Chapter Four

*Avina*

I jerked awake with a gasp that felt like it had been trapped in my lungs for a lifetime.

My eyes flew open, expecting to see the cold, damp shadows of a prison cell or the blinding white of a psychiatric ward. I expected the smell of bleach and the iron tang of my own blood. Instead, I was met with the soft, warm glow of morning sun filtering through heavy cream curtains. The air smelled of expensive lavender and the faint, lingering scent of masculine cedarwood.

I lay still, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My chest… it didn't rattle. I took a deep, shaky breath, and there was no pain. No fire in my veins. No wet, scraping sound of fluid in my lungs.

I threw back the silk duvet wrapped around my midsection, my hands trembling. Holding my breath, I looked down at my arms. They weren’t the skeletal, gray limbs I had seen in the past couple of months. The skin was smooth, porcelain-pale, and glowing with health. 

Big knots formed in my stomach as I scrambled out of bed, my feet hitting the plush, deep-pile carpet. But with a yelp, I collapsed to the floor in a pitiful heap. 

And no, it wasn't because my legs were weak or anything. They were strong. I felt strong. I felt whole.

Which was off-putting because I had spent the last few months trying to adapt to my weak, frail legs. 

‘What on earth was going on?’ I pondered, anxiety swirling around me. 

Gathering my wits, I forced myself up and ran to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. 

And my mouth dropped open in profound shock. 

The woman staring back at me was a ghost of a future that hadn't happened yet. My strawberry blonde hair was thick, and lustrous, falling over my shoulders in healthy waves. My green eyes weren't sunken or bruised; they were bright, clear, and full of a life I thought had been stolen from me. 

Both of my hands flew up to cover my mouth as I staggered backwards. Pressure built in the back of my throat, and as I removed my hand to scream, I knocked over the calendar on the nightstand.

I quickly bent over and picked it up and that was when my eyes dropped to the date. 

**May 15th 2025.**

I fell back against the vanity, my breath hitching. I had gone back. I was five years in the past. It was one month before our first wedding anniversary. One month before the "vitamins" began to take their toll.

As the realization settled, the memories of my death came rushing back like a tidal wave. I felt Xavier’s cold hands on my arm. I heard Daphne’s high-pitched, cruel laughter. I felt the needle piercing my neck. The betrayal was so fresh, so visceral, that my stomach turned over.

I bolted into the bathroom, dropping to my knees in front of the marble toilet. I retched dryly, my body convicing with the memory of the poison. There was nothing in my stomach, but the nausea was soul-deep.

When the shaking finally subsided, I sat on the cold floor, leaning my head against the wall. And I wept. 

I didn't cry for the woman I was. I cried for the woman I had become—the naive, trusting fool who had walked straight into a slaughterhouse.

No more, I whispered, wiping my mouth with a hand that was finally steady. No more tears. No more mercy.

I balled my fists. Either by divine intervention or science, I'd been reborn and I sure wasn't going to waste this opportunity. 

I stood up, splashed cold water on my face, and looked at myself again. This time, I didn't see a victim. I saw a weapon. Every person who had laughed while I died, every person who had manipulated my life and poisoned my blood… they were all alive. They were all happy. And they had no idea I was coming for them.

Every single one of them. 

A sharp knock on the bedroom door however broke my thoughts.

"Mrs. Graves? Are you awake? It’s nearly nine."

I recognized that voice. It was Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper. She had been Xavier’s nanny when he was a boy, and she looked at him as if he were a god. To her, I was just the girl who had "trapped" her golden boy into a marriage he didn't want. In my past life, I had spent so much energy trying to win her over, buying her gifts and ignoring her sharp tongue.

Smothering a sigh, I marched over and opened the door. Mrs. Gable stood there, her gray hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. She held a silver tray with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. 

As soon she caught a glance of me, her lip curled in a way she thought I wouldn't notice.

But I did. I saw everything now. 

Shaking her head in disapproval, she swept past me and walked into the room without invitation. 

"You’ve been in there a long time," she said, her voice stiff. "I hope you haven't been crying again. It’s unsightly."

I arched a brow. "Crying, Mrs. Gable? Whatever for?"

