My hand rested on my five-month-pregnant belly as I watched my husband Ronan's adoptive sister, Genevieve, douse the entire balcony of our Veridia City lakeview apartment with gasoline.

This time, I didn't press the fire alarm like I did in my past life.

In my past life, Ronan had rushed into the fire to save me. But after Genevieve "took a bullet" for him during a hit by a rival family, that surface-level warmth curdled into the cruelest of masks. On the fourth night after I gave birth to our son, he personally locked my son and me in a car and sank us into the icy waters of Lake Cinder.

He pressed my head against the car window as the bone-chilling water surged in. In that velvety voice of his, he whispered that he’d drag me and everything I cherished into darkness with him.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the floor of this burning apartment.

————————

1

The acrid smell of gasoline filled my nostrils—thick, sharp, suffocating.

Five months pregnant, I woke up in the thick smoke of burning Italian leather furniture and custom silk curtains.

Through the haze, I saw her: Genevieve, my husband's adoptive sister, the Principessa of the Griffin family, pouring gasoline from a vase onto the Persian rug on our balcony.

I didn't touch the emergency panic button on my wrist.

In my last life, I had called him for help on the family's secure line.

Ronan—my husband, my protector, the man I'd become obsessed with during my criminal psychology studies—had arrived just in time to save me. He rescued me from what he thought was an assassination attempt by a rival family, and Genevieve "took a bullet" for him right in front of us.

For the remaining months of my pregnancy, he was impeccable. He arranged for the best private obstetrician in Veridia City and attended every check-up, always gentle and attentive.

But on the fourth night after our son was born, he took us to our private dock on Lake Cinder. He stood under the moonlight, his custom-tailored suit immaculate, and pronounced our death sentence.

He would sink us into the deep. First my son's carriage, then me. "Now you can sink with the treasure you cherish so much," he said as the icy water submerged us.

When I opened my eyes, I was back on the floor of our burning lakeview apartment.

This time, I covered my mouth and nose with a soaked Hermès silk scarf and anonymously sent the apartment address and the estimated time of the fire alarm to "The Serpent's Kiss," the most feared underworld gossip site in Veridia City. Let him choose her again. But this time, in front of the entire underworld.

Three minutes later, the Czech crystal chandelier came crashing down. Shards of crystal slammed into my shoulder—the bone snapped, and I screamed, the sound swallowed by the thick smoke. Another burning beam hit my hip. Blood pooled quickly, soaking the home I had so carefully decorated for him. My son—five months old, once safe in my womb—kicked faintly, then went still.

Even through the roar of the fire, I recognized the sound instantly. The sharp click of Italian leather shoes on marble. A tall figure slicing through the smoke.

Ronan was here.

I heard Genevieve's voice first. "Ronan—I can't breathe—"

He knelt. He swept her into his arms. Her cheek pressed against his neck. "I've got you. I'll never let go."

He stepped over the burning carpet. Over the threshold. Over his wife and his heir, leaving us to die in the flames.

I turned my head. The smoke stung my eyes. I couldn't stop coughing.

An Italian handmade leather shoe kicked me in the ribs. Casually. As if testing a corpse. It was his Consigliere, Liam. "So jealous she burns down her own house. Too bad the Don missed the show."

I crawled forward, my wedding ring making a harsh scratching sound on the marble. My clothes were scorched, my skin blistering. The top-of-the-line burn creams—being applied at this very moment to Genevieve's unharmed wrist three blocks away.

I begged them in a hoarse voice. "Please... the baby..."

Liam glanced down, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "Cut the act, principessa. Everyone knows you hate Genevieve. Torching your own place? That's a new level of crazy, even for you."

He kicked my abdomen again. Scornfully. Dismissively. "The Don made his choice. Keep humiliating yourself, and he'll have his lawyers dissolving this marriage before sunrise."

I couldn't speak. My uterus contracted, sharp and violent. I tasted metal. A mouthful of blood.

The family's Soldati moved around me, extinguishing the flames devouring the expensive furniture, not one of them giving me a second glance.

A voice cut through the chaos. "Blood! My God, she's bleeding!"

"Probably red wine," Liam replied. "Genevieve said she'd stop at nothing. She's five months along; that fetus is stable. Let her play out her little drama."

Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

Ronan's Italian leather shoes came into view. He knelt again. His gloved hand—leather, smelling of Genevieve's Chanel perfume—gripped my chin. He turned my face toward him.

"Wake up, Cassia," he growled. "Stop the act. I'm here."

He shook me. Hard.

"You think I can't see through this? Burning down your own home to frame her? It's pathetic."

His hand left my face. It fell to my stomach. And pressed down. Hard.

I arched my back, screaming without a sound.

"Good acting," he whispered. "But I know you, Cassia. You always know how to get what you want. Even if it means burning down your own house to get my attention."

"Ronan—" I grabbed his Armani cuff. My hand was weak. My nails were bloody. "The baby—he's not moving—"

He looked at my stomach. Five months. A slight swell.

