Chapter 1

The cold floor bit into Chloe' s cheek.

Her body felt like a broken machine.

Air scraped in and out of her lungs.

Her vision swam.

Hands, many hands, pulled at her, hitting her.

No words formed in her mind.

Only images flickered: her parents' faces, pale and drawn, their names screamed by strangers, their bodies found later, shattered.

She heard the shouts from the women now, the wives of the men from the video.

They accused her of ruining lives.

Chloe still did not understand.

She did not know what they meant.

Her eyes closed.

Darkness took her.

A sharp gasp tore from Chloe' s throat.

Her eyes snapped open.

Sunlight streamed through her window.

The familiar pattern of her duvet lay over her.

The scent of her own perfume hung in the air.

She sat up fast.

Pain shot through her chest.

But it was not the searing agony of broken ribs.

It was muscle soreness, a phantom echo.

She looked at her phone on the nightstand.

The lock screen showed the date: October 26th.

The same exact date.

The day it all started.

A jolt, cold and hard, ran through her.

She was back.

The door clicked open.

Mark walked in, a mug of coffee in his hand.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said.

He smiled.

He looked like the Mark she knew, the one before the storm.

Before the betrayal.

She remembered his face on the news, his words.

"I denounce her. She is not the woman I thought she was."

The memory was sharp, a sting.

She felt a knot tighten in her stomach.

He was planning to go to the gallery event later, the one where the video was supposedly filmed.

She had to stop it.

"Mark," Chloe said, her voice a little rough.

She cleared her throat.

"About the gallery event tonight."

She watched his face for any change.

"I don' t think I can go."

She held her breath.

This was the first test.

This was the first chance to change everything.

Mark tilted his head.

His smile faltered, just for a second.

His eyes narrowed, then widened again.

"Oh? Why not?"

He took a sip of his coffee.

His voice was casual.

Too casual.

"You' ve been working on this exhibition for months. It' s your big break, Chloe."

He walked to the window, looking out.

His back was to her.

Chloe watched him.

The casualness felt like a mask.

She remembered his easy agreement in the first timeline, his simple, "Okay, babe, whatever you want."

This hesitation, this slight pushback, was new.

It made her stomach clench.

Later that morning, Chloe walked into the kitchen.

Her mother, Dr. Evelyn Thorne, was meticulously arranging fruit on a platter.

Her father, Professor Arthur Thorne, sat at the table, engrossed in a complex academic journal, a second pair of reading glasses perched on his forehead.

The scent of roasted coffee and fresh bread filled the air.

This was their sanctuary, a place of quiet intellect and deep affection.

Her mother looked up, her smile warm.

"Chloe, darling. You' re up. Mark said you were feeling a bit under the weather."

Her father grunted an acknowledgment, his eyes still on the page, but he reached out and patted her hand when she sat beside him.

The simple touch was a comfort, and a fresh wave of fear washed over Chloe.

She saw their faces, the public humiliation, the brokenness in their eyes before they were gone.

She would not let that happen again.

Chloe watched her parents.

Her father' s hands, always ink-stained, turned a page.

Her mother' s silver hair caught the light.

They were good people.

Honest people.

Their lives were dedicated to knowledge and truth.

They did not deserve what happened.

The memory of their shattered legacy, their public disgrace, burned within her.

She would protect them.

She would find the truth.

She would expose whoever was behind this.

The resolve solidified inside her, cold and absolute.

She would do whatever it took.