Chapter 4

Clara Castaneda POV:

The world felt like a gray, muted film after the layoff. I drifted through the days, the shock slowly giving way to a bone-deep weariness. My carefully guarded memories of the future, my supposed advantage, had led me straight into the same trap, albeit a slightly different one. I was out of a job, my career abruptly halted. The financial security Brandon had always promised, the one I had sacrificed my own work for, now felt like a cruel joke.

Brandon, for his part, tried to maintain a veneer of sympathy, but his relief was palpable. He was still employed, even if it was just by the skin of his teeth. He seemed to think my layoff would bring me back into line, make me the "supportive wife" he desperately wanted. He started dropping hints about how I could finally focus on the home, on Benard, painting it as a blessing in disguise.

One evening, he came home, looking unusually chipper. "Good news, Clara!" he announced, shedding his coat with a flourish. "They've offered me a promotion. To Senior Project Lead. It's a big step up."

My heart twisted. Senior Project Lead. The position I was destined for, if I hadn' t married him. The position he had now stepped into, thanks to my absence. The injustice burned. "Congratulations," I said, my voice flat.

He frowned, clearly expecting more enthusiasm. "That's it? After all this, I thought you'd be happy for me. It means more money, Clara. More stability for us."

"More stability for you," I corrected, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "Built on the wreckage of my career."

He threw his hands up in exasperation. "There you go again! It's not my fault you were laid off, Clara. You chose to defy management. You chose not to be a team player. You chose to not support me."

His words, a cruel inversion of the truth, hit me like a physical blow. He had twisted the narrative, as he always did, making me the villain, the cause of my own misfortune.

The house, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage. Cayla Scott, emboldened by my removal, started to appear more frequently. She' d "drop by" to offer Brandon "support" with his new responsibilities, her eyes always darting to me with a smirk that spoke volumes. She' d bring Benard little gifts, engage him in conversation, subtly undermining my role as a mother, cementing her place in his nascent affections.

One Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of laughter emanating from the kitchen. My heart sank, a familiar dread creeping in. I found Cayla at the counter, showing Benard how to make pancakes, Brandon leaning against the doorframe, watching them with a soft smile. It was a picture of domestic bliss, a scene I had once longed for, now stolen and twisted.

Cayla looked up, her smile widening into a predatory grin when she saw me. "Morning, Clara! Benard and I are making a special breakfast for Brandon. He works so hard, you know." Her words were saccharine, but her eyes were ice.

Benard, seeing me, mumbled a quick "Morning, Mom," then immediately turned back to Cayla, hanging on her every word.

The air in my own kitchen felt suffocating. I couldn't breathe. I knew then, with chilling certainty, that if I stayed, I would become the ghost of my former self, slowly fading into the background, just as I had in my first life. I had to break free.

That afternoon, I put on my old running shoes, the ones I hadn't worn in years, and went for a long run. I ran until my lungs burned, until my muscles screamed, until the physical pain eclipsed the emotional agony. I needed a plan. I needed to claw my way back.

I started looking for work, but with the restructuring, the market was tight. My specialized skills were now seen as a liability by some, a sign of being "overqualified." Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The frustration mounted.

One cold, dreary morning, I found myself walking past a small neighborhood market. A "Help Wanted" sign was taped to the window. It wasn't AeroCorp, it wasn't systems engineering, but it was a job. Folding clothes. Ringing up groceries. It paid barely enough to cover my own gas, but it was something. It was movement.

"Are you serious, Clara?" Brandon scoffed when I told him. "You, a Lead Systems Engineer, working in a grocery store? What will people say? It' s beneath you. Beneath us."

"It's honest work, Brandon," I retorted, my voice tight. "Unlike some."

He bristled. "This is exactly what I mean! You' re so bitter. You' re embarrassing me."

"Embarrassing you?" I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "You want to talk about embarrassing? Let' s talk about your secret meetings with Cayla. Let' s talk about her 'support' sessions."

His face darkened, and he stomped off, leaving me alone in the sterile silence of our once-shared home.

The grocery store job was physically demanding. My hands, once accustomed to keyboards and touchscreens, now ached from lifting boxes and stocking shelves. My feet throbbed. Sometimes, after a particularly long shift, I' d collapse into bed, tears stinging my eyes. But I didn't stop. I couldn't. This pain, this exhaustion, was a different kind of pain. It was a pain of effort, of striving, not of passive suffering.

Every night, after Benard was asleep and Brandon was out, supposedly "working late"-which I now knew meant with Cayla-I opened my old textbooks. My systems engineering manuals, my coding books. I hadn't touched them in years, but the knowledge was still there, dormant. I started with online courses, then advanced certifications. I worked in secret, fueled by coffee and a burning desire for vindication. My mind, once relegated to household budgets and school events, now soared with complex algorithms and innovative designs.

I remembered my past life, how Brandon had always belittled my intellectual pursuits, how he' d subtly discouraged me from keeping up with my field. He' d say, "You're too smart for me, darling," with a false humility that had once flattered me. But now, I saw it for what it was: insecurity, fear of my brilliance eclipsing his own.

He would never know the hours I spent hunched over my laptop, relearning, unlearning, building a new arsenal of knowledge. He would never know that while he was out playing corporate games, I was quietly sharpening my own sword.

I passed my first advanced certification exam with flying colors. Then another. And another. Each certificate was a small, silent victory. Each one a brick in the foundation of my new future.

I would not repeat the past. I would not let them win. My mind was my weapon, and I was just beginning to wield it.