Beep. Beep. Beep.
The mechanical sound pierced the silence, echoing through a vast room adorned with gold-carved walls, marble floors, and the cold gleam of modern medical equipment. Luxury surrounded the space, yet the air felt lifeless.
At the centre of the room lay a woman.
"Ah… my head…"
Lethea groaned softly, her fingers trembling as she pressed them against her temple. A violent dizziness churned through her skull, as though her mind were being torn apart and stitched back together.
"So I'm… alive," she whispered, her voice cracked and hollow.
A bitter smile curved her lips.
"After all my sins… even God still had pity on me."
Tears slid down the corners of her eyes, soaking into the pillow beneath her head. Memories—ugly, sharp, and unforgiving—flooded her consciousness one after another.
Her name was Lethea Sy La Roche.
Once, she was the sole heiress of the La Roche Conglomerate—one of the largest and most powerful business empires in Europe. Elegant, noble, and impossibly ambitious, she had been the envy of high society. Women admired her beauty and status; men feared her sharp mind and ruthless decisions.
But admiration quickly turned into resentment.
Despite being born with a silver spoon, Lethea was infamous for her cold heart and rotten temperament. She was selfish, arrogant, and cruel—someone who only loved herself.
She despised her grandfather for forcing her into marriage with a commoner military man. She despised her father even more—for neglecting her after her mother's death, for remarrying so quickly, and for showering his affection on a new child born barely a year after her.
Everything she felt—hatred, jealousy, abandonment—was bottled deep inside her heart.
And eventually, it rotted.
Lethea plotted in silence, determined to strip them of the happiness she believed they had stolen from her. One scandal after another surfaced. Lies were carefully planted. Reputations crumbled.
Her father's standing within the company deteriorated rapidly.
The board lost faith in him.
And Lethea stepped into his place.
She became the new CEO of the La Roche Empire.
Power tasted intoxicating.
But to rise higher, she believed she had to erase her imperfections—starting with her husband. Ashamed of being tied to a man with no wealth or lineage, she divorced him without hesitation.
She humiliated him publicly. Mocked his origins. Made sure everyone knew she despised the very man who had once loved her unconditionally.
For a time, she had everything.
Fame. Wealth. Authority.
Then karma struck.
Her greed crossed a line even she could not return from. Her grandfather disowned her, stripped her of her inheritance, and severed her from the empire she had clawed her way into.
The betrayal shattered what little restraint she had left.
"If I can't have it," she remembered thinking, "then no one will."
She orchestrated the bombing of the La Roche Conglomerate headquarters.
The explosion claimed many lives.
Among them—her father and her grandfather.
Did she feel satisfied?
No.
Only emptiness.
She was imprisoned, later released due to insufficient evidence, and cast into a life stripped of meaning. No wealth. No pride. No one.
Just regret.
"I earned it," Lethea murmured now, staring blankly at the white ceiling above her.
The memories shifted.
Late at night, after finishing her third job of the day, she had taken a shortcut through a dark alley—too exhausted to be cautious.
Strong arms grabbed her from behind.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
She struggled, but her body was weak. Panic surged through her veins as poison invaded her bloodstream, numbing her limbs.
"Die," a man whispered coldly.
Then—nothing.
When consciousness returned, she couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't even open her eyes.
She was diagnosed as brain-conscious—aware of everything, yet trapped inside a lifeless body. A breathing corpse.
No family came.
No visitors.
She lay neglected for days, soaked in her own filth, ignored by nurses and pitied by no one. Social workers visited occasionally—until even they stopped.
Months passed.
Then a year.
"I deserve it," she repeated endlessly inside her mind.
She longed for death—but even that mercy was denied.
Until one night.
A door slammed open.
Rushed footsteps approached her bed.
Warm arms enveloped her fragile body, pressing her face against a solid chest. For the first time in a year, she felt human warmth.
Tears soaked her skin.
They weren't hers.
The man holding her was crying.
His scent—familiar, grounding—filled her senses.
Her ex-husband.
Erick Warton.
The man who had never shed a tear during their ten-year marriage was now trembling, sobbing as though he had lost the world.
He had come for her.
From that night on, Erick stayed. He held her hand every morning, spoke to her gently, told her stories at night. In her weakest state, she felt closer to him than she ever had as his wife.
Only now did she understand.
The man she had humiliated and discarded was the only one who came when she had nothing left.
This was the first time in her thirty-five years of life that she felt truly loved.
And it broke her.
Because she knew.
She felt the wedding ring on his finger every time he touched her.
Erick belonged to another woman now.
"This is my punishment," Lethea thought bitterly.
Her small happiness would end the moment she fully recovered.
Curling into herself, she sobbed silently.
"Now that I'm awake," she vowed in her heart, "I'll repay you, Erick. Even if I can't have you… let me love you from afar."
Then—
A sharp pain tore through her chest.
The machine beside her shrieked wildly.
Beep—beep—beep—
"No—!" she screamed silently. "Not now—!"
The sound flatlined.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
But instead of peace—
Heat.
Pressure.
Her soul felt torn apart, crushed, and dragged through fire. Memories shattered violently, reforming in fragments too vivid to escape.
Then—
Air burned into her lungs.
A voice echoed.
"Congratulations, Lady Lethea. The heiress has awakened."
Her eyes flew open.
Her hands were small.
Unscarred.
Untainted.
Her heart pounded as realization settled deep into her bones.
She was young again.
Alive again.
Back at the beginning.
Lethea La Roche smiled slowly—cold, dangerous, reborn.
"This time," she whispered,"I will never make the same mistake."