Chapter 1

The metallic taste of poison was still on my tongue when I opened my eyes and found myself alive again.

I was sitting at my own dining table. My husband, Dominic Ashford, sat across from me. And beside him—her hand resting on his thigh like she owned him—was my best friend, Sienna Cole.

The date on the wall calendar read March 3rd. Exactly one year before the night Dominic would hold me down while Sienna poured drain cleaner down my throat.

My fingers trembled. I gripped the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turned white.

I remembered everything. Every lie. Every bruise. Every moment I had begged for mercy while they laughed.

"Nora? Are you even listening?" Dominic's cold voice cut through my spiral. "I said Sienna's moving in. The guest room needs to be cleared out by tonight."

In my previous life, I had smiled and said, "Of course."

I had cooked Sienna's favorite meals. I had washed her laundry. I had pretended not to hear the sounds coming from their bedroom at night. I had done everything a "good wife" was supposed to do, and they had killed me for it.

Not this time.

I looked up and met Dominic's eyes. I let the silence stretch until his arrogant expression flickered with confusion.

"No," I said.

The word landed like a grenade.

Sienna's fork clattered against her plate. Dominic's jaw tightened.

"What did you just say?" His voice dropped to that dangerous register I used to fear.

"I said no. Sienna's not moving in. And if you have a problem with that, you can get out of my house."

Dominic's eyes went dark. He rose slowly from his chair, towering over me. In my previous life, this was the moment I would cower. I would apologize. I would make myself smaller.

But I had already died once. What was left to be afraid of?

"Your house?" He laughed—a cruel, mocking sound. "Nora, you don't own anything. Not this house. Not the car. Not even the clothes on your back. Everything you have is because I allow it."

Sienna leaned back in her chair with a satisfied smirk. "Dom, don't be too hard on her. She's probably just having one of her little episodes again."

She reached across the table and patted my hand like I was a child. I yanked it away.

"Don't touch me."

Something shifted in Sienna's expression. For a split second, I saw it—the predator behind the mask of sweetness.

In my previous life, she had cried to everyone that I was mentally unstable. She had told my friends I was paranoid, delusional, dangerous. One by one, she had stripped away every person who might have helped me. By the time Dominic filed for a mental health hold, I had no one left.

But I knew her playbook now. Every single move.

Dominic slammed his palm on the table. The dishes rattled.

"You will clear that room, or I will have you committed. Again."

My blood ran cold. He had already started the paperwork. That meant Dr. Aldridge was already on his payroll. The psychiatric facility—the one where they had drugged me into compliance for three months—was already prepared.

I had less time than I thought.

I needed to get to my grandmother's lawyer before Dominic locked me away. Because the one thing neither he nor Sienna knew was that this house, the Ashford empire they were so proud of—every last brick of it—was built on my family's money.

And I was going to take it all back.

"Fine," I said quietly, dropping my gaze. "I'll clear the room."

Dominic's shoulders relaxed. Sienna's smirk returned.

They thought I had submitted. Good.

Let them think that for a little while longer.

I stood and walked toward the hallway, my mind already racing. Grandmother's lawyer. The original trust documents. The prenuptial agreement Dominic had forged.

But as I reached the stairs, Sienna's voice floated after me, sweet as arsenic.

"Oh, Nora? One more thing. Your mother called again today. I told her you didn't want to speak to her. She sounded so heartbroken."

I stopped. My hand gripped the banister until the wood groaned.

In my last life, I didn't find out until after I died that my mother had tried to reach me 217 times. Sienna had blocked her number on my phone and intercepted every message.

My mother had died of a stroke, alone, believing her daughter hated her.

I didn't turn around. If I turned around, I would kill Sienna with my bare hands, and I couldn't afford that. Not yet.

"Thank you for letting me know," I said, my voice perfectly calm.

Then I climbed the stairs, locked the bathroom door behind me, and let the tears fall in absolute silence.

I gave myself sixty seconds to grieve.

Then I dried my face, pulled out the burner phone I had hidden inside the toilet tank—a precaution my previous self had taken during a rare moment of clarity—and dialed the only number I had memorized.

It rang three times.

"Sullivan & Associates. How may I direct your call?"

"I need to speak with Henry Sullivan. Tell him it's Nora Whitfield. Tell him Eleanor's granddaughter is ready to come home."