Icy Coldness
The bone-chilling cold surged in from all directions, mercilessly crushing her chest and stealing the last trace of air from her lungs. Darkness, thick as ink, enveloped her as she sank, farther and farther down… The muffled roar of water thundered in her ears, interwoven with the distinct, piercing voices of a distant conversation on shore.
"Leo! Save me! Sister accidentally pushed me in... I'm so scared!"
Sophia's voice carried that sickeningly familiar, perfectly measured wail—one Ella knew all too well—a poisonous ice pick, stabbing deep into her fading consciousness.
"Don't be afraid, Sophia, I'm coming! Ella! How dare you—!"
Leo's fury tore through the water, unmistakable in its hatred and urgency. Then, the sound of a splash—someone diving in. His strong figure broke the surface, but headed in the opposite direction, unwaveringly and with perfect precision, swimming straight for Sophia, who was only pretending to struggle in the shallows.
Despair wasn't sudden. Like the freezing lake water, it slowly seeped into her very bones, eventually overwhelming her completely. As her awareness slipped away, Ella almost wanted to laugh. Look, Ella, once again, you witnessed his choice—without a second's hesitation. Because of that damn "life-saving grace" Sophia had stolen…
"Cough! Cough, cough—!"
Ella jolted upright from the luxurious bed, racked by violent coughs that tore at her throat, as if icy water still lingered in her lungs. She gasped greedily for air, but the expensive scent of cedar in the room now seemed painfully cloying, almost suffocating.
Sweat, not merely seeping but pouring off her like a waterfall, instantly drenched her fine silk nightgown, clinging to her skin and sending waves of chills through her body. Instinctively, she reached up to touch her neck, where the phantom pressure of drowning still seemed to grip her.
Familiar sights pressed in—Duke Whitewolf's manor, the master bedroom. A vast room big enough to host a ball, a sparkling yet icy chandelier hanging from the dome, sunlight cutting through the heavy velvet curtains to cast a narrow, pale band across the floor like a harbinger of judgment. An expensive Persian carpet swallowed all footprints, rendering the space deathly silent. Above the fireplace, a brass-trimmed digital calendar flashed the date: [XX Year X Month X Day].
And… a number only she could see, stamped on her retina like an ever-pulsing scarlet brand:
[365:00:00:00]
A year.
She had returned to a year before her death.
Her heart pounded so violently it threatened to shatter her ribs. Not joy, not relief, but a torrent of shock, bewilderment, and corroding hatred surged through every vein. She had been reborn? Returned to the scene of her humiliation and tragic end?
Memories tore at her like wild beasts escaped from a cage—not just the icy lake and Leo's resolute back, but every neglected, humiliated, stolen day and night of their three-year marriage. Leo Valde, her husband, the esteemed Duke Whitewolf, uncrowned king of Europe's underworld, but his tenderness and patience always reserved for his half-sister Sophia. And she, Ella—no more than a pawn in a political marriage, a stand-in, a shield, something expendable and easily sacrificed.
"Madam, breakfast is ready. The Duke and Miss Sophia are waiting for you."
The housekeeper Anna's emotionless voice came from outside the door, identical to a certain morning from her previous life. That sound was a key, instantly unlocking a flood of bitter memories: Sophia's triumphant glare, Leo's cold profile, the servants' thinly veiled contempt beneath their courtesy…
Ella closed her eyes and breathed deep, fighting the metallic tang rising in her throat. The despair that had once hollowed out her soul receded like a spent tide, replaced by something cold and razor-sharp, settling in her chest like a honed blade.
She touched her wrist, where a worn, outdated silver bracelet remained—her mother's only heirloom. In her past life, Sophia had wanted it; Leo had ordered Ella to give it up, without a word in her defense. That cold night, she had sat alone, staring at her empty wrist, weeping until no tears remained.
But now, the bracelet was still there.
The chill brought a faint, fragile comfort—a silent reminder.
She threw off the heavy quilt, stepping barefoot onto the icy, polished floor, and walked toward the enormous standing mirror. The reflection showed a face white as paper, hair in disarray, haunted shadows under her eyes, but those gray-blue eyes—once brimming with grief and despair—were now still and deep, like the sea before a storm, with unfathomable power churning underneath the ice.
"Ella Valde…" she whispered to her reflection, lips curling into a cold, twisted smile. "No—maybe…it's time to live differently."
[364:23:59:03]
The countdown ticked on, a cruel taskmaster urging her to seize every second.
She approached the ornate vanity, overflowing with jewelry Leo had sent—pieces she never liked, each sparkling as a silent mockery. She ignored them, reaching for an unadorned wooden comb, and began smoothing out her tangled hair, slow and deliberate, as if enacting some ancient ritual.
With each stroke, she combed away the soul of that weak, helpless girl. With each stroke, resolve glinted ever colder in her gaze.
A knock at the door, this time edged with impatient restraint:
"Madam? Did you hear me?"
Ella set down the comb. She faced the mirror, and for the last time, arranged her expression—smothering every tumultuous emotion, her face returning to an almost indifferent calm.
"I know. I'll be right there."
Her voice, clear through the door, was perfectly steady, edged with a cool detachment she had never mastered before.
She opened the wardrobe—not those pastel dresses Sophia had "kindly" picked out, fit for a stand-in, but a simply-cut, deep blue satin gown, quiet and commanding as the midnight sea.
Dressed, she studied her transformed self. The paleness of her face now seemed icy, her upright posture radiating hidden strength. The parasitic, dependent Ella had drowned in the last life's lake; what lived now was a soul returned from hell, burning with vengeance.
She drew a steady breath and opened the heavy bedroom door. Outside, Housekeeper Anna stood waiting, her features a mask of respect concealing a trace of contempt.
Ella's gaze swept past her without pause, and she strode with measured steps down the grand, opulent hall to the dining room. Her heels struck the marble, ringing out—clear, steady, and no longer hesitant.
Each step was a march into a war that could only end with one side's destruction.
Sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows, flickering rainbow shadows across her figure, unable to chase away the chill gathering around her. She knew what lay ahead—Leo's coldness, Sophia's provocation, a new round of deprivation and humiliation.
But this time, she would not be afraid.
Leo Valde. Sophia Cherstone…
The game has begun again.
But this time, I make the rules.