Chapter 1

I remembered the antiseptic smell of the hospital room most clearly. That, and the relentless, quiet weeping of the rain against the window. In my last life, that was where I ended. A body hollowed out by grief, a spirit eroded by a depression so deep it felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest, stopping my breath. It had all started with the hurricane, an 8-magnitude monster that tore our city apart. I had been pregnant then, a secret joy I was holding close, waiting for the right moment to tell my husband, Mark.

That day, I' d been a hero. I' d seen a toddler, a little girl, stranded in the rising floodwaters. Without a second thought, I plunged in. I saved her, but a piece of floating debris struck me hard in the abdomen. The impact stole more than my strength, it stole the tiny life growing inside me. The doctors told me the injury was too severe. I had lost the baby, and I would never be able to have another. The double loss was an anchor that dragged me into the dark.

On my deathbed, years later, the final. cruel truth was delivered. My live-in husband, Mark, and his childhood sweetheart, Lisa, were standing just outside my room, their voices low but clear, confident I was too sedated to hear.

"Is she almost gone?" Lisa's voice was sharp, impatient.

"The doctors say any day now," Mark replied, a note of grim satisfaction in his tone. "Then it's all ours, Lisa. The house, the money... everything."

"It was a brilliant plan," Lisa mused, her voice dripping with venomous pride. "Putting Chloe out there in the storm. We knew Sarah's bleeding heart wouldn't let her just watch. It worked perfectly. She lost her own brat and became a barren mule for us."

"She even took Chloe in, raised our daughter for us while you were 'recovering'," Mark chuckled, a low, ugly sound. "And she never suspected a thing."

The words didn't feel real. Chloe. The little girl I saved. Their daughter. My miscarriage, my infertility, my years of soul-crushing depression... it was all a setup. A meticulously planned tragedy orchestrated by the man I loved and the woman he truly loved. They had used their own child as bait to destroy mine. I died with their laughter echoing in my ears, my last breath a ragged gasp of pure, undiluted hatred.

Then, I gasped again.

But this breath was deep and full, filling lungs that didn't burn. My eyes snapped open. I wasn't in the sterile white hospital room. I was in my own living room, in our mansion overlooking the tempestuous sea. The air was heavy with humidity, and the wind howled outside, rattling the floor-to-ceiling windows. On the large-screen TV, a news anchor was giving a grave warning.

"A category eight hurricane is making landfall. We urge all residents in coastal areas to evacuate or seek higher ground immediately. This is a life-threatening storm."

My hand flew to my stomach. It was flat, but I could feel it. A faint, familiar warmth. A presence. My baby was still there. I was still pregnant. I was alive.

I had been reborn. Back to the day it all began.

The familiar scene was a nightmare playing out for the second time. The expensive furniture, the storm raging outside, the sense of impending doom. It was all the same. The trap was being set again. I knew what was coming next. I knew who was out there, in the wind and the rain, waiting to be "saved."

A small hand tugged at my sleeve, and a panicked voice cut through the roar of the storm.

"Mom, look! Outside!"

I turned to look at my son, Ethan. He was nine years old, his face pale, his eyes wide with a manufactured fear as he pointed a trembling finger toward the window.

"There's a little girl out there! In the water! She's going to drown!"