Chapter 1
Marcus Reed slid the documents across the dining table, his Mont Blanc pen resting on top like a loaded gun.
"Sign it, Elena. It's just a formality."
I stared at the transfer authorization—the one that would move my entire family trust into his company's account the day I turned thirty.
In my last life, I signed it without reading a single line.
Three days later, I was dead. Pushed from our penthouse balcony. Ruled a suicide.
"No."
The single word landed like a grenade. Marcus's hand froze mid-reach for his coffee cup.
"What did you say?"
"I said no." I pushed the papers back toward him, watching the micro-expressions shift across his handsome face—confusion, irritation, then something darker. Something I'd never noticed before my death.
Fear.
"Elena, sweetheart." He softened his voice the way he always did when he wanted something. That honey-coated tone that had fooled me for eight years. "The company needs this capital injection. You know how tight things have been since the expansion—"
"The expansion that Vanessa Holt manages?" I interrupted.
His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. But I caught it.
Vanessa. His "work wife." His chief operations officer. The woman who'd been sleeping in our bed every time I visited his mother at the hospital.
The woman who helped him kill me.
"What does Vanessa have to do with anything?" Marcus asked carefully.
"Nothing." I smiled. "I'm just not signing today. Or tomorrow. Or ever."
I stood up from the table, and for the first time in eight years of marriage, I walked away from Marcus Reed without looking back.
His voice followed me, stripped of all pretense.
"Elena. Come back here."
I kept walking.
"Elena!"
The front door closed behind me, and I felt the October air fill my lungs like I was breathing for the first time.
Because in a way, I was. I'd been dead for exactly forty-seven days before waking up in this body again, six months before my murder.
Six months was plenty of time.
In my previous life, I gave Marcus everything—my inheritance, my health, my dignity, my life. I spent years funding his startup while he built an empire on my money. I nursed his mother through her "chronic illness" while she reported my every move back to him. I smiled at Vanessa at company dinners while she wore lingerie I'd paid for.
And when they had no more use for me, they threw me off a twenty-story building and told the world I'd been depressed.
My own funeral was modest. Marcus wore black and cried beautifully for the cameras. Vanessa stood behind him, her hand discreetly pressed against his back. His mother didn't even attend.
They scattered my ashes on a Tuesday and celebrated at a Michelin-star restaurant on Wednesday.
But here I was. Alive. Reborn. And absolutely fucking furious.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I'd memorized in my last life but never had the courage to call.
"Grayson & Associates, how may I direct your call?"
"I need to speak with Daniel Grayson. Tell him it's Elena Cross—maiden name. Tell him it's about the Cross Family Trust."
The line went quiet for a moment, then: "Please hold, Ms. Cross."
Thirty seconds later, a deep voice answered.
"Ms. Cross. Your family's attorneys have been trying to reach you for three years."
"I know," I said. "My husband made sure I never got those messages. But I'm here now."
"What can I do for you?"
I watched the city skyline from the sidewalk—the same skyline I'd seen rushing toward me as I fell.
"I want to know exactly what happens to my trust fund if I die before my thirtieth birthday."
"Sign it, Elena. It's just a formality."
I stared at the transfer authorization—the one that would move my entire family trust into his company's account the day I turned thirty.
In my last life, I signed it without reading a single line.
Three days later, I was dead. Pushed from our penthouse balcony. Ruled a suicide.
"No."
The single word landed like a grenade. Marcus's hand froze mid-reach for his coffee cup.
"What did you say?"
"I said no." I pushed the papers back toward him, watching the micro-expressions shift across his handsome face—confusion, irritation, then something darker. Something I'd never noticed before my death.
Fear.
"Elena, sweetheart." He softened his voice the way he always did when he wanted something. That honey-coated tone that had fooled me for eight years. "The company needs this capital injection. You know how tight things have been since the expansion—"
"The expansion that Vanessa Holt manages?" I interrupted.
His jaw tightened. Just a fraction. But I caught it.
Vanessa. His "work wife." His chief operations officer. The woman who'd been sleeping in our bed every time I visited his mother at the hospital.
The woman who helped him kill me.
"What does Vanessa have to do with anything?" Marcus asked carefully.
"Nothing." I smiled. "I'm just not signing today. Or tomorrow. Or ever."
I stood up from the table, and for the first time in eight years of marriage, I walked away from Marcus Reed without looking back.
His voice followed me, stripped of all pretense.
"Elena. Come back here."
I kept walking.
"Elena!"
The front door closed behind me, and I felt the October air fill my lungs like I was breathing for the first time.
Because in a way, I was. I'd been dead for exactly forty-seven days before waking up in this body again, six months before my murder.
Six months was plenty of time.
In my previous life, I gave Marcus everything—my inheritance, my health, my dignity, my life. I spent years funding his startup while he built an empire on my money. I nursed his mother through her "chronic illness" while she reported my every move back to him. I smiled at Vanessa at company dinners while she wore lingerie I'd paid for.
And when they had no more use for me, they threw me off a twenty-story building and told the world I'd been depressed.
My own funeral was modest. Marcus wore black and cried beautifully for the cameras. Vanessa stood behind him, her hand discreetly pressed against his back. His mother didn't even attend.
They scattered my ashes on a Tuesday and celebrated at a Michelin-star restaurant on Wednesday.
But here I was. Alive. Reborn. And absolutely fucking furious.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I'd memorized in my last life but never had the courage to call.
"Grayson & Associates, how may I direct your call?"
"I need to speak with Daniel Grayson. Tell him it's Elena Cross—maiden name. Tell him it's about the Cross Family Trust."
The line went quiet for a moment, then: "Please hold, Ms. Cross."
Thirty seconds later, a deep voice answered.
"Ms. Cross. Your family's attorneys have been trying to reach you for three years."
"I know," I said. "My husband made sure I never got those messages. But I'm here now."
"What can I do for you?"
I watched the city skyline from the sidewalk—the same skyline I'd seen rushing toward me as I fell.
"I want to know exactly what happens to my trust fund if I die before my thirtieth birthday."