002

My eyes snapped open.

I gasped, air flooding my lungs like I'd been drowning. My hands flew to my stomach—still round, still intact. No blood. No pain. Just the familiar weight of my baby pressing against my ribs.

What the hell?

I sat up too fast. The room spun, but it was my room. Our bedroom. Cream-colored walls, the photos of Damien and me on our honeymoon in Santorini, the plush carpet beneath my feet. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Except I'd just died.

Hadn't I?

My hands shook as I touched my face, my arms, my legs. No bruises. No broken bones. I threw back the covers and checked my nightgown—pristine white, not a drop of blood.

The baby kicked. Hard.

I pressed my palm to the spot, tears stinging my eyes. "You're okay," I whispered. "We're okay."

But we weren't okay. We'd been dying on those stairs while Damien and Sienna watched. I remembered the cold spreading through my body, the way my vision had tunneled to black, the crushing knowledge that I was losing another child—

My gaze landed on the calendar on my nightstand.

September 18th.

No. That was impossible.

I grabbed my phone with trembling fingers. The screen lit up: September 18th, 8:47 AM.

Three days before the party.

"No, no, no." I scrolled frantically through my messages, my call log, my photos. Everything stopped at September 18th. Nothing from the party. Nothing from after.

My phone buzzed in my hand. A notification popped up: Reminder: OB-GYN appointment, Dr. Morrison, 2:00 PM today.

I knew that appointment. I'd gone to it before—three days before the party. Dr. Morrison had confirmed the baby was healthy, growing perfectly. She'd smiled and said, "Everything looks wonderful, Elena. You're going to be a great mother."

Twenty-four hours later, Damien would sign the house over to himself while I slept.

Seventy-two hours later, he would push me down the stairs.

"Oh God." I dropped the phone. It clattered against the nightstand.

I'd gone back. Somehow, impossibly, I'd traveled back in time.

My mind raced through the memories—Damien's cold eyes, Sienna's smug smile, the confession about my murdered babies. Five years I'd been with him. Three years married. I'd given up my job as a structural engineer because he'd said, "Let me take care of you, Elena. You deserve to be pampered."

Pampered. While he drained my savings and had my children killed.

Sienna had been my roommate at NYU. We'd stayed up late studying for exams, shared our first legal drinks on our twenty-first birthdays, cried on each other's shoulders through bad breakups. She'd been my maid of honor, for God's sake. She'd helped me pick out my wedding dress.

And she'd been sleeping with my husband for over a year.

The miscarriages. Both at four months. Both times, Damien had held my hand in the hospital and whispered, "It's okay, baby. We'll try again." I'd believed the doctors when they said complications. I'd never questioned why Damien insisted on being alone with them during consultations.

He'd asked them to terminate. To kill my daughters.

My parents had died two years ago in a car accident. Some drunk driver had run a red light and T-boned them at an intersection. I had no siblings, no aunts or uncles close enough to check on me. Just Damien. And Sienna.

They'd isolated me perfectly.

I stood up, my legs shaky but functional. I walked to the mirror above my dresser and stared at my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair that needed washing. A woman who'd let herself become a ghost.

Not anymore.

"Three days," I said to my reflection. My voice came out steady, cold. "I have three days to destroy them both."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Heavy, familiar. Damien's voice drifted up from the hallway. "Babe? You okay up there? I heard something fall."

My jaw clenched. He was supposed to be at work. But no—I remembered now. He'd taken the morning off to "spend time with me." To make sure I felt loved and secure before he stole everything.

I forced my expression into something soft, something weak. The old Elena. The trusting one.

"Perfect," I called back, letting my voice crack just slightly. "Just planning the party."

"Don't stress yourself out, okay? I want you to relax." His tone was so concerned, so loving.

Liar.

I turned back to the mirror and straightened my shoulders. My hand moved to the ultrasound photo tucked into the frame—the one from my last appointment. I'd held it so carefully before, treasuring it.

Now my fingers pressed against the corner. The edge crumpled beneath my grip.

I had three days to plan. Three days to make sure Damien and Sienna got exactly what they deserved. The gender reveal party would still happen, but this time, I'd be the one pulling the strings.

The doorbell rang.

I frowned. We weren't expecting anyone. Damien's footsteps retreated back downstairs. I heard the front door open, voices—Damien's friendly tone shifting to something clipped and nervous.

Curious, I left the bedroom and moved to the top of the stairs. I could see the foyer from here. Damien stood in the doorway, his body language tense, blocking someone from entering.

"—don't know what you're talking about," Damien was saying. "There's been some mistake."

"No mistake." The voice that responded was deep, smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous. "I have the contracts. Your signature. And the payment schedule you've defaulted on for the past six months."

This wasn't right. This conversation hadn't happened last time. No one had come to the door three days before the party.

"My wife is upstairs," Damien hissed. "Keep your voice down."

"Then perhaps you should have thought of that before gambling away money that wasn't yours."

I descended the stairs slowly, one hand on the railing. Both men turned to look at me.

The stranger was tall—at least six-three—with shoulders that filled out his charcoal suit like it had been tailored specifically for him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and eyes the color of storm clouds. He looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Who are you?" I asked.

Damien stepped in front of me, protective. Or controlling. "Elena, go back upstairs. This doesn't concern you."

"If it's happening in my house, it concerns me." I met the stranger's gaze. "Who are you?"

His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card, extending it past Damien toward me.

I took it. Heavy cardstock, expensive. Calloway Sterling. CEO, Sterling Industries.

"Mrs. Anderson," he said, his voice carrying an edge that made my pulse quicken. "I'm Calloway Sterling. And your husband owes me $2.3 million."