Chapter 1

The smell of antiseptic was the first thing I noticed, a clean, sharp scent that couldn't cover the underlying odor of decay. My own decay. I was Ethan Miller, a respected architect, and I was dying.

My wife, Emily, sat by my bedside. She held a spoon of lukewarm oatmeal to my lips, her face a perfect mask of wifely concern. Tears welled in her beautiful eyes as she watched me struggle to swallow.

"Oh, Ethan," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Don't leave me. Please."

For forty years, I had believed in that face, in that voice. We had built a life, raised a family. It was an ordinary life, I thought, a good one. But on your deathbed, you see things with a terrible clarity.

Later that night, thinking I was asleep, she pulled out her phone. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, a voice I'd never heard before. It was filled with a desperate, passionate longing that was never meant for me.

"Daniel," she breathed into the phone. "He's not going to make it through the night. I'll be free soon, my love. We can finally be together."

Daniel. The name hit me like a physical blow. Daniel Sterling, the renowned art dealer. A family friend. A man I had admired.

The oatmeal I' d eaten churned in my stomach. The monitor beside my bed began to scream, its frantic beeping a soundtrack to my world shattering. Emily dropped the phone, her eyes wide with alarm, but not with sorrow. I saw it then, in that fleeting moment of panic, the coldness. The irritation. My death was an inconvenience standing in the way of her real life.

My heart, already weak, gave one final, agonizing squeeze. The last thing I saw was Emily's face, her beautiful, lying face, as darkness pulled me under.

Then, a sudden, blinding light.

I gasped, sucking in a huge breath of air that felt crisp and real. I wasn't in a hospital. I was in my old bedroom, the one from my parents' house. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

I looked down at my hands. They were not the wrinkled, liver-spotted hands of an old man. They were strong, unblemished, the hands of a young man in his early twenties. I shot out of bed and rushed to the mirror. The face staring back at me was my own, but decades younger. The thick, dark hair, the smooth skin, the clear eyes.

It was real. I was back.

The memories of my first life flooded my mind, not as a dream, but as a lived experience. The forty years of a loveless marriage, the quiet sacrifices, the children who were not mine. The truth of it all burned in my gut.

And then, another memory surfaced, one from this timeline. The one that started it all. A party. Too much to drink. Emily, crying, telling me we had slept together. Her telling me she was pregnant. Pregnant with my child.

I had been so in love with her, so naive. I felt a surge of responsibility, of a noble duty to do the right thing. I proposed the next day. A lie. It had all been a lie from the very beginning. She was already pregnant with Daniel's child, using my love and my honor as a shield to protect her real lover from a scandal that would have ruined his budding career.

The bedroom door creaked open.

"Ethan? Are you awake?"

It was Emily. She walked in, carrying a tray with breakfast. She looked exactly as I remembered from that time, radiant and seemingly innocent. She wore a simple summer dress, and her smile was the one that had first captured my heart.

"I brought you some food," she said softly, setting the tray on my nightstand. "I was worried about you after last night."

She sat on the edge of my bed, her hand reaching out to touch my forehead, the same gesture of feigned care she had shown me on my deathbed. The memory was so vivid, so painful, that I flinched away from her touch.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she recovered quickly.

"Are you okay, Ethan? You're acting strange."

I looked directly into her eyes, my gaze cold and hard.

"Emily," I said, my voice steady. "We need to talk about the wedding."

Her smile faltered. "The wedding? What about it? Is something wrong?"

"I've been thinking," I continued, ignoring her question. "And I don't think we should get married."

The color drained from her face. She stared at me, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. This was not part of her plan. In our first life, I had been the eager, love-struck fool.

"What are you talking about?" she stammered. "Ethan, you proposed to me. We're engaged."

"I'm calling it off," I said flatly.

Her eyes filled with tears, the same crocodile tears I had seen for forty years. "But why? Is it because of last night? I told you, I... I love you, Ethan."

The words, once the sweetest music to my ears, now sounded like poison.

"Don't," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Don't say that."

Panic began to set in her eyes. She was losing control of the narrative. She played her trump card, the one that had sealed my fate the first time around.

"You can't do this to me," she whispered, her hand instinctively going to her stomach. "I'm... I'm pregnant, Ethan. It's your baby."

I almost laughed. The audacity of it was breathtaking. This time, I knew the truth.

Just then, my mother called from downstairs. "Ethan! Emily! Are you two coming down? The Petersons are here!"

Emily's parents. Perfect timing. A wave of relief washed over Emily's face. She thought the pressure from our families would force my hand.

She stood up, composing herself. "We're coming, Mrs. Miller!" she called out, her voice once again sweet and cheerful.

She turned back to me, a confident, knowing look in her eyes. "We'll talk about this later," she said, as if it were already settled.

I stood up and walked past her, heading for the door. As I reached the hallway, I turned back to look at her.

My parents and hers were gathered in the living room, their faces beaming with happiness for the young couple.

I raised my voice so everyone could hear.

"Emily has always been like a sister to me," I announced, my tone friendly but firm. "I'll always care for her."

I saw the shock on my parents' faces, the confusion on the Petersons'. But the look on Emily's face was the one I would savor. It was pure, unadulterated panic. The game had just begun, and this time, I was making the rules.