathy and rushed over. "Mrs. Cook, I'm devastated to tell you this. We did everything we could, but Mr. Cook is gone."

Beth staggered, her face draining of color. The nanny was there in an instant, wrapping a supportive arm around her to keep her upright.

Ignoring Laura entirely, I flung myself at the gurney, my voice cracking in a raw, theatrical wail. "Dad, what happened? How could you leave us like this? We can't live without you."

I ripped away the white sheet, exposing his still form.

The hospital plaza buzzed with patients shuffling in and out, and my outburst drew every eye.

Laura darted forward, tugging at the sheet, but I held on like a vice.

"Miss Cook, shouldn't you be at school?" she muttered.

I whipped around, sobs choking my words. "My dad is dead, and that's what you're worried about?"

She flinched. "I didn't mean it like that. Please, restrain your grief. All these people are staring."

Ignoring her, I pounded my fists against Hank's chest in feigned anguish, the cone concealed in my palm delivering discreet jabs with each blow.

My meltdown seemed to snap Beth back. She held it together; no fainting spell this time.

She gazed at Laura, asking, "Where are you taking him?"

Laura shifted uncomfortably. "I phoned Mrs. Cook Sr., and she insisted on cremation today."

"Cremation? Oh, how poetic!" I thought.

Since Hank craved death so much, we would escort him to his fiery end.