Then he looked back toward the door. Genevieve's voice carried from there, calling his name. Faint. Practiced. Perfect.

He clenched his jaw. He pried my fingers from his cuff. One by one.

"Convincing. If Genevieve hadn't warned me that you'd pretend to be hurt after you set the fire, I might have believed it."

He stood. Turned. And walked away without a backward glance.

Darkness swallowed me.

...

In my dreams, I returned to the first time I met Ronan.

It was at a private club on the outskirts of Veridia City. He stood before a Van Gogh painting, a chiseled silhouette, his deep gray eyes like smoke. His lethal combination of power and authority was a magnet for the city’s elite, and countless women had already been captivated by it.

I was one of them. After that one glance, I devoured every psychological file I could find on him.

Back then, I was just a criminal psychologist from a middle-class family, and he didn't even notice me. To get his attention, I worked myself to the bone until my criminal analysis reports rocked the entire District Attorney's Office. Under the guise of a celebration, I invited him to a private psychology symposium and finally caught the shift in his gaze.

I seized the opportunity, using everything I had to attract him: meticulously crafted criminal psychology profiles, rare psychological texts, precious antique jewelry. Finally, he let me in.

I thought it was the beginning of happiness, but it was the start of a nightmare.

After we married, he grew more distant. Every date was subject to cancellation for "family business." I never suspected a thing until our wedding, when I accidentally discovered the call logs in his office—Genevieve's decade-long log of distress calls, each one a trembling voice summoning him, each feigned crisis pulling him to her side. All those times he canceled on me, she had him wrapped around her finger. He would stay by her bedside all night to ward off "nightmares," soothe her "fragile nerves" with the most expensive gifts, and drop everything to defend her at the slightest hint of a grievance.

Even more pathetic, I never had the courage to confront him, because I was terrified he would leave.

In my past life, when Genevieve was "shot" during the shootout at the docks, he had been unnervingly calm. I actually thought I had won. He showered me and the baby with care, pouring an unprecedented amount of affection on me. That sudden tenderness blinded me completely. It wasn't until he drowned me with his own two hands that I understood: the affection was just the bait, and I was the prey.

When I woke up, I was in a shabby underground clinic. Beside me was not Ronan, but a stranger.

"You're awake?" A middle-aged man leaned over me. He didn't have the air of a mobster—just the scent of antiseptic from an unlicensed former ER doctor from the city's fringe. "I'm Elias. I live in the garden apartment below you. I saw the explosion, went up to check, and found you on the floor, bleeding. I brought you here myself." He bit his lip. "Those family bastards were all crowded around some other woman, didn't even look at you."

I struggled to move. When my hand touched my stomach, I froze.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes full of sympathy. "The baby was already gone when I brought you in."

I managed a bitter smile. "It's not your fault. I know." I paused. "Thank you for bringing me here."

A stranger could see I was dying, while my husband of five years couldn't spare me a single glance.

Seeing me break down, Elias grew angrier than I was. "What the hell is wrong with those people?" he growled. "A pregnant woman is bleeding out on the floor, and they just walk away? You would have died if I hadn't gone up there! Does your husband not care at all? Give me his number, I'll contact him. You shouldn't be alone."

I shook my head, my voice a ragged whisper. "The baby's father is dead to me."

Elias's face was full of pity, and he offered to stay and care for me until I recovered. I refused. I transferred the medical fees to his account and urged him to leave.

Though he was gone, the storm on "The Serpent's Kiss" website was just beginning.

The topic "Griffin Family Heir's Apartment Explodes" went viral across the city, shooting to the top of every trending list within minutes. Neighbors had uploaded photos of me—crawling from the wreckage, covered in blood, while the family's Soldati formed a protective circle around Genevieve.

The public channels were on fire. Thousands of people were cursing, demanding an investigation, damning the soldiers who cared more about putting out a fire than about a pregnant woman and her unborn child.

I scrolled through the furious comments, feeling that this punishment was still too light for Ronan. I opened my phone to send a message. But Genevieve's gloating post beat me to it.

She was in this very same hospital, one floor below me. In the photo, Ronan was feeding her a delicate French consommé with a silver spoon, carefully blowing on each spoonful to cool it, his gaze as gentle as the spring sun.

I had seen countless images of their intimacy. They no longer stirred anything in my heart.

I closed the chat window and dialed Ronan's number. He answered on the fifth ring, his voice sharp with impatience.

"You have the nerve to call?" he roared. "What do you want? To see if Genevieve is dead? Sorry to disappoint you—I saved her! She's alive and well, recovering just fine in this very hospital, one floor below you!"

"Cassia, I've known you for five years, and I never thought you were capable of murder. Do you realize what you've done? You tried to kill her! Are you insane?"

"I'm giving you one hour. Come down here and apologize to her face. Otherwise, our lawyers can settle this."

Before I could speak, Genevieve's voice came through the phone—hurt, tearful, perfect.

