Chapter 1 – Death of a Fallen Heiress
The scent of roses clawed at her throat. It was sharp, cloying, almost obscene in its sweetness. Once, she had adored this fragrance, the delicate petals brushing against her skin like a lover's fingertips. Now, it felt like mockery. Blood mingled with the floral perfume in the air, a sickly bouquet that mocked every memory of love she had once cherished.
Her body lay sprawled across the marble floor, every breath a labor, every heartbeat a hammering reminder of betrayal. The cold beneath her burned less than the fire in her chest. The chandelier overhead fractured into fractured shards of light, stabbing through her blurred vision, reflecting her pain in a thousand cruel fragments.
He stood above her. Her husband. No. Not husband. Monster. His tailored suit hung perfectly, unwrinkled, immaculate, while the blood on her dress was a chaotic mess. His eyes were narrow slits, cold and merciless, void of the warmth she had once clung to in the dead of night.
"Pathetic," he sneered, his voice a blade dragging across her mind. He stepped over her as though she were nothing more than dirt on the ground. "You were useful… until you weren't. The inheritance is gone. The company is mine. What else do I need from you?"
Beside him, her cousin leaned forward, her presence like poison laced with honey. She had once been the sister she had confided in, the shoulder she had cried on in moments of fear and doubt. Now, she was this: a triumphant shadow, clinging to the man who had sworn to love her, smirking as she soaked in her humiliation.
Her cousin's voice was silk—and steel. "Did you really think he ever loved you?" she purred. "He only married you because my family couldn't fund his precious empire. You were a steppingstone. Nothing more."
The words dug into her, sharp and deliberate. Every memory she had tried to bury clawed its way back to the surface. Nights spent in sterile offices, fingers raw from endless typing while he scoffed at her exhaustion. Locked in hospital rooms, denied the children she had dreamed of, lied to under the guise of medical necessity. Her cousin, always smiling that poisonous smile, moving freely in her home, flaunting her triumph while she cleaned, cooked, and endured in silence.
And still… still she had clung to the hope, the frail, stupid hope, that he had loved her.
Her vision blurred, tears mingling with blood, making the room swirl into jagged prisms. She coughed, a wet, ragged sound, her lips split, staining the marble a darker shade. "I… gave you everything," she whispered, voice trembling.
"And we took it," her cousin said, almost kindly. "That's what fools are for."
The cold seeped into her bones. Despair settled over her like a shroud. This was final. This was complete. The weight of her life—the trust, the hope, the love—was gone, snuffed out by the very people she had adored, the people she had called family.
If only…
If only she could live again.
If only she could see through their lies before they struck.
If only she could tear the masks from their faces, leaving them exposed before they crushed her.
Her last thought was a vow, whispered into the void of her failing consciousness:
If there is another life… I will never let you win.
Darkness swallowed her.
And then, light.
Her body jerked violently as she gasped for air. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, heart hammering as though trying to escape the cage of her ribs. Silk sheets clung to her skin, warm and familiar. Warmth. Not cold marble. Not blood. Not betrayal.
She sat up, trembling, hands clutching the soft fabric, afraid to move, afraid it was a hallucination, afraid it was another cruel trick. But the reflection in the mirror did not lie.
A young face stared back, flawless, unscarred, unlined. Eyes wide with disbelief and terror, yet brimming with a spark she hadn't felt in years. Her hair fell perfectly, her body unbroken. The calendar on the nightstand mocked her with impossible truth: the date marked the year she had married him.
She was back.
And this time, she would not be the prey. She would not lie in the corner, broken, waiting for the predators to finish their feast.
The room was quiet, but her mind roared. Every memory, every betrayal, every wound surged back with renewed clarity. She remembered the cruel nights where she had tried to earn his affection, where she had poured herself into the life he had taken for granted. She remembered the way her cousin had smiled while tearing her world apart, the way she had laughed when her despair became visible, when her body became nothing more than an instrument for their schemes.
Anger coiled in her stomach, tight and lethal. It was not the fleeting anger of the hurt—it was cold, precise, calculated. A storm she had once feared, now harnessed within her.
She rose from the bed, every movement deliberate. The reflection in the mirror did not show fear. It showed opportunity. It showed the predator she had once been too naive to be.
Her mind raced, plotting, calculating. She could feel the threads of her previous life stretching before her like a map: the weaknesses, the deceit, the moments when she had faltered. She would correct them all. She would anticipate. She would strike.
And most importantly… she would survive.
Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms as if to remind herself that this was real, that this time she had a choice. The velvet knife of betrayal no longer had power over her. The scars she had carried, the tears she had shed, the nights of silent suffering—they were now fuel. Fuel for a fire that would consume the men and women who had dared to call themselves her family.
The roses sat in a vase by the window, pale and pristine. She stepped closer, inhaling their fragrance, imagining the petals as the fragile mask of civility her enemies wore. Soon, she would strip it away, expose the venom beneath.
Her lips curved, a small, dangerous smile. "I am back," she whispered, voice low and steady, almost cruel in its serenity. "And this time… the wolf does not walk into the slaughterhouse. This time… I choose the hunt."
She paused, letting the words settle in the room, as if the walls themselves could bear witness. Her heartbeat, once erratic and weak, now pulsed with purpose. The blood she had shed in her previous life had been a cruel teacher, but the lesson had been learned.
Every betrayal, every lie, every moment of humiliation had been cataloged, stored, and transformed into strategy. She would not stumble. She would not falter. She would not forgive easily.
The room grew still, save for her breathing, measured and controlled. Outside, the city carried on unaware of the storm that had returned to life, a storm with one purpose: vengeance, dominance, and ultimate survival.
Her eyes fell to the desk. A notebook lay open, untouched. Plans, contacts, every thread of the life she had lived—and the one she would now rewrite—were waiting. She had been given the impossible gift: a second chance. And she would wield it mercilessly.
A knock at the door startled her, grounding her back to the present. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye one last time. The girl staring back was not weak. Not broken. Not defeated. She was reborn.
The first move had already begun in her mind. The pieces were ready. The board was set. And she would win.
This life would belong to her.