Chapter 4: Mapping the Timeline

I sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at my hands. They were steady now. The shaking had stopped somewhere between the tenth and eleventh cycle of breathing exercises I'd forced myself through.

Think, Seraphine. Think.

If this was real and every instinct I had screamed that it was then I needed to understand exactly where I was in the timeline. What had already happened. What hadn't. What I could still prevent.

March 2019. I was twenty-three years old.

The inheritance. When did that come? I closed my eyes, forcing my fractured memory to cooperate. Lawyer Whitmore had called me in... 2022. Late spring. May, maybe? The will had finally been validated after fifteen years of searching. I'd been twenty-six.

Three years away. I didn't have the money yet. Didn't have the properties, the stocks, the estate where I'd died. All of that was still locked away, waiting to be found.

Which meant—

My eyes snapped open.

I wasn't married yet.

The realization hit me like cold water. I looked down at my left hand. No wedding band. Just the engagement ring Adrian had given me two years ago. Simple. Elegant. Probably the most expensive thing he'd ever bought, and even then I suspected he'd put it on a credit card he couldn't afford.

 We were engaged. We'd planned to get married in the fall, October 2019. I remembered because I'd already put deposits down on venues I'd never be able to afford, trying to make Adrian happy, trying to prove I could be the wife he deserved.

God, I'd been so stupid.

Cancer. When did that start? I pressed my hand against my abdomen, feeling for pain that wasn't there yet. The diagnosis had come in... 2024. I'd been twenty-eight. Five years from now.

Five years before my body would start killing itself from the inside out.

But did that mean I was safe for now? Or was the cancer already there, cells quietly mutating, just waiting to be noticed? The thought made my skin crawl.

Adrian's debts. Those had started early. Were probably already mounting. He'd been asking me for money since we started dating, always with a good reason, always with a promise to pay me back. I'd given it to him every time, pulling extra shifts at the diner, skipping meals, because that's what you did when you loved someone.

When you thought they loved you back.

A knock on the bathroom door made me flinch.

"Sera?" Adrian's voice, still careful. Still concerned. "The doctor's here. Can you come out?"

Doctor?

I stood up slowly, my legs weak but functional. Caught my reflection in the mirror again—hair intact, eyes clear, face young and unmarked by suffering. It still didn't feel real.

"Sera, please. I'm worried about you."

I unlocked the door.

Adrian stood there, and for the first time I really looked at him with eyes that knew the truth. Twenty-five years old. Handsome in that effortless way some men were, with dark hair that always fell perfectly and a smile that could convince you the sun rose just for him. He'd put on a shirt, thank God. I didn't think I could handle seeing him half-dressed without losing what little control I'd regained.

Behind him, in my small living room, I could see an older man with a medical bag. Dr. Morrison. The name surfaced from my memory like a drowning victim coming up for air. He'd been the one to—

Oh God.

This day. I knew this day.

"Miss Arkwright?" Dr. Morrison's voice was kind as I emerged from the bathroom. "Your fiancé called me. He said you had a severe panic attack this morning?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. This conversation. These exact words. I'd lived this before.

He guided me to the couch, asked me questions I already knew the answers to. Checked my vitals. Made sympathetic noises. And then, exactly as I remembered:

"Have you been under unusual stress lately?"

"She works too much," Adrian said before I could answer, his hand on my shoulder in what probably looked like comfort. "Two jobs. I keep telling her she needs to slow down."

Because you keep asking me for money, I wanted to scream. Because your "business ventures" keep failing and someone has to keep us afloat.

But I said nothing. Just nodded.

"It's not uncommon for trauma to resurface in unexpected ways," Dr. Morrison continued, his voice gentle. "Your fiancé mentioned that your parents passed away when you were young? In an accident?"

The car crash. I was ten. The memory was supposed to make me cry, but I'd cried myself out on the bathroom floor. Now I just felt numb.

"Sometimes anniversaries of traumatic events, even subconscious ones, can trigger these episodes," the doctor explained. "Has anything happened recently that might have reminded you of that loss?"

I shook my head. In my other life,my first life, I'd believed him. I had thought the panic attack was about my parents, about old grief resurfacing. Had let Adrian comfort me while I felt weak and broken and grateful to have someone who cared.