She set the tray down on the vanity with a deliberate loud clink. She then picked up the newspaper and held it out to me, her eyes glinting with a hidden, ugly satisfaction. "There are rumors, madam. Photos from overseas. Xavier is a busy man, a brilliant doctor. It’s only natural that he seeks… companionship when he is away on business. You shouldn't make a scene just because he was seen in a hotel lobby with a beautiful woman."

My heart went cold. I remembered this day. In my past life, this was the day the first "scandal" broke. A grainy photo of Xavier in Paris, entering a hotel room with a blonde woman whose face was obscured. I had spent the day hysterical and bawling my eyes out, and when Xavier returned, he had kissed me and told me it was a "hired actress" meant to smear the hospital’s reputation. I had believed him.

But now, I knew who was in that photo. It was Daphne. She had been "studying" in Europe at the time—paid for by my father, and using the inheritance that should have been mine.

"Is that so?" I asked, taking the paper. I didn't even look at the photo. I already knew the curve of that woman’s waist. I knew the way she leaned into him.

"You should be more understanding," Mrs. Gable continued, emboldened by my silence. "A man like Xavier needs a woman who supports him, not one who drags him down with her insecurities. If I were you, I’d have the kitchen prepare his favorite meal and pretend you never saw this. It’s the least you could do for him."

I looked at the older woman. For years, she had helped Xavier hide his tracks. She had probably laundered the shirts that smelled of Daphne’s perfume.

"Mrs. Gable," I said softly, taking a step into her space.

She paused, sensing a shift in the air. "Yes?"

"I need you to go to the florist in the city center," I said, my voice calm and authoritative. "I want three dozen white lilies. The ones that only bloom for a day."

She frowned. "The city center? That’s an hour away. Can’t the driver go?"

"No," I stepped closer to her, my shadow falling over her small frame. "I want you to pick them. Personally. I want to make sure they are perfect for our anniversary preparations. And while you're at it, pick up some specialized cleaning supplies from the old apothecary on 4th Street. My vanity needs a deep scrub."

"But, Mrs. Graves, I have the house to run—"

"I am the mistress of this house, Mrs. Gable," I interrupted, my voice turning into a whip. "And you are the staff. If you are too busy to fulfill a simple request, perhaps you are getting too old for this position. Should I ask Xavier to find someone younger? Someone more… compliant?"

Mrs. Gable’s face went pale. She had never heard me speak like this. I had always been the one apologizing to her.

"I… of course, madam," she stuttered, her bravado vanishing. "I’ll go at once."

"Good. And don't come back until you have everything."

I watched her scurry out, her shoulders hunched. It was a small victory, but it felt like wine. I had removed his most loyal spy from the house for the afternoon.

Now it's time to set my tiny plan into motion. 

****

Immediately I confirmed that Mrs. Gable was already out of the house, I headed down to the kitchen. The moment I reached the threshold, a wave of silence swept through the room, the staff looking up in surprise as I entered. I was usually the kind of mistress who stayed out of their way, fearing I would be a burden so I kind of understand their surprise. 

"Good morning, Maria," I said to the head cook. "Xavier is coming home this evening. He’s had a stressful trip."

"Yes, Mrs. Graves. Shall I prepare the steak au poivre?"

"No," I said, a slow smile spreading across my lips. "I want something different today. Something… celebratory. Let’s start with an aged Parmesan and prosciutto board. For the main course, a rich seafood paella with extra shellfish and tomatoes. And for dessert, chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of the finest red wine from the cellar."

Maria blinked. "But, ma'am… Dr. Graves usually prefers lighter meals when he’s been traveling. And that’s a lot of fermented foods."

"He told me he wanted to indulge," I lied smoothly. "And make sure the spinach is fresh. Lots of it."

I knew exactly what I was doing.

In my past life, we had discovered two years into the marriage that Xavier had a severe, albeit non-lethal, Histamine Intolerance. He had hidden it well, but after a particularly rich meal, he had broken out in hives and suffered a terrifying episode of racing heart and shortness of breath. He was terrified of it because it made him feel out of control. It made him feel… weak.

Just like I felt when I was about to die. 

Shoving away my grievances for the moment, I forced another bright smile. “Please, do get on with the cooking so you could be done before he gets back.”

With a slight nod in their direction, I walked out. 

Step one in my revenge: a grand welcome for my dear husband.