Chapter 1

Rowan Blackwell was dead—and his wife was the last to know.

Cecilia Ashford found out from a news alert, not a phone call. The headline read: Billionaire CEO Dies in Yacht Explosion with Unidentified Woman.

That unidentified woman wasn't her.

She was still at home, folding his shirts the way he liked—collar first, sleeves tucked—because he'd told her he was coming back tonight.

He lied.

Before the coroner even released the body, Rowan's lawyers arrived at her door.

"Mrs. Blackwell, your husband left a will. The entirety of his estate—including controlling shares of Blackwell Group, all real estate holdings, and offshore accounts—has been bequeathed to Ms. Ivy Delacroix."

Cecilia's hands stopped folding.

Ivy Delacroix. Rowan's personal assistant. The woman he'd hired straight out of college, the one he always said was "like a little sister."

The lawyer continued without emotion. "Additionally, as Mr. Blackwell's surviving spouse, you are legally responsible for the company's outstanding debts. The current total stands at approximately $800 million."

The room tilted.

$800 million in debt. No assets. No home. And a dead husband who had given everything to another woman.

Cecilia sat on the edge of the bed they'd shared for six years and stared at the folded shirt in her lap.

She remembered the day she married Rowan. She had been so stupidly happy. He'd looked at her during the ceremony with those dark, unreadable eyes, and she had mistaken his silence for depth.

She'd given up her inheritance, her fashion label, her name—everything—because he said it made him uncomfortable when his wife was more successful than him.

And she had believed him.

"Mrs. Blackwell?" The lawyer cleared his throat. "There's also the matter of the yacht victims' families. They're filing a joint lawsuit—"

A brick crashed through the window.

Glass exploded across the bedroom floor. Outside, a crowd had gathered—families of the six crew members who'd died in the explosion.

"Blackwell's wife is in there! She needs to pay for what he did!"

"He killed our people and left her to rot with the bill!"

Cecilia stood slowly. A shard of glass had sliced her cheek. Blood dripped onto the white shirt.

She walked to the shattered window and looked down at the mob.

Then she looked at the photo on the nightstand. Their wedding photo. Rowan wasn't even smiling in it.

Of course he wasn't.

Something inside her chest cracked open—not her heart; that had been empty for years. It was the lock on the door she'd kept shut. The one that held every humiliation, every ignored plea, every night she'd slept alone while he "worked late."

She picked up the wedding photo and hurled it out the broken window.

Then she blacked out.

When Cecilia opened her eyes, she was lying in a bathtub full of ice water.

She gasped and sat up. Her body was—wrong. Lighter. Smaller. Younger.

She looked at her hands. No wedding ring. No scar on her left wrist from the time she'd accidentally cut herself cooking Rowan's dinner. No calluses from years of doing everything herself because he'd fired all her staff to "simplify their life."

A phone buzzed on the marble counter. She grabbed it.

The date on the screen: March 3rd, 2017.

Seven years ago.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

This was the night before Rowan proposed. The night that had sealed her fate.

She remembered now. She'd been at a fashion industry gala—her gala, thrown to celebrate her brand's first major collection. She'd been on top of the world.

Then Rowan had shown up, uninvited, with a ring and a speech about how he couldn't live without her.

She'd abandoned her own party to say yes.

And that was the beginning of the end.

The bathroom door swung open. Her assistant, Nora Chen, rushed in.

"Cecilia! Thank God. You fainted during the toast. The guests are asking for you. Your collection just sold out—every single piece! Vogue wants an exclusive. You need to come back out there!"

Cecilia stared at Nora's face—young, bright, unmarked by the years of watching her boss wither away in a loveless marriage.

I'm back.

I'm actually back.

She climbed out of the bathtub, dripping wet, mascara streaking down her face. She caught her reflection in the mirror.

Twenty-three years old. Sharp jaw. Fire in her eyes. The version of herself that hadn't yet been broken.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Rowan.

"I'm outside the venue. I need to see you tonight. It's important. —R"

This was it. This was the moment he would propose.

In her past life, she had run to him like a fool.

Cecilia typed back three words, then deleted his number.

"Don't bother coming."

She turned to Nora. "Get me a dry dress. I have a show to finish."