The Hart mansion was a whirlwind of activity the following morning. Servants carried trays of breakfast, decorators arrived to finalize arrangements, and deliveries came and went in endless streams. The air was thick with the anticipation of Elena Hart's engagement, but beneath that festive surface, her heart simmered with rage and purpose.
She lingered by the window of her room, watching the courtyard below. Damian's car wasn't there yet, but she knew he would come. He always came when appearances mattered. And Sophia? That woman was as predictable as a shadow—clinging to Damian's side, slipping into every gap Elena left open.
Her nails traced the wooden frame of the window. She had no intention of leaving gaps this time.
A knock sounded at her door.
"Miss Hart, the car is ready to take you to the bridal boutique," a maid announced timidly.
Elena smoothed her silk blouse and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes gleamed with cold determination. "I'll be down in a moment."
The maid bowed and left.
Elena exhaled slowly, recalling the memory of her first life—the day of her dress fitting.
It had been a disaster.
Back then, Sophia had accompanied her, showering her with false compliments, insisting she try on a certain gown. Elena, blind with gratitude, had chosen it without hesitation. On the day of the engagement, she realized too late that the dress had been tampered with—the hem was just loose enough to make her stumble, the neckline altered to invite whispers of impropriety. She remembered the humiliation vividly: guests murmuring, Vivienne's disdainful smile, Damian's frown of disappointment.
She had thought it was an accident.
Now she knew better.
Elena's lips curved into a sharp smile. "Not this time."
---
The boutique was a grand establishment in the heart of the city, frequented by celebrities and the elite. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting light on rows of gowns that shimmered like jewels. Staff members bowed as soon as Elena entered, their tones polite, their gestures respectful.
And there he was.
Damian Cross stood near the main platform, his suit impeccable, his posture commanding. His cold gaze flicked to her as she entered. "You're late."
Sophia, perched on a velvet seat beside him, covered her smirk with a delicate hand. "Oh, Elena, you must have been overwhelmed this morning. But don't worry, Damian and I have already looked at some designs for you."
Elena's heart throbbed with the echo of betrayal, but she kept her expression serene. She approached Damian with measured steps, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
"Forgive me," she said smoothly, her voice steady. "I wanted to look my best today."
For the first time, Damian's gaze lingered on her. Something about her tone—subtle, confident—made his jaw tighten.
"See that it doesn't happen again," he said curtly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.
Sophia clasped her hands together. "Elena, darling, come! I saw the most beautiful gown, and it's perfect for you."
Perfect to make me a fool, Elena thought, but she smiled sweetly. "Really? Show me."
Sophia led her to a gown displayed on a raised mannequin. It was breathtaking at first glance—ivory silk, delicate lace, pearls embroidered across the bodice. To anyone else, it would appear flawless. But Elena's eyes were sharp now, sharpened by pain and rebirth. She saw the flaws instantly—the fabric at the hem was thin and fragile, the neckline daring enough to spark whispers in a conservative crowd.
In her past life, she had trusted Sophia's taste and chosen it.
In this life, she would use it.
Elena ran her fingers over the fabric, her smile unreadable. "You're right, Sophia. It's… beautiful."
Sophia's eyes glittered with triumph. "I knew you'd love it."
Damian's gaze flickered to Sophia, a subtle warmth in his expression that made Elena's stomach twist. But instead of letting anger consume her, she let a new thought bloom.
You love watching her win, don't you, Damian? Then watch carefully. I'll turn your little game upside down.
---
Hours passed as Elena tried on gown after gown. The attendants fussed over her, fastening laces, adjusting veils, pinning fabrics. Damian commented little, offering only terse nods or dismissive shakes of his head. Sophia, however, was full of chatter—giggling, complimenting, criticizing in disguised tones.
"Elena, that makes your shoulders look too broad."
"Darling, are you sure that shade matches your skin?"
"Oh, don't pout, Damian. She's just nervous. All brides are."
Elena endured it all with an elegance that made Sophia falter. No matter what was said, her smile never wavered.
At last, the boutique manager presented the gown Sophia had chosen earlier. "This is our latest masterpiece. A symbol of purity and grace."
Elena stepped into the fitting room, attendants bustling around her. As the fabric slid over her skin, she remembered the laughter of the guests in her first life, the weight of humiliation as she stumbled, the pity in their eyes.
But when she emerged this time, she carried herself like a queen. The flawed gown clung to her figure, highlighting her beauty so sharply that even Damian's eyes darkened for a fraction of a second.
Sophia's lips parted, her prepared insult dying on her tongue.
Elena twirled gracefully, the skirt flaring out like a flower in bloom. "Well?" she asked softly, her voice carrying through the boutique. "Do I look like Damian Cross's bride?"
The room fell silent. Even the staff seemed mesmerized.
Damian's jaw tightened, his voice low. "You'll do."
Sophia forced a laugh, too bright, too sharp. "Yes, Elena, you look… stunning. Truly stunning."
But in her eyes flickered something else—unease.
Elena caught it, her heart swelling with dark satisfaction. Do you see now, Sophia? Even your traps can't bind me. I'll wear your betrayal like a crown, and the world will bow to me instead of laugh.
---
On the ride home, Sophia prattled on about decorations, photographers, and guest lists. Damian scrolled through his phone, uninterested. Elena sat in silence, gazing out at the city streets rushing past.
Every glittering light, every honking car, every passerby was a reminder of the world she had once lost. But this time, she had returned armed with knowledge.
She would not strike too soon. No—revenge was sweetest when savored slowly, piece by piece, until her enemies drowned in their own despair.
Her fingers brushed against the hem of the gown folded neatly beside her. The very dress meant to humiliate her would instead become the stage of her first triumph.
She closed her eyes, her lips curving into the faintest smile.
"Let's play, Sophia. Let's play, Damian. But remember—this time, the ending is mine."