I died on a rainy Tuesday night, alone in a private hospital suite that smelled of antiseptic and regret.
The monitors had flatlined hours earlier. No one rushed in. No crash cart, no urgent voices, no last-minute miracle. Just the steady beep dissolving into a single, endless tone, and the rain drumming against the window.
Rowan had been there earlier. He'd sat beside the bed in his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, holding my hand with just the right amount of tenderness for the nurses watching. He'd leaned close, voice low and velvet-soft, telling me how much he loved me, how sorry he was that things had ended this way, how he'd make sure the company stayed strong. "For us," he'd said. "For our future."
I'd believed him. Because love makes fools of us all, and I had been the biggest fool of them all.
Liora came too, wearing the emerald silk dress I'd bought for our engagement anniversary. She'd pressed a cool kiss to my forehead, tears shimmering on her lashes like rehearsed diamonds. "You were always too good for this world, Ari," she'd whispered. "Rest now." Then she'd walked out beside Rowan, their fingers brushing in a way that wasn't accidental, and I'd understood everything in that final moment.
They hadn't just betrayed me.
They had killed me.
The poison had been slow,colorless, tasteless, slipped into my evening chamomile over weeks until my body turned on itself. Doctors called it a rare autoimmune collapse. Rowan called it tragic fate. Liora called it inevitable. I called it murder.
And then the darkness took me.
Except it didn't keep me.
I opened my eyes to sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling glass, the kind that turns a bedroom into a private sky. My bedroom. The penthouse on the seventy-eighth floor of Black Tower Residences. The sheets beneath me were the same cool Egyptian cotton I'd woken up in every morning for years. But my hands—
My hands were smooth. No faint white scar from the paring knife slip at twenty-five. No trace of the age spots that had started creeping across my knuckles last year. I bolted upright, heart hammering, and stared at the mirror across the room.
Twenty-three.
I looked twenty-three.
The calendar on my nightstand,still plugged in, still showing the weather widget,read June 12, 2024.
Seven days.
Seven days before the engagement gala where Rowan would slide that obscene twelve-carat diamond onto my finger in front of five hundred of the city's elite, cameras flashing, champagne flowing, everyone toasting to our perfect future.
I was back.
The room spun. I gripped the edge of the mattress until my nails bit into the fabric. Memories slammed into me like shards of glass: the slow sickness, the hospital bed, Rowan's relieved smile when the doctor said there was nothing more they could do, Liora wearing my dress to the funeral like she'd already inherited my wardrobe. The way they'd carved up Black Enterprises between them like it was a Sunday roast.
A sound escaped me. Not a sob but a laugh that was almost feral.
They thought they'd won.
They had no idea the game had just restarted.
I moved fast, my instincts sharper than they'd ever been in that first life. First stop was the safe hidden behind the portrait my father had loved. The combination hadn't changed,Mom's birthday plus the founding year of Black Enterprises. Inside lay the original will, the one drafted before the accident that took my parents. The one that named me sole heir to everything, including the silent controlling stake Rowan had spent years convincing the board I was too "emotional" to handle.
I'd never questioned it before. Now I photographed every page with shaking hands, sent the files to an encrypted drive only I had the key for, then locked the original away again.
Next my laptop.
In the future timeline, Rowan had already planted backdoors and, remote access. Right now the system was clean. I logged in with full admin rights, the same rights I'd later stupidly extended to him and spent the next forty minutes fortifying everything. New passwords. Two-factor on every account he didn't know existed. Small, incremental transfers of liquid cash into offshore accounts
By the time I finished, sweat beaded along my hairline, but my pulse was steady. Control felt like oxygen after drowning.
I showered until my skin stung, letting the scalding water burn away the ghost-smell of hospital bleach. When I stepped out, wrapped in a silk robe, my phone buzzed on the marble counter.
Rowan.
"Good morning, my love. Rehearsal dinner tonight,don't forget. Wear the red dress. You look sinful in it."
My stomach twisted. The red dress. The one he'd gifted me for our first anniversary. The one Liora had worn to my wake, laughing with champagne in her hand while they toasted "new beginnings."
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Then I typed back.
"Can't wait to see you."
The heart emoji felt like acid on my tongue.
I set the phone down and crossed to the walk-in closet. The red gown hung at the front, pristine, taunting. I took it off the hanger, carried it to the balcony, and opened the glass doors. Wind rushed in, carrying the distant hum of the city below.
I let go.
The silk caught the air for a moment, billowing like spilled blood, then spiraled down seventy-eight stories until it vanished into the concrete jungle.
Goodbye, old Ariana.
The new one doesn't dress to please anyone.
I chose black instead, tailored trousers, a crisp silk blouse, stilettos with heels like daggers.
In the mirror, my reflection stared back. My eyes were colder than I remembered, mouth set in a line that promised nothing soft. I liked her.
The phone buzzed again. This time, Liora.
"Lunch tomorrow? I miss my bestie. We need to talk dresses for the gala!"
I let out a breath that was almost a hiss.
Soon, Liora. We'll talk.
I opened my contacts and scrolled to a name I hadn't dialed in years,not since before Rowan convinced me private security was "unnecessary "
It rang twice.
"Miss Black." The voice was calm, clipped, faintly curious. "This is unexpected."
"Mr. Moreau," I said evenly. "I need your team. Full surveillance package. Starting now."
A brief silence. "On whom?"
"Rowan Kane. Liora Voss. Every move, every call, every meeting. I want it all."
"Understood"
"And Mr. Moreau?"
"Yes?"
"They can never know."
He didn't ask why. He didn't need to. "Consider it done."
I ended the call and walked to the window. The city stretched beneath me with skyscrapers glittering like blades in the morning sun, traffic crawling far below like ants
They thought they'd buried me once.
This time, I would be the one lowering the casket.
I smiled at my reflection.
Seven days.
That was all the time Rowan and Liora had left to enjoy their stolen empire and i intended to savor every second of taking it back.