Chapter 2

I woke up on our silk sheets, the expensive kind Ethan insisted on.

My body ached, a dull, throbbing reminder, but it was already mending.

The resurrection was complete.

Ethan stood by the window, looking out at the city lights.

He turned when he heard me stir.

His face was a mask of irritation.

"You're awake. Good."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He never did.

"Ashley was very upset. You need to apologize to her."

Apologize. For being thrown in front of a car he pushed me into.

The absurdity didn't even register as anger anymore, just a dull fact of my existence.

"She's waiting downstairs. Don't keep her waiting."

His tone was soft, but the command was clear.

I remembered a party, years ago, a high-society gala.

Ashley had "accidentally" spilled red wine down the front of her white designer gown.

Ethan, without missing a beat, had grabbed my champagne flute and poured it over my own far less expensive dress.

"Now you match," he'd said, a charming smile for the onlookers, a cold glint in his eyes for me.

Ashley had laughed, a tinkling, malicious sound.

The crowd had tittered, amused by his "boldness."

I had stood there, dripping and humiliated.

That was early on. It got worse.

Much worse.

Like the time he made me give Ashley my grandmother's locket, a family heirloom, because Ashley "admired" it.

He' d told me, "It looks better on her anyway, Sarah. Don't be selfish."

Each death, each resurrection, chipped away at whatever feelings I once had for him.

Loyalty, love, even fear, had eroded into a hollow numbness.

Now, all that was left was the anticipation of the end.

"I'll go down," I said, my voice flat.

I pushed myself out of bed, my limbs still stiff.

Ninety-nine down.

The thought echoed.