Now I know the truth. The panic attack had been real, but it had nothing to do with my parents and everything to do with the universe telling me I was waking up next to my future murderer.

"I'm going to recommend some therapy sessions," Dr. Morrison said, pulling out a prescription pad. "And something mild for the anxiety. But the most important thing is rest and stress reduction."

"She'll rest," Adrian assured him, squeezing my shoulder. "I'll make sure of it."

The doctor left with promises to check in later. The door had barely closed when another knock sounded.

"That'll be Maribel," Adrian said, already moving to answer it. "I called her when you were in the bathroom. Thought you might want your best friend here."

Best friend. The words tasted like poison.

The door opened and there she was.

Maribel Cross. Twenty-three, same as me, but she'd always seemed older somehow. More polished. More put together. Her skin was pale, almost luminescent, like she'd never seen the sun. Blonde hair fell in perfect waves around her shoulders. And that lipstick—deep red, her signature shade. The same red that had been smeared across her mouth when I'd found her with Adrian.

She rushed toward me, concern painted across her beautiful face. "Sera! Oh my God, Adrian called and I came right away. Are you okay?"

Her arms wrapped around me and I had to fight every instinct not to shove her away. She smelled like expensive perfume and lies. I let her hug me, let her pull back and cup my face with her perfectly manicured hands, let her study me with eyes that gleamed with something that wasn't quite concern.

"You scared us," she said softly. "Adrian said you completely freaked out. That's not like you."

No. It wasn't like the old Seraphine. The one who smiled and made herself small and never caused problems. But I wasn't her anymore, was I?

"I'm fine," I managed, my voice hoarse. "Just... stressed."

"You work too hard," Maribel said, echoing Adrian's earlier words. Had they rehearsed this? Or was it just that easy to manipulate someone when you knew all their weaknesses? "You need to take better care of yourself."

My eyes drifted past her to where Adrian stood by the kitchen counter. He'd taken his shirt off again at some point—when? Why?— and he stood there in just gray sweatpants. The sight of him like that used to make my heart race. Used to make me forget why I was upset about whatever small transgression he'd committed.

Now I felt nothing. Less than nothing.

But I watched Maribel's eyes flick toward him. Watched them linger on his chest, his arms, the line of his hips above the waistband. Watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips, that red, red lipstick—before she caught herself and turned back to me.

It had been there all along. The desire. The want. The barely concealed hunger.

How had I never seen it?

"Maybe you should lie down," Maribel suggested, her hand stroking my hair in a gesture that probably looked comforting to Adrian. "I can stay with you. Make sure you're okay."

"That would be great," Adrian said, already pulling out his phone. "I should head to the office anyway. Got that meeting with investors."

The investors who would never materialize. The business deal that would fail. Another five thousand dollars I'd give him that I'd never see again.

"Sure," I heard myself say. "Go ahead."

He kissed my forehead—a brotherly, perfunctory gesture—and headed to the bedroom to get dressed. Maribel settled beside me on the couch, still playing the concerned friend perfectly.

I studied her face while she scrolled through her phone, pretending to check messages. She was beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful. Curves in all the places I was angular. Confidence where I had anxiety. A trust fund that meant she never had to work two jobs or skip meals or choose between rent and groceries.

I could see why Adrian wanted her. Why he'd always wanted her.

The real question was: had he ever wanted me? Or had I just been convenient? A placeholder until my inheritance came through, someone easier to manipulate than Maribel with her money and her options and her ability to walk away.

Adrian emerged from the bedroom fully dressed, kissed Maribel's cheek lingering just a second too long and left.

The door clicked shut.

Maribel turned to me with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So," she said. "Want to talk about what really happened this morning?"

I looked at her. Really looked at her. At the face of the woman who would help murder me seven years from now. Who would push me down the stairs and then comfort my husband while I bled out on marble floors.

And I smiled back.

"Just a bad dream," I said softly. "Nothing important."

But in my mind, I was already mapping it out. The timeline. The moves I needed to make. The things I needed to prevent and the things I needed to prepare for.

Three years until the inheritance came through. Five years until the cancer, if it still came. Seven years until I was supposed to die.

Seven years that the thing in the void had given me.

I didn't know what it wanted in return. Didn't know what price I'd have to pay. I didn't care.

Because I had work to do.