Chapter 1

The faint, chemical smell of antiseptic was the last thing I remembered.

That, and the searing pain in my throat as the poison burned its way down.

My stepsister, Emily, held the cup to my lips, her pretty face twisted with a triumphant smile. "Don't worry, Chloe," she cooed, her voice sickly sweet. "It will all be over soon. Mark and I will be so happy together."

Mark. My husband.

He was standing right behind her, his handsome face a mask of cold indifference. His hands were on my shoulders, pinning me to the hospital bed where I had just given birth. He didn't say a word, just watched as the life drained from my eyes.

They told the world I died from complications during childbirth.

A tragic, unfortunate accident.

Emily, the grieving sister, stepped in to care for my newborn child and my grieving husband. They became the perfect family, built on the foundation of my corpse, which they had discarded in an unmarked grave.

My last thought was a bitter, silent scream.

Then, a sudden, violent gasp.

I shot up, my chest heaving, my heart hammering against my ribs. The air was cool against my skin, not sterile and cold like the hospital. Sunlight streamed through a familiar window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

I wasn't dead.

I looked down at my hands. They were unblemished, not pale and lifeless. My stomach was flat, the swell of pregnancy gone.

This was my old bedroom. The room I grew up in before my father died and his new wife, Mrs. Davis, moved in with her daughter, Emily.

A calendar on my desk caught my eye. The date was circled in red. It was a month before my fabricated scandal, a month before I was forced to marry Mark Wilson.

I was reborn.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, hard clarity. The rage and betrayal from my past life settled deep in my bones, not as a hot, impulsive fire, but as a dense, unshakeable stone.

I got out of bed, my movements steady. I walked to the door and eased it open just a crack.

Downstairs, I could hear their voices. The two people I hated most in the world.

"Is everything ready for tonight?" It was my stepmother, Mrs. Davis, her voice sharp and calculating.

"Yes, Mom," Emily replied, her tone dripping with feigned innocence. "The drug is in the drink. Once Chloe has it, we just need to get her to the hotel room. A few photographers, a 'concerned' call to the Wilsons... and her reputation will be ruined forever."

My stepmother chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Good. The Wilsons only want a clean bride for their name, even if the marriage is just a front. They'll be so grateful when you, my dear Emily, offer to take your disgraced sister's place. They'll never know the child is Chloe's."

"And Mark?" Emily asked. "He's so charming. I can't wait to have him."

"He knows what's at stake," Mrs. Davis said dismissively. "His family needs this alliance. He'll play his part. Just make sure Chloe looks completely helpless and guilty. We need everyone to believe she's a tramp who got caught."

I closed the door silently, my back pressing against the wood. My breath came out in a slow, controlled exhale.

In my last life, I heard this same conversation. I' d burst into the room, crying, accusing them. I called them monsters. They just laughed and called me hysterical, dragging me back to my room and locking the door. Their cruelty was so blatant, so absolute, that my younger self couldn't even process it. I thought it was a nightmare.

Now, I knew better.

Their plan was perfect in its wickedness. Frame me, ruin me, force me into a marriage of convenience as a surrogate for Emily, then kill me and take everything. They didn't just want what I had, they wanted to erase me.

But my memory held a detail they didn't know about.

That night, in the hotel, after I was drugged and dragged into the room, before the photographers and my family "rescued" me, someone else came in.

The door had been left ajar. A man entered. He saw me, sprawled on the bed, my clothes in disarray. He didn't touch me. He took off his suit jacket, covered me with it, and placed a glass of water on the nightstand. Then he made a phone call, his voice low and urgent.

"There's a woman here who's been drugged. Room 1208. Send security, now."

He was gone before my family and their paid photographers burst in. They ripped his jacket off me, rearranged my clothes to look more salacious, and started snapping pictures. They never mentioned him. In their story, they found me alone, the victim of my own promiscuity.

In my last life, I thought he was a hotel employee, a kind stranger. I never knew who he was.

But this time, I would find him.

This time, I wouldn't be a pawn in their game.

I would be the one setting the board.