Chapter 1

The notification pinged, loud in the quiet of my grief.

Mark was dead, a sudden, shocking end on the very day Tiffany, his college obsession, married someone else.

I was still processing that, the raw wound of his loss, when my phone exploded.

It wasn't condolences.

It was a link, trending, viral.

Mark' s face filled my screen, a pre-recorded video from his X/Twitter account.

He looked earnest, tragically romantic.

"If you're seeing this," he began, his voice smooth, "it means I'm gone."

My breath hitched.

"I'm bequeathing all my shares in our startup, everything I own, to the only woman I've ever truly loved, Tiffany."

The world tilted.

Our startup, built on my code, my late nights, my sacrificed scholarship.

"Sarah," he continued, a flicker of something I couldn't name in his eyes, "was a good partner, but my heart always belonged to Tiffany."

The comments section was a torrent of hatred.

"Gold-digger exposed!"

"Toxic ex finally gets what she deserves."

"Mark, the tragic hero, Tiffany, the true love."

Sensationalist tech blogs picked it up within minutes, their headlines screaming my vilification.

I was no longer Sarah, his co-founder, his girlfriend of seven years.

I was a footnote, a villain in Mark' s self-authored drama.

Then, a letter arrived, penned in Mark's familiar scrawl, delivered by his lawyer.

It felt like a command from beyond the grave.

"Sarah, I need you to arrange my funeral," it read.

"Make it grand, something Tiffany would be impressed by. Spare no expense."

My stomach churned.

He wanted me to curate his final performance for the woman he chose over me.

"My parents will need your continued financial support," the letter went on. "You know they depend on it."

The Petersons, who had always treated me like an inconvenient necessity.

"And don't even think about contesting my gift to Tiffany. Our history, everything we shared, should mean you respect my final wish."

Emotional blackmail, sharp and cruel.

My history with him was one of tireless support, of propping up his fragile ego, of believing in his dreams when no one else did, including him sometimes.

I remembered the countless nights I coded while he partied, the presentations I prepped that he delivered as his own, the family events I missed because "the startup needed me."

All for him, for "us."

Tiffany's brother, Chad, a lawyer with a smile that never reached his eyes, was already in motion, facilitating the asset seizure.

He was smug, efficient.

The Petersons, Mark's parents, descended upon me, not with grief, but with accusations.

"This is your fault!" Mrs. Peterson shrieked, her face contorted. "You drove him to this!"

Mr. Peterson, usually quiet, nodded in grim agreement, muttering about how I never truly understood Mark.

They conveniently forgot the "life-saving favor" Mr. Peterson supposedly did for my father, a debt they'd hung over my family's head for years, a debt I now suspected was a lie.

I refused to be erased, to be the villain in their story.

I hired the best lawyer I could find, a woman known for her tenacity.

"We fight for your half," she said, her voice firm. "It's rightfully yours."

The legal battle was brutal, a public spectacle fueled by Mark's viral post.

They painted me as greedy, opportunistic.

But the evidence, the code I wrote, the business plans I drafted, the emails detailing my contributions, was undeniable.

I won.

The judge awarded me my rightful share of the company we built together.

A hollow victory. Mark was still dead, my reputation still in tatters, but it was something.

Justice, or a sliver of it.

I walked out of the courthouse, my lawyer by my side, a strange numbness settling over me.

Then, tires squealed.

A flash of black, a monstrous SUV, barrelling towards me.

No time to react.

Pain, searing and absolute, then a horrifying crunch.

I was on the pavement, the world a blur of agony and distorted sounds.

A shadow fell over me.

Tiffany.

She knelt, her beautiful face composed, almost serene.

"He underestimated you," she said, her voice a cool whisper. "Mark always did."

My vision was fading.

"His death," she continued, adjusting a strand of her perfect hair, "it was a bit of a gamble, but I needed a lot of money quickly. Him dying a tragic romantic hero? Perfect for ensuring I got everything."

She paused, a small, cruel smile playing on her lips.

"Especially if you didn't fight. But you did. Messy."

Rage, potent and consuming, flooded me, a final, desperate surge.

A second chance. I needed a second chance.

Then, darkness.