Chapter 3

Three

I was discharged the next morning.

Dominic drove me home in silence. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

The moment we pulled into the driveway, I saw it — Vivienne's car, parked in my spot. Her red Porsche, a gift I had bought her for her thirtieth birthday.

Inside, the house smelled different. New candles. A different brand of coffee on the counter. Vivienne's coat hanging on the hook where mine used to be.

She had already moved in.

I said nothing. I simply walked through each room, cataloging every change with the precision of someone building a case.

My closet — half-empty. Vivienne's clothes hung where mine had been.

My vanity — her makeup, her perfume.

Asher's room — redecorated. My photos with him, gone. Replaced with pictures of Vivienne holding him at the park.

My chest tightened, but I kept my face neutral.

Then I heard it.

"Mommy Viv! Mommy Viv, look what I drew!"

Asher's voice. My baby's voice, calling another woman "Mommy."

I stepped into the hallway and saw him — my four-year-old son, running with a crayon drawing in his hands, heading straight for Vivienne, who was crouched down with open arms.

He ran right past me without a glance.

"That's beautiful, sweetheart!" Vivienne cooed, lifting him up. Then she noticed me standing there and had the decency to look uncomfortable.

"Asher, baby," she said carefully, "do you remember Brielle?"

Asher looked at me with curious, distant eyes. Like I was a stranger.

"The lady from the pictures?" he asked.

The lady from the pictures.

My son didn't recognize me.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear this house apart. I wanted to grab Vivienne by her hair and drag her out of my home, away from my child.

Instead, I knelt down and smiled. "Hi, Asher. I'm your—"

"She's your aunt," Dominic cut in smoothly, appearing behind me. "Remember? Aunt Brielle was sick, and now she's better."

Aunt.

He called me Asher's aunt.

In my own house. To my own son.

I looked up at Dominic. He met my gaze with a steady, challenging expression. He was testing me, daring me to correct him in front of the child.

I swallowed the fire in my throat. "That's right, sweetheart. I'm your Aunt Brielle. And I brought you something."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small toy car I'd grabbed from the hospital gift shop. Asher's eyes lit up, and he reached for it.

"What do you say?" Vivienne prompted.

"Thank you, Aunt Brielle."

Every syllable was a knife.

I stood up and turned to Dominic. "Can we talk? Privately?"

In the study, I didn't waste time.

"I want to contest my death certificate. I want my name restored on all accounts, all properties, and full legal custody of Asher."

Dominic leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Brielle, you just came back from the dead. Maybe slow down a little? The paperwork is complicated. These things take time—"

"Forty-eight hours," I said. "That's the window. And twenty of those hours are already gone."

His jaw tightened. "Where did you even learn that?"

"I read. You should try it."

He pushed off the desk and stepped toward me, his voice dropping. "Brielle, I'm your husband. Everything I've done has been to protect this family. When you died, someone had to take control of the assets. Someone had to make sure Asher was cared for—"

"By moving my sister into my bedroom?"

Silence.

"She was helping with Asher," he said flatly.

"In my bed?"

"You were dead, Brielle."

"And now I'm not."

We stared at each other. The air between us was electric, thick with everything unsaid.

Dominic broke first. He sighed, rubbed his face, and forced a smile. "You're right. You're absolutely right. Let's fix all of it. I'll call the lawyer first thing tomorrow."

"Call him now."

"The office is closed—"

"Then call his personal number. You have it. You used it three days ago when you filed the expedited asset transfer."

Something shifted behind his eyes.

I smiled gently. "What? The hospital had all the incoming calls on your medical contact form. I glanced at it while you were in the bathroom. Funny — you called an estate lawyer fourteen times in the three days I was dead."

Dominic's mask didn't crack, but it wavered.

"I'll make the call," he said quietly, and left the room.

The moment the door closed, I pulled out my phone and texted a number I had memorized from my time as a lingering soul.

It was the number of Dominic's business rival — a man named Rhett Castellan, CEO of Castellan Industries, the one person Dominic feared more than anyone.

In my past life, Rhett had tried to warn me about Dominic. I hadn't listened.

This time, I typed three words:

"You were right."