LOGINSix months after the bathtub incident, life began to feel almost normal.Almost.I sat in Dr. Reeves' office for what she promised would be our final session. Six months of twice-weekly therapy. Six months of processing trauma, memory recovery, and learning to live with the knowledge that my daughter had survived three deaths."How are you feeling?" Dr. Reeves asked."Honestly? Better." I settled into the familiar chair. "The nightmares have stopped. The anxiety is manageable. I can let Rosie take a bath without having a panic attack.""That's significant progress." She made a note. "And your memories?""Fully restored. Everything from the past three years. My relationship with Calloway, Rosie's birth, the kidnapping, the trial—all of it." I paused. "Even the time loop. I remember both timelines now. The one where I died and the one where I survived.""And you've made peace with that?""As much peace as anyone can make with dying and coming back.
I was moving before my brain caught up.Shoving past Victoria. Into the bathroom. Plunging my hands into the water.Rosie's body was limp. Heavy. Wrong.I pulled her out, water streaming everywhere. Her lips were blue. Eyes closed. Not breathing."No, no, no—" I laid her on the bathroom floor. Tilted her head back. Started compressions. "Not again. Not again!"Calloway dropped beside me. "I've got breaths."One. Two. Three. Four. Five compressions.Breathe.One. Two. Three. Four. Five.Breathe."How did she get in there?" Marcus's voice from the doorway. "The tub was empty. I checked the bathroom an hour ago.""Someone call 911!" Sienna was on her phone already.One. Two. Three. Four. Five.Breathe.Rosie remained still. Blue. Gone."Come on, baby," I sobbed. "Come on. You survived twice already. You can do this. You can—"One. Two. Three. Four. Five.Breathe."Elena, let me—" Calloway tried to take over c
"You want to do what?"The contractor stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had."Fill in the pool," I repeated. "Completely. I want it removed."We stood in the backyard of the Sterling estate—Victoria's property where family gatherings were held. Where a beautiful infinity pool overlooked the gardens.Where, in 2.5 years, Rosie would drown."Mrs. Sterling, that's a fifty-thousand-dollar pool. Custom designed. It would cost nearly as much to remove it as it did to install.""I don't care what it costs." I crossed my arms. "I want it gone. This week."The contractor looked to Calloway for support. For reason.Calloway just nodded. "You heard her. Fill it in. Replace it with a garden. Whatever she wants.""But—""We're paying you to do a job, not to question it." Calloway's tone left no room for argument. "Can you do it or not?"The contractor sighed. "I can do it. But I'm telling you, it's a waste of—""Then get started." I
The dreams came every night after that.Different scenarios. Different ages. But always the same ending.Rosie dying.The second night, I dreamed of her at age five. Playing in a park. Running. Then—nothing. Just her small body on the ground. Paramedics. People crying.The third night, she was seven. In a school. Fire alarms. Smoke. Her face in a window, screaming.The fourth night, ten years old. Swimming. Going under. Not coming back up.Each dream was vivid. Detailed. Specific. I could see the clothes she wore. Hear the exact words people spoke. Feel the temperature of the air.They weren't normal nightmares.They were premonitions.By the end of the first week, I looked like death. Dark circles under my eyes. Hands shaking from too much coffee and too little sleep. I was terrified to close my eyes. Terrified of what I'd see."Elena." Calloway found me in the kitchen at three AM, staring at cold coffee. "You can't keep doing this."
The emergency room was chaos.Doctors and nurses swarmed around Rosie the moment we arrived. They'd radioed ahead—eighteen-month-old female, cardiac arrest, resuscitated at scene, unstable vitals."We need to intubate," one doctor said."Get me an IV line—""Oxygen saturation dropping—"Their voices blurred together. I stood frozen at the edge of the trauma bay, watching them work on my daughter. Watching them try to save her life for the second time tonight.Calloway's arm came around my shoulders. "They've got her. They know what they're doing."But his voice shook.A nurse gently guided us out of the trauma bay. "You need to wait in the family room. We'll update you as soon as we can.""I'm not leaving her—""Ma'am, you need to let us work. Please."Calloway pulled me away. We stumbled into a small waiting room with uncomfortable chairs and outdated magazines. He pushed me into a seat."She stopped breathing." The words came out fla
"Absolutely not."I stared at Victoria across the breakfast table. She'd shown up at the penthouse at eight in the morning with a determined expression and a leather bag I didn't recognize."Elena, please." Victoria set the bag on the counter. "Just hear me out.""You want to perform a protection ceremony on my daughter. A ritual. Like we're in some medieval village warding off evil spirits." I shook my head. "No. I won't subject Rosie to—""To what? A harmless tradition that's been in our family for generations?" Victoria's voice was gentle but firm. "I'm not asking you to sacrifice a goat or dance naked under the full moon. It's a simple ceremony. Blessings. Prayers. Symbols of protection."Calloway emerged from the nursery with Rosie on his hip. "What's going on?""Your mother wants to perform a protection ritual," I said."Ah." He set Rosie down. She immediately toddled toward her toy box. "The Sterling family ceremony.""You know about this
The attack came in the shower. I'd been in holding for three days. Three days of cold concrete, stale food, and sleepless nights counting ceiling tiles. Thomas had warned me to stay alert. To watch my back. But I hadn't expected it s
I stared at the tablet screen. At the words that made no sense. *Winters family genetic marker.* "That's impossible." Calloway's voice was flat. Disbelieving. "The DNA test
The Sterling Industries boardroom felt like a war zone. Forty-third floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. A massive mahogany table that seated twenty. Leather chairs that cost more than most people's cars. Everything designed to project power, wealth, success
The hospital room was too bright. Too sterile. Too full of machines that beeped and whirred around my daughter's tiny body. Charlotte—Rosie, as we'd started calling her—lay in the hospital crib. An IV in her tiny arm. Oxygen monitor clipped to her toe. H







