Chapter 3

Mark came by my desk an hour later. He had a self-satisfied smirk on his face, the look of a man who believed he had expertly handled a crisis and a difficult subordinate in one smooth motion.

"See? Everything is fine," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his own office. "I've got it under control. Sometimes you just need to learn to delegate, Ava. To trust your team."

The hypocrisy was so thick I could taste it. My team? He meant him and Chloe. The ones actively trying to sink me.

"You're amazing, Mark," I said, my voice a perfect imitation of the admiring wife he expected. My compliance was clearly soothing his ego.

"It's not about being amazing," he said, puffing up his chest slightly. He leaned against the partition of my cubicle, adopting the tone of a wise mentor. "It's about perspective. You get too bogged down in the tiny details, Ava. You let things get to you. You need to learn to be more... forgiving. Of situations, of people. Holding onto anger and frustration is unproductive."

He was lecturing me on forgiveness. The man who left me to die. The man who didn't shed a tear over our dead child. A wave of nausea rolled through me, but I kept my expression placid. I just nodded, as if I were absorbing his profound wisdom.

"I understand," I said.

He smiled, genuinely pleased with himself. "Good." He patted my shoulder, a gesture that was meant to be comforting but felt like a brand. "I'll let you know when the new file is ready to be uploaded."

He walked away, and I watched him go. Forgiving. For years, that' s all I had done. I forgave his "small" lies, the ones about where he' d been late at night. I forgave his ambition when it turned cruel, when he belittled my colleagues to get ahead. I forgave him for blaming me for the miscarriage, telling myself he was just grieving in his own way.

I had spent years of my life protecting him, cleaning up his messes, both professional and personal. When he miscalculated a budget on a smaller project two years ago, I stayed up for seventy-two hours straight, re-drafting plans to fix his error so the partners would never know. I covered for him. I made him look good. I propped up the pedestal he stood on, and in return, he and my sister planned to kick it out from under me.

All of that sacrifice had earned me a death sentence in a frozen cabin.

The memory was no longer just a source of pain. It was a tool. A whetstone against which I was sharpening my resolve.

A new email pinged in my inbox. It was an office-wide notification from the IT department.

`Subject: Medical Emergency in West Wing Conference Room`

`An ambulance has been dispatched for Mr. Henderson from our accounting department, who is experiencing a severe allergic reaction. Please keep the hallways clear.`

Mr. Henderson. I remembered him. A quiet, kind man, close to retirement. In the original timeline, he recovered. But something about this felt... different. The timing.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Chloe.

`On my way up. Bringing coffee! And the 'fix' for your little tech problem. ;) You owe me!`

The 'fix.' Of course. She was coming to deliver the stolen version of my work, disguised as a heroic rescue. A cold dread, sharp and familiar, settled in my stomach. The "medical emergency"... it wasn't about the project. It was real. And Chloe was walking right into it.

In my first life, I wasn't here when this happened. I was at home, sick with grief over the miscarriage. Chloe had told me all about it later, framing herself as a hero who kept a cool head while everyone else panicked.

I looked at the IT email again, then at Chloe's text.

My decision was instant. Before, I would have protected Mark from the consequences of his association with Chloe. I would have managed her, smoothed things over, kept her chaos from touching him.

Not anymore.

I stood up from my desk. I wasn't going to meet her. I wasn't going to run interference. I was going to get a coffee from the downstairs cafe.

Let the pieces fall where they may.

I walked out of my workspace, my steps even and unhurried. For the first time, I wasn't trying to control the future. I was simply letting it happen, watching with the detached calm of a spectator who already knows the final score. He wanted me to be passive. Fine. I would be passive. And I would let his precious Chloe, his co-conspirator, walk right into the fire.