Chapter 1: Five Years of Devotion, Repaid in Blood
In my previous life, I gave Nathan Cross five years, my surgical career, my father's company, and my beating heart—he repaid me by pushing me off a thirty-story rooftop while my cousin watched and smiled.
The wind screamed past my ears for four seconds. Four seconds to remember every lie, every stolen kiss behind my back, every drop of poison they'd slipped into my father's tea.
Then—nothing.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a bridal fitting room, white tulle pooling at my feet, the seamstress asking me to turn.
The mirror showed a face five years younger—no hollowed cheeks, no dark circles, no resignation. The date on my phone confirmed it: three weeks before my wedding to Nathan Cross.
In my previous life, I walked down that aisle glowing with joy. I believed every word he whispered—that I was his salvation, his reason for breathing, his forever.
What he never told me was that he'd been sleeping with my cousin, Meredith Lane, since before our first date. That their entire scheme—the staged car accident, the months of rehabilitation where I nursed him back to health, the proposal under fireworks—was designed to trap me into handing over my family's pharmaceutical empire.
I still remembered the rooftop. The anniversary dinner he'd planned—candles, champagne, a balcony overlooking the city. I'd found Meredith's pregnancy test in his coat pocket that morning but said nothing, wanting to hear the truth from his lips.
Instead of truth, I got his hands on my shoulders and the railing at my back.
"You were never supposed to be this hard to kill," he'd said, almost conversationally. "Your father took three years of slow poison. You? One push."
Meredith had stood behind him, wearing my mother's pearl necklace—the one that vanished from my jewelry box the year prior. She'd waved at me as I fell.
Now, standing in this fitting room with the future sprawled before me like an unwritten prescription, I felt my hands shake.
Not from fear. From rage.
The seamstress noticed. "Nervous, Dr. Reed? Every bride gets jitters."
Dr. Reed. I was still Dr. Autumn Reed—chief surgical resident at St. Catherine's, youngest in the hospital's history. In my previous life, I'd resigned two months after the wedding because Nathan said my hours made him lonely.
What a joke. He wasn't lonely; he just needed me home and oblivious while he gutted my father's company from the inside.
I pulled the veil from my hair. "Cancel the dress. I won't be needing it."
The seamstress blinked. "But your wedding is in three weeks—"
"There won't be a wedding."
My phone rang. Nathan's name glowed on the screen, accompanied by a heart emoji I'd added in a moment of naive devotion.
I answered with a voice I barely recognized as my own—calm, clinical, the same tone I used before cutting into a patient's chest.
"Nathan."
"Baby, how's the fitting? Send me a photo—I want to see my bride." His voice was warm honey over broken glass.
In my previous life, I would have blushed. I would have twirled before the mirror and snapped a photo, giddy that this beautiful man loved plain, workaholic me.
Now, all I heard was the script. Every tender word, rehearsed. Every "baby," calculated.
"The dress needs more alterations than expected," I said smoothly. "I'll show you on the day."
"Can't wait." A pause. "Love you, Autumn."
Three words. He'd said them a thousand times and meant them exactly zero.
"See you tonight," I replied, and hung up without returning the sentiment.
Tonight, Nathan had dinner plans—with investors, he'd told me. But I knew better now. In my previous timeline, tonight was when he'd met with Meredith to finalize the documents that would transfer my father's controlling shares into a shell company.
This time, those documents would never be signed.
This time, I would be the surgeon—and Nathan Cross would be the one on my operating table.
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The wind screamed past my ears for four seconds. Four seconds to remember every lie, every stolen kiss behind my back, every drop of poison they'd slipped into my father's tea.
Then—nothing.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a bridal fitting room, white tulle pooling at my feet, the seamstress asking me to turn.
The mirror showed a face five years younger—no hollowed cheeks, no dark circles, no resignation. The date on my phone confirmed it: three weeks before my wedding to Nathan Cross.
In my previous life, I walked down that aisle glowing with joy. I believed every word he whispered—that I was his salvation, his reason for breathing, his forever.
What he never told me was that he'd been sleeping with my cousin, Meredith Lane, since before our first date. That their entire scheme—the staged car accident, the months of rehabilitation where I nursed him back to health, the proposal under fireworks—was designed to trap me into handing over my family's pharmaceutical empire.
I still remembered the rooftop. The anniversary dinner he'd planned—candles, champagne, a balcony overlooking the city. I'd found Meredith's pregnancy test in his coat pocket that morning but said nothing, wanting to hear the truth from his lips.
Instead of truth, I got his hands on my shoulders and the railing at my back.
"You were never supposed to be this hard to kill," he'd said, almost conversationally. "Your father took three years of slow poison. You? One push."
Meredith had stood behind him, wearing my mother's pearl necklace—the one that vanished from my jewelry box the year prior. She'd waved at me as I fell.
Now, standing in this fitting room with the future sprawled before me like an unwritten prescription, I felt my hands shake.
Not from fear. From rage.
The seamstress noticed. "Nervous, Dr. Reed? Every bride gets jitters."
Dr. Reed. I was still Dr. Autumn Reed—chief surgical resident at St. Catherine's, youngest in the hospital's history. In my previous life, I'd resigned two months after the wedding because Nathan said my hours made him lonely.
What a joke. He wasn't lonely; he just needed me home and oblivious while he gutted my father's company from the inside.
I pulled the veil from my hair. "Cancel the dress. I won't be needing it."
The seamstress blinked. "But your wedding is in three weeks—"
"There won't be a wedding."
My phone rang. Nathan's name glowed on the screen, accompanied by a heart emoji I'd added in a moment of naive devotion.
I answered with a voice I barely recognized as my own—calm, clinical, the same tone I used before cutting into a patient's chest.
"Nathan."
"Baby, how's the fitting? Send me a photo—I want to see my bride." His voice was warm honey over broken glass.
In my previous life, I would have blushed. I would have twirled before the mirror and snapped a photo, giddy that this beautiful man loved plain, workaholic me.
Now, all I heard was the script. Every tender word, rehearsed. Every "baby," calculated.
"The dress needs more alterations than expected," I said smoothly. "I'll show you on the day."
"Can't wait." A pause. "Love you, Autumn."
Three words. He'd said them a thousand times and meant them exactly zero.
"See you tonight," I replied, and hung up without returning the sentiment.
Tonight, Nathan had dinner plans—with investors, he'd told me. But I knew better now. In my previous timeline, tonight was when he'd met with Meredith to finalize the documents that would transfer my father's controlling shares into a shell company.
This time, those documents would never be signed.
This time, I would be the surgeon—and Nathan Cross would be the one on my operating table.
---