He was wearing nothing but a white towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his broad shoulders, tracing the defined lines of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen. He was younger here. The stress lines that had etched themselves around his eyes in her previous life were gone. He looked powerful. Vibrant.

And utterly terrifying.

Elaina scrambled backward on the bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It was an instinctive reaction, a muscle memory of fear.

Cordero stopped wiping his hair with a smaller towel. He lowered it, his dark eyes locking onto hers. There was no warmth in them. No affection for a new bride. Just a cold, simmering disgust that made the air in the room feel heavy.

"What is this?" His voice was deep, gravelly. He gestured to her huddled form with the hand holding the towel. "More acting? I thought we were done with the performance once the guests left."

Elaina's mouth opened, but no words came out. Seeing him alive, breathing, standing there with that familiar arrogance... it was disorienting.

He walked toward the bed. Every step was predatory.

"You got what you wanted, Elaina," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You're a Boone now. You have the ring. You have the access to the trust fund. Don't pretend to be the shy, blushing virgin now."

He reached the edge of the bed and leaned over, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her legs. The mattress dipped under his weight. The scent of him-sandalwood and expensive soap-hit her. It was the smell of her husband. The smell of the man who had let her die.

"I..." Elaina started, her voice shaking. "I didn't..."

"You didn't what?" He sneered. "You didn't spike my drink last month? You didn't orchestrate this whole shotgun wedding because you claimed to be pregnant? Oh wait, you 'lost' it just in time for the honeymoon, didn't you?"

The memory assaulted her. In her past life, she had been confused by his accusations. She had cried, begged him to believe her. She hadn't drugged him. She hadn't lied. But Amanda had set it up perfectly. The fake positive test planted in her bag. The drugged drink at the party that she had handed to him, unaware of what was in it.

He believed she was a monster. A trapper.

Elaina looked at him. Really looked at him. In her past life, she had cowered. She had tried to touch his hand, to plead.

Now, she felt a cold resolve hardening in her chest. She knew the truth. She knew he was a pawn in Amanda's game just as much as she was. But his cruelty... that was his own choice.

She released her grip on the duvet. She didn't pull it down, but she stopped using it as a shield. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze.

"I am not acting," she said. Her voice was quiet, but steady. "And I am not the villain you think I am, Cordero."

He laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "Right. You're the victim. The poor foster girl who just happened to land the biggest catch in Manhattan."

He pushed himself off the bed, disgust radiating from him. He turned his back to her, and without a shred of hesitation, he dropped the towel.

Elaina gasped and looked away, turning her head sharply toward the window. Her face burned.

"Don't flatter yourself," Cordero said dryly. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajama pants. "I have zero interest in touching you. You're repulsive to me."

The words stung, but not as much as they used to. Words couldn't kill her. Ponds could.

She heard the rustle of fabric as he dressed. When she looked back, he was pulling a t-shirt over his head. He didn't even look at the bed. He walked straight to the chaise lounge by the window, grabbed a spare pillow from the armchair, and threw it down.

"I sleep here," he stated. "You stay on your side of the room. If you try to come near me, I'll have you removed from this house faster than you can say 'alimony'."

He lay down on the narrow sofa, turning his back to her immediately.

Elaina sat in the middle of the massive, empty bed. The silence in the room was deafening. She looked at the man who was supposed to be her partner. He hated her. The world hated her. And the woman who killed her was probably sleeping soundly a few miles away.

She swung her legs off the bed and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Manhattan sprawled out below them, a grid of glittering lights. It looked beautiful and indifferent.

She placed her hand against the cold glass.

I died, she thought. And I came back.

She wasn't going to spend this life crying over a man who wouldn't look at her. She wasn't going to be the victim.

She turned around and looked at Cordero's sleeping form.

"Sleep well, husband," she whispered into the darkness. "Because things are going to be very different this time."

She climbed back into bed, pulling the silk sheets up. She didn't sleep for a long time.

Chapter 2 2

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