Her Daughter's Funeral, Their Wedding Night

The heavy oak doors of the funeral home yielded to Elenora Carlson's weight.

A brutal gust of October wind immediately sliced through the thin fabric of her coat, biting into her collarbone. She didn't shiver. Her body had forgotten how to feel cold.

Elenora looked down at her chest. Her arms were wrapped tightly around a small, white ceramic urn. It was so small. Too small to hold a four-year-old girl who loved strawberry ice cream and chasing butterflies. The ceramic was freezing against her sternum, but she pressed it harder into her skin, hoping the physical pain would ground her.

She took a step down the concrete stairs. Her legs trembled violently. She hadn't eaten in four days. Her stomach was a hollow, aching cavern, but the thought of food made bile rise in the back of her throat.

She reached the bottom of the steps and looked up. The parking lot was completely empty. There were no cars. No mourners. No flowers. No one had come to say goodbye to Poppy.

The silence of the asphalt triggered a violent flashback. The screech of tires tearing against pavement echoed in her ears. The smell of burning rubber and hot copper blood filled her nostrils.

Elenora blinked, and the empty parking lot was replaced by the chaotic intersection. She saw the shattered windshield glass glittering on the road like crushed diamonds. She saw Delphine Vance standing next to the crumpled hood of her luxury SUV. Delphine hadn't had a single scratch on her. She had just stood there, looking down at the wreckage, a faint, chilling smirk playing on her flawless lips.

Then, Donovan Montgomery IV had arrived.

Elenora's chest tightened so hard her ribs ached. She remembered the sound of Donovan's frantic footsteps. She had been kneeling in a pool of Poppy's blood, screaming for help, her hands slick and red.

Donovan had sprinted right past her. He hadn't even looked at the dying child on the asphalt. He had rushed straight to Delphine, wrapping his arms around her, checking her pristine face for injuries.

Elenora remembered grabbing the hem of Donovan's tailored trousers, begging him. Please. Save her. Save Poppy.

He had shoved her away. The force of his hand against her shoulder had sent her sprawling into the broken glass. The glass had sliced her palms open, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the sound of Poppy taking her last, gurgling breath.

Elenora blinked again. The parking lot returned. Her tears had dried up days ago. Her tear ducts felt like sandpaper. She adjusted her grip on the urn and started walking.

She crossed the empty lot, her cheap flat shoes scraping against the pavement. She walked across the two-lane highway, ignoring the blare of a passing truck's horn. She didn't stop until her feet hit the sand of the beach.

The Atlantic Ocean roared in front of her, a massive expanse of churning gray water under a leaden sky.

Elenora kicked off her worn flats. The sand was like crushed ice against her bare soles. She didn't care. She walked toward the shoreline, the wind whipping her long, unwashed hair across her face.

She stopped at the edge of the water. She bowed her head and pressed her dry, cracked lips against the smooth lid of the ceramic urn.

"I'm coming, Poppy," she whispered. Her voice was a raspy croak. "Mommy is coming."

She took a step forward. The freezing saltwater washed over her ankles. The cold was a physical shock, a thousand needles driving into her skin, but she welcomed it. It meant she was still alive enough to die.

She took another step. The water reached her calves. The undertow pulled at her, trying to drag her back to the shore, but she leaned forward, fighting the current.

The water rose to her knees. Her jeans grew heavy, clinging to her legs like lead weights. She didn't stop. She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, holding the urn high against her chest.

A massive wave crested in front of her and crashed down, slamming into her waist. The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. The icy water soaked through her coat, chilling her organs.

She closed her eyes. She stopped fighting the current. She let her body tilt forward into the abyss.

The ocean swallowed her whole. The water rushed over her head. The freezing dark filled her ears, drowning out the sound of the wind. She opened her mouth, and the saltwater flooded her throat, burning her lungs. The darkness consumed her.

Across the country, sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows of a magnificent Gothic cathedral in Manhattan's Upper East Side.

Donovan Montgomery IV stood at the altar. He wore a custom-tailored Tom Ford tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked down at Delphine Vance. She was breathtaking in a haute couture lace gown, a sheer veil draped over her innocent face.

But Donovan's chest felt tight. A strange, heavy knot sat in the pit of his stomach. He looked at Delphine's smile, but he felt nothing. No joy. No anticipation. Just a hollow ringing in his ears.

The priest stood before them, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceilings. "Do you, Donovan Montgomery IV, take Delphine Vance to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Donovan opened his mouth. His throat felt dry. He forced his jaw to move. "I-"

The heavy wooden side doors of the cathedral slammed open with a deafening crack.

Donovan's head snapped to the right. His executive assistant, Linden Hayes, was sprinting down the center aisle. Linden's face was the color of ash. He shoved past a security guard, his chest heaving.

Gasps rippled through the pews. Delphine turned, her perfect smile faltering.

Linden didn't stop until he reached the altar steps. He ignored the priest. He ignored Delphine. He grabbed Donovan's arm, his fingers digging into the expensive wool of the tuxedo.

Linden leaned in, his breath ragged against Donovan's ear. "Sir. The police just called. They found a body washed up on the beach. It's Elenora."

Donovan's pupils dilated. His heart stopped beating for one agonizing second. The air was violently sucked out of his lungs.

His fingers went numb. The platinum diamond wedding band he was holding slipped from his grasp. It hit the marble floor with a sharp, piercing clink, rolling away into the shadows.

"Donovan?" Delphine reached out, her manicured fingers brushing his sleeve. "What's wrong?"

Donovan looked at her hand. A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit him. He shoved her hand away. He didn't say a word. He turned his back on the altar, on the priest, on the hundreds of guests.

He broke into a sprint. He ran down the aisle, his polished shoes slipping on the marble, bursting through the cathedral doors into the blinding sunlight, his chest tearing open with a grief he didn't know he possessed.

Elenora gasped.

Her eyes snapped open in the darkness. She shot up into a sitting position, her mouth open wide, sucking in massive gulps of air. Her lungs burned as if they were still expelling saltwater. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She grabbed her throat. It was dry. She wasn't drowning.

She looked around wildly. The moonlight filtered through a small, square window, illuminating a cramped room. A narrow twin bed. A cheap wooden desk