"Ronan... don't blame her. It's my fault. If she needs to say I set the fire, just let her. Don't argue. A pregnant woman's emotions are fragile; we can't risk upsetting her."

Ronan let out a long, disappointed sigh. "You're just too kind, and that's why she dares to walk all over you. We grew up in the same family. Who the hell is Cassia to lay a hand on you?"

"Don't worry. This time, I'm going to teach her a permanent lesson."

While they were lost in their hypocritical performance, I spoke clearly into the phone.

"Fine. Let's dissolve the marriage. I agree. I'll have my lawyer draw up the papers. Sign them."

...

Ronan had clearly never expected me to be the one to demand a divorce.

He froze for a second, then his rage erupted over the phone. I cut the call before he could roar out another word.

Instantly, my phone was bombarded. Text after text came flooding in, each one burning with his fury.

"Where are you? Cassia, are you insane? I tolerate you because you're carrying my heir, and now you want to push your luck?"

"You think being pregnant protects you? I'll dissolve this marriage immediately, and when you give birth, you'll be on your knees begging me to sign the birth certificate!"

"And that filth on The Serpent's Kiss—get it taken down now! Don't force me to show this whole city who you really are!"

I didn't read any further. I deleted all the messages and blocked his number completely. Even though he had killed me in our last life, the betrayal still felt like a knife twisting in my heart.

The nurses came in to change my dressings, gossiping freely, oblivious to my expression.

"Did you see the Don downstairs? So handsome," one sighed. "He and his girlfriend are the perfect couple, right? Grew up together, basically destined for each other. It's like a movie!"

"You're behind on the news," another laughed. "The latest is that he paid a fortune to book the hospital's entire kitchen just so he can personally make her soup every day!"

"I tried to change her dressing earlier, and he wouldn't even let me touch her. Insisted on doing it himself. Real soulmates are just so enviable!"

...

I stared numbly at the diamond watch on my wrist. The peeling skin on my arm itched and burned beneath the bandages.

After they left, I gasped for air, my mouth wide open, trying to pull in oxygen that refused to enter my lungs.

That evening, the attending physician examined me. He said the blow to my abdomen had caused permanent damage. I might never be able to conceive again.

My first reaction, strangely, was relief. Thank God. Now no child would have to suffer with me. An innocent life deserved a better fate.

After everyone had left my room, I checked the public forums. The media storm had become unstoppable, forcing a statement to be issued. But their explanation was that the explosion was entirely my master plan, that I had acted out of jealousy, deliberately harming others and wasting rescue resources, and had dragged my esteemed husband into disgrace.

In the report, a family spokesperson spoke of peace, but every word placed the blame squarely on my shoulders. To add credibility, Ronan registered his official account and broadcast a statement about our marriage to the entire city. His move effectively crucified me in the court of public opinion. The curses once aimed at the rescue workers turned and flooded toward me like a tide. My social media accounts were inundated, my access revoked by administrators. My attempts to explain were drowned out by the howls of the online mob.

Over the next few days, I could feel the hostility from every nurse and doctor who entered my room. If not for their professional oath, I would have been thrown out onto the street long ago. Every morning brought packages from all over the city—each one containing a threat.

I never defended myself once.

It wasn't until the day the doctor approved my discharge that I sent Ronan a single text message.

"Tomorrow. Argent Steakhouse on Platinum Avenue. To finalize the dissolution of our marriage."

He seized the opportunity and called back immediately. "Finally showing your face? I warned you. I gave you a chance. You refused to take down the news, so don't blame me for what comes next. If Genevieve hadn't begged me to spare you, I would have reported you to the FBI by now. Fine, dissolve the marriage! But when you give birth to a fatherless heir, don't come crawling back to me for a signature on the birth certificate!"

He cut the call before I could say a word. I opened my apartment's security system and hid the encrypted micro-USB—containing the full video of Genevieve's arson—in the heel of my shoe.

The next morning, after being discharged, I took my documents and went straight to the restaurant. But waiting for me on the marble steps was Genevieve.

"I told you," she smiled, her eyes glinting with malice. "You'll never win. Your husband is nothing but my faithful hound."

Her gaze dropped to my abdomen. She feigned shock. "Oh! So the bastard's gone? What a shame. In our last life, his own father drowned him. This life, he killed him with indifference. With a mother like you, he never stood a chance."

She was reborn, too?

Before my mind could process it, my hand was already moving. I slapped her across the face. I had no strength from the blood loss, but she fell with dramatic grace.

"Genevieve!"

Ronan rushed past me from behind. His shoulder slammed into my back, knocking me aside. I tumbled down the stone steps until my head hit the bottom, and blood streamed down my face.

Ronan swept her into his arms, murmuring apologies, his attention entirely on her. Only then did he seem to remember me, his head whipping in my direction.

His gaze locked onto my stomach. Flat. Empty.

The color drained from his face.

He lunged, trying to pull me into his arms. "The baby—" his voice was hoarse, filled with terror. "Where is our child?!"