Revenge of the Reborn Bride

When I opened my eyes, I was standing at the entrance of a lavish private room.

Before I could even push down the door handle, the sound of laughter and chatter spilled out from inside.

"Why didn't Asher bring his fiancée today? Wouldn't Vivian die if she lost him?"

The entire room was drunk, men and women alike, teasing without restraint.

Asher Vance frowned, clicking his tongue impatiently.

"Don't bring her up. Makes me sick. She's just a woman I can't seem to get rid of. Even sleeping with her for free would make me sick."

My heart slammed against my ribs, a full-body tremor taking hold as the words hit me.

So this was what he said when I wasn't around. This was how Asher talked about me—the girl who gave him everything.

He lowered his gaze slightly. The dark light cast shadows across his face, yet for a brief moment, there was an unmistakable trace of tenderness.

"But I told her I'd look out for Vivian, so I'm stuck keeping that promise. Otherwise, with all her little games? She'd never even get a second glance from me."

A wave of understanding murmurs swept the room. Glances were exchanged; everyone knew exactly who "she" was.

In my last life, Asher said these same exact words at our wedding reception. I'd thought the "her" he meant was my mom. I never dreamed it was his lifelong crush, his perfect "what if"—my own older sister.

I'd just been the placeholder all along.

A sharp, acidic ache shot up behind my nose, but my eyes stayed bone-dry. A laugh, hollow and bleak, escaped me. The sound of the final illusion shattering.

I don't know who spotted me first, but a sharp gasp cut the air, and suddenly a few dozen pairs of eyes were locked on me.

The door to the section stood open. The party vibe died the second I stepped into view.

The whole crew looked from me to Asher, their expressions a mix of awkwardness and low-key amusement. They'd just trash-talked me, but not a single one was about to say they were sorry.

Asher was sprawled on the plush couch, not even bothering to look my way.

"I told you," he said, voice flat. "Handle whatever you want for the wedding. Don't interrupt me."

His tone was a perfect match for how he'd been in my last life. Back then, I'd told myself he was just stressed, same as me.

Now I knew. He was just bitter he wasn't marrying the love of his life, and I was the convenient target.

I didn't move to comfort him like I always used to. I just stood there in the doorway, perfectly still.

He must have sensed the change. His eyes narrowed, that familiar, icy once-over scanning me from head to toe.

Even after a lifetime of seeing it, that look—like I was barely worth his notice—still knocked the air from my lungs.

I dug my nails into my palm, forcing my voice steady. "Asher. I'm calling off the wedding."

Just a few words, and it felt like I'd used up every bit of courage I'd ever have.

A stunned, heavy silence crushed the room. Nobody made a sound.

But I could feel their smirks, could practically hear the silent laughter. I was the night's entertainment.

Asher let out a short, derisive puff of air, and like a switch was flipped, the room broke into uncomfortable, mocking laughter.

"Vivian, how old are you now? Aren't you tired of the drama? How many times have you pulled this 'I'm leaving' stunt? A hundred times, maybe."

He sank back and closed his eyes, utterly convinced this was just another pathetic bid for his attention.

Rage, hot and humiliating, tightened my throat. I was about to fire back when a voice, clear and sharp, cut through the noise.

"That's enough! All of you—apologize to her! Asher, if you say one more word, we are done. Forever."

My head snapped toward the sound. I met the pair of warm, blazing eyes of a woman.

"Celeste?"