Shame wrapped around Lethea like chains.
Of all the sins she carried, none cut deeper than the truth she had realised too late—she had thrown away the most loving man she would ever have. Not for survival. Not for necessity.
But for power.
For wealth.
For pride.
And now, she had nothing.
Lethea hugged herself tightly as her chest convulsed with silent sobs. Her head bowed, shoulders shaking, tears soaking into the expensive bedsheets beneath her.
Then—
The door burst open.
Lethea flinched violently.
A woman stepped inside.
She appeared to be in her late forties, dressed in a neatly tailored suit—white long sleeves, a black skirt falling just below the knee. Her hair was pulled back neatly, her posture straight and disciplined. In her hands, she carried a bouquet of fresh flowers.
She moved calmly into the room, unaware of the pair of eyes following her every step.
She placed the flowers gently on the table beside the bed.
Only then did she turn.
Her gaze met Lethea's.
The woman froze.
So did Lethea.
The world tilted.
The woman's eyes widened in disbelief—as though she had seen a ghost.
Lethea knew why.
Because standing in front of her was Anne.
Her nanny.
The woman who had raised her.
The woman who had died after being driven out of the mansion.
The woman whose cold body Lethea had once seen laid inside a coffin.
The woman whose death… she had never truly forgiven herself for.
Lethea's vision blurred instantly.
Her hands trembled violently as tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable.
Anne staggered a step back, fear flashing across her face. In all her years of service, she had never seen her young miss look so broken. This was not the cold, arrogant heiress she knew. This woman looked shattered—lost.
"Young Miss…" Anne said cautiously. "Are you in pain?"
She reached out and gently touched Lethea's shoulder.
That was enough.
"A-Anne…"
Anne stiffened.
Lethea's voice cracked completely as memories of blood, regret, and death slammed into her heart. The image of Anne's coffin replayed mercilessly in her mind.
Her cries grew louder.
"Anne…" she sobbed.
Confusion flooded Anne's face. She withdrew her hand, unsettled.
Lethea clenched her teeth, her face buried between her palms.
Is this a nightmare?She bit down hard, feeling pain.
Not a dream.
Then is this hell?
No… Anne was a good person.
She wasn't.
Her voice came out hoarse and trembling.
"Anne… am I dead?"
Anne's face drained of colour.
"Y-Young Miss—wait here."
She fled the room.
Moments later, doctors and nurses rushed in, surrounding Lethea's bed. Unlike the neglect she had suffered before, their movements were careful—almost reverent—as if she were made of fragile porcelain.
Lethea watched silently.
Something was wrong.
Anne stood nearby, worry etched deeply into her face. And that was when it hit Lethea—
Anne looked younger.
Healthier.
Alive.
The doctor straightened."Your body reacted to the sedative, but you are fully recovered. Avoid alcohol for a month. Otherwise, there is nothing to worry about. We will prepare your discharge."
Discharge?
So soon?
Lethea frowned slightly.
"Doctor," she said slowly, "why would alcohol still be detected in my body… when I stopped drinking five years ago?"
Silence.
The doctor stiffened. Anne's eyes widened.
"Y-Young Miss," the doctor said hurriedly, "the sedative may be affecting your memory. You should rest."
He left quickly.
After the room cleared, Anne busied herself preparing food, her movements stiff with unease.
Lethea stared at her.
"Are you really… Anne?"
Anne turned, startled."Y-Yes, Young Miss. Do you need anything?"
Lethea shook her head.
Her heart raced.
"Anne," she asked carefully, "why am I in the hospital?"
Anne hesitated.
"You collapsed after drinking too much at your birthday celebration. Madam and the butler insisted on bringing you here."
Birthday?
Lethea's breath caught.
She stared at her hands.
Slim. Smooth. Unscarred.
Her hair brushed against her shoulders—long, glossy, dark brown.
Her body… young.
"Anne," she whispered, "can you bring me a mirror?"
Anne complied.
The moment Lethea saw her reflection, her breath shattered.
Soft cheeks. Bright eyes. Unmarked skin.
Alive.
"I… returned," she whispered. "I went back."
Anne frowned."Young Miss?"
"How old am I?"
Anne blinked."You turned twenty-five yesterday."
The room spun.
Twenty-five.
Ten years.
Ten years before everything collapsed.
Ten years before betrayal, blood, and regret.
Tears streamed down Lethea's face—not from despair, but from twisted relief.
A second chance.
A cruel, beautiful miracle.
Then—
A name surfaced.
"Erick."
Her heart clenched.
If yesterday was her birthday, then tomorrow—
She would meet her fiancé.
Erick Warton.
Her ex-husband.
The man she had destroyed.
Her lips curved slowly into a dangerous smile—soft, sweet, and terrifying.
"This time," she murmured, her fingers tightening into the sheets,"I will not let you go."
Her eyes darkened with obsession.
"I will love you openly. I will bind you to me. I will never trade you for power again."
She remembered the woman who would one day become Erick's wife.
A laugh escaped her lips—low and unapologetic.
I'm sorry, she thought coldly. But I choose myself this time.
Even if it meant stealing fate itself.
Even if it meant going to hell.
Her smile deepened.
"Erick…"