Chapter 3

I stood in the Ashford living room, my mind spinning.

Megan Hale—the woman who stole my husband, wore my robe, and pushed me down the stairs in my last life—was my cousin. And she was trying to steal my identity too.

"How far has this gone?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

Dominic pulled out his phone and showed me a photo: Megan at a charity gala, arm linked with Fletcher, wearing a diamond necklace with the Ashford crest.

"She's been telling Fletcher's family that she's the secret Ashford granddaughter for two months. The Duvals are already planning a merger based on her claim. The formal announcement is scheduled for this Friday—at the Duval Corporation's annual gala."

Four days from now.

Grandfather's fist hit the armrest of his wheelchair. "That woman is a fraud and a murderer. We end this at the gala."

I looked at the photo again—Megan's smug smile, Fletcher's proud arm around her waist—and something cold and clear settled inside my chest.

In my last life, I would have cried. I would have confronted Fletcher in private, begged him to believe me, and been destroyed when he chose her.

Not this time.

"Don't expose her before the gala," I said.

Both men looked at me.

"Let Megan have her moment. Let her stand on that stage and announce to the entire city that she's the Ashford heiress. Let Fletcher show her off. Let every camera capture it."

Dominic's eyebrow rose. "And then?"

"And then I walk in."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Dominic's face. It was the first real expression I'd seen from him, and it made my pulse skip.

"I like the way you think."

Grandfather chuckled—a dry, raspy sound. "She's an Ashford, alright."

Over the next three days, Dominic and I prepared. He was efficient, ruthless, and surprisingly easy to work with. He never questioned my plans, never talked down to me, and never once looked at me with pity.

On the second night, while we were reviewing documents in his study, he poured me a cup of tea and said without looking up, "You don't have to go through with the gala if it's too much. I can have Megan arrested tonight."

"No. I want Fletcher to see."

He paused, then nodded. "Then I'll be right beside you."

Something warm flickered in my chest—a feeling I hadn't allowed myself in years.

On the morning of the gala, a delivery arrived at my door. A gown—midnight black, hand-beaded, with a note in Dominic's sharp handwriting:

For the real Ashford heiress. Show them who you are.

I held the dress against my body and looked in the mirror. The woman staring back wasn't the broken, invisible wife Fletcher had thrown away.

She was someone new. Someone dangerous.

My phone buzzed. A message from Fletcher.

[Nora, I heard you've been telling people we're divorced. Stop embarrassing yourself. No one cares. Also, don't bother coming to the gala tonight. Megan doesn't want you there, and frankly, neither do I. You'd just make things awkward.]

I smiled and typed back one line:

[Save me a front-row seat.]

Then I put on the dress, and Dominic's car pulled up outside.

He stepped out, adjusted his cufflinks, and opened my door himself. His eyes traveled over me once—just once—and something shifted in them.

"Ready?"

"I've been ready for three years."

The car pulled away toward the Duval Grand Hotel, where five hundred guests, a dozen cameras, and every lie Megan had ever told were waiting.

And so was I.