Chapter 2: Once Again

I took a few seconds to steady my breathing.

The air coming through the window felt purer, lighter. It smelled of wildflowers, not the expensive perfume that permeated the Sinclair mansion. My fingers trembled around the necklace I was holding, the vivid red pendant resting against the palm of my hand.

My reflection in the mirror confirmed the impossible.

I was younger. My skin was flawless, my eyes free of the exhaustion of ten years spent trying to be loved by a man incapable of it.

Slowly, the memories of what had just happened came rushing back.

“No…” I murmured, my voice faltering as I swallowed hard. “This can’t be…”

In violent flashes, the blood on the floor returned. The searing pain in my head. The contempt in Michael’s voice. Lanna’s irritation as she complained about her stained dress.

I had died.

No. I had been murdered.

Murdered by my husband and his lover.

I searched for the armchair, bracing myself as I tried to steady my thoughts, gasping for air. I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heart racing, far too alive for someone who should have been dead.

That was when my fingers tightened around the necklace and I noticed the note that had come with it in the gift box my grandmother had given me, telling me to open it only on my wedding day.

“This necklace will protect you, my girl,” the note read. “No matter what happens, keep it close.”

At the time, I had laughed. I thought it was just another superstition, a loving gift meant to comfort me before a marriage I had never truly chosen.

But I did as she asked. After all, it was the only thing I had left of her.

Now, with the necklace between my fingers and the certainty that I had gone back in time, the memory brought me comfort, a quiet assurance that she had been telling the truth.

I pressed the necklace to my chest and let my eyes roam the room as I tried to organize my thoughts. Some time passed before the door opened.

“Fernanda, they’re asking if…” Caleb entered speaking loudly, then stopped short when he saw me.

His lips parted as surprise spread across his face, a mix of fascination and admiration shining in his eyes as he slowly looked me over.

“Julia…” he whispered my name. “I’m sorry. I thought… I thought this was the bridesmaids’ room…”

“It’s okay,” I said, still reeling from everything I was trying to process.

He continued to look at me in silence, in a way that felt far too intimate for a best man, yet still distant enough to remain respectful.

Caleb Beaumont, Michael’s best friend and best man at our wedding. He frequented the Sinclair mansion and was always present at family events. Of everyone I had been forced to coexist with, he was the kindest.

He was beautiful. Tall, strong, amber eyes, wavy brown hair, a beard framing his face. His fortune rivaled Michael’s, yet he never acted like it. Caleb was simply a man, and that was what fascinated me about him.

“Well… I’ll leave you now,” he said with a smile, turning away. Before closing the door, he looked back at me for a few more seconds. “Julia…”

I raised my eyebrows, signaling that I was listening.

“You look beautiful. One of the most incredible sights anyone could ever see.”

“Thank you…” I replied, not realizing my voice betrayed the tears threatening to fall.

“Julia?” He closed the door and came toward me, gently touching my forearm. “Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, not at all,” I said, wiping away a tear that had escaped. “It’s just that… it’s been a long time since anyone said something like that to me.”

He frowned, studying me for a moment, disbelief and a humorless smile crossing his face.

“A woman like you should hear things like that every day.” As soon as the words left his lips, I lifted my gaze to meet his.

We stood there for a few seconds, looking at each other, until we both realized the moment had lingered too long, grown too intimate, and we both looked away.

“I’m sure Michael will tell you that many times from now on,” he said with a smile, stepping back.

I simply smiled and nodded in silence as I watched him leave, knowing that Michael would tell me many things, but none of them would be pleasant or resemble a compliment.

That was still my wedding day, and I had no time to lose to shock. So I took a deep breath, touched up my lipstick, and moved forward.

I married Michael again. I said the same vows, but this time I knew.

And because I knew, I tried to change.

I decided I would not fight. I thought that if I accepted my place with dignity, if I gave everything up, perhaps the outcome would be different.

On our ten-year anniversary, I packed my things, signed the divorce papers I myself suggested, and left the mansion with my head held high. I asked the driver to take me to a hotel, the last service I would receive as Mrs. Sinclair.

Michael did not care.

Watching the scenery pass by through the window, I believed I had won, but the cycle of blood simply repeated itself.

When the landscape grew darker and farther from the city, I realized something was wrong.

“Where are we going?” I asked, leaning forward.

“Orders from Mr. Sinclair,” was the last thing he said to me.

I tried to scream. I tried to kick, to bite, to scratch, but it was useless. It did not take long before he stopped the car and turned toward me, a gun in his hand, firing into my forehead without hesitation.

Pain tore through me, and then I woke again, clutching the necklace, on my wedding day, in front of the window. Once again, I was in the white dress, feeling the sunlight on my skin.

I had died twice, always after ten years, always ending the same way. But that morning, holding the pendant tightly, something finally felt different inside me.

The necklace could bring me back, but it could not save me from suffering. If this continued, it would not be a blessing or a second chance at happiness. It would be a prison.

I clenched the pendant, feeling an unusual coldness settle in. A coldness born only of years of pain. I stepped forward, staring out the window.

The sun still shone with the same innocence as always. The world had no idea what I had lived through, what I had endured, what had broken inside me.

Both of my deaths replayed in my mind, all the pain I had borne without asking for it or deserving it. Michael had killed me enough times to erase the part of me that cared about him, or about morality and integrity.

If fate insisted on leading me to death, then I would no longer wait.

I would not run. I would not beg. I would not yield.

If there was only one way to break that cycle, then I would choose the ending. This time, Michael Sinclair would not be the man who killed me, because I would not give him the time to do it.

If I could not escape in peace as the victim, then this time, I would be the executioner.

This time, I would kill him first.