Chapter Three

## AMARA

I coughed.

It came out of nowhere—a sharp, rattling thing that dragged me upward from a depth I couldn't name. My chest heaved, hitting the air like a wall. My eyes flew open and immediately slammed shut, seared by a light that felt like a physical weight.

Suddenly, everything was too agonizingly bright.

I lay there for a moment, just breathing, letting my lungs remember the rhythm. The air tasted different. Warmer. Thick with the scent of laundry detergent and old wood. Real. It was real in a way that nothing had felt since—how long? I didn't know. I pressed my fingers into the mattress beneath me, feeling the springy give of the foam and the cool, high thread count of the sheets against my palm. That small, ordinary sensation made my throat tighten with a sudden, violent sob I had to swallow back.

I was in a body. A real, heavy, aching, beautiful body.

I blinked until the ceiling came into focus. Then the lace curtain. Then the window with the morning light pushing through it in long, pale strips. My bedroom. My *old* bedroom. I stared at the square ceiling above me. It was the same, the very one in my room.

I was still trying to make sense of the gravity in my limbs when the door swung open.

Antonio walked in, carrying a tray.

Every nerve in my body went screamingly still. It was the stillness of a prey animal watching a predator enter the clearing.

He hadn't seen me yet—his eyes were on the tray, brows knit in that boyish concentration he used when he was trying not to spill. There was toast on it, golden and neatly cut into triangles. A glass of orange juice. A small folded napkin. The kind of tender, domestic effort that once would have made my heart ache with gratitude.

Then he looked up, and his whole face ignited.

"My love." The relief in his voice was immediate, dripping with a warmth that felt like acid on my skin. "You are awake."

I stared at him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs—*thump-thump, thump-thump*—the sound of a life he had already extinguished once.

He crossed the room in a few easy strides, radiating the easy grace of a man who believed his own lies. He set the tray on the bedside table and leaned down toward me. He was slow, familiar, and utterly unsuspecting. When he pressed his lips to my forehead, my skin crawled. It felt like the mark of a brand.

"To the love of my life," he murmured against my skin.

I went rigid. I couldn't help it. Beneath the duvet, my toes curled and my hands balled into fists. I felt a wave of nausea so potent I was sure I would heave the nothingness in my stomach onto his shoes.

He didn't notice. He pulled back with that smile—that open, easy, devastatingly beautiful smile I had spent five years worshipping—and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

I let him. I forced myself to stay still and let the man who had shoved me to my death touch my face with those same hands. I focused every single functioning part of my brain on keeping my mask from cracking.

He pulled back suddenly, noticing my unease, his brow furrowing slightly. The smile flickered.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing." I answered flatly. I could hear the hollow ring of it. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." He tilted his head, his eyes searching mine with a terrifyingly fake concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

The irony of it was a jagged stone in my throat. I almost choked on a hysterical laugh. *I am the ghost, Antonio.*

"I'm just groggy," I said, my voice gaining strength. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine." He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "You slept a long time. I kept checking on you—you were so still I nearly called the doctor."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Amara, you wouldn't wake up. I know you said you were tired but you slept too long a time and I was starting to worry." He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. His touch was cool, but it felt like a burn.

"You don't feel warm. How do you feel?"

"I'm okay." I shifted slightly, an intentional, subtle movement that made his hand fall away. "Antonio, what is today's date?"

He blinked, confused. "What?"

"The date." I kept my voice like glass. "I just—my head is foggy. I can't remember what day it is."

He stared at me, and I saw a flicker of a sharp predatory attention. The look a hunter gives when the wind changes.

"Amara, are you sure nothing is wrong? Did you hit your head? Do you feel nauseous?"

"Antonio." I looked at him directly, pinning him with a gaze that held all the secrets of a grave. "The date. Please."

He exhaled, a small, patronizing huff. "It is Tuesday. March nineteenth." A pause. "2019."

The number dropped into me like a stone into a deep well. 2019. I felt the ripples of it vibrate through my very marrow.

"2019," I whispered.

"Yes." His eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening into two dark points. "Why are you repeating it like that?"

"I'm not repeating it, I just..." I stopped. I pressed my fingers to my temple, faking a daze. "I had the most intense dream. It felt so real. I think it just—it threw me off."

"A dream." He didn't look convinced, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "What kind of dream?"

"The kind you don't want to talk about first thing in the morning," I said quietly.

He looked at me for a long moment, the silence stretching between us until it felt like a wire about to snap. Then, his face softened—that practiced, lethal softness, the one I fell in love with. He reached out and took my hand between both of his, rubbing slow, hypnotic circles across my knuckles.

"You scared me," he said simply.

I looked down at our hands. His thumb moving back and forth. Gentle. Patient. Devoted. The hands of a murderer.

*You have no idea,* I thought.

2019. I was doing the math. Six years back. We weren't even married yet. The proposal hadn't happened. The wedding, the house, the betrayal, the sister... none of it had happened yet. I had a year to fix a lifetime of mistakes.

*Thank you,* I thought, and the prayer was a cold, dark thing. *Spirit guide, wherever you are—thank you.*

"Hey." Antonio squeezed my hand. "Where did you go just now?"

I blinked, forcing a shy, tired smile. "Sorry. Still waking up."

"Okay." He lifted the tray onto my lap, his touch light. "Eat something. You haven't eaten since yesterday evening and I can hear your stomach from here."

Despite the fury, despite the cold calculations, a small, involuntary sound escaped me. A ghost of a laugh.

"You cannot hear my stomach."

"I absolutely can. It's very loud." He settled back, crossing his arms, watching me with that warmth that had once been my north star. "Unless you don't like toast this morning? I can make something else..."

"I like it." The words were a stumble. "I like it. Stop fussing."

I bit into the toast just to give my hands a task. It was warm, buttery, and ordinary. That ordinariness was what finally made it real. I was here. I was alive. I was in 2019, sitting in a bed with a man who had no idea that I knew exactly how he tasted when he lied.

I chewed slowly, letting the butter coat my tongue. I took a sip of the juice. It was sweet—almost too sweet.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better," I said, and for the first time, I meant it.

He smiled and tucked that strand of hair behind my ear again. This time, I didn't flinch. I turned my face slightly into his palm, leaning into the touch. I needed him comfortable. I needed him arrogant. I needed him to believe, with every fiber of his being, that I was still the same girl he could break.

His smile widened, triumphant.

*I know exactly what you are,* I thought, the words echoing in the private, dark vault of my mind. *I know what you are going to do. And this time, my love, I will be the one who pushes back.*

I took another bite of toast and smiled back at him, as sweet and sharp as a razor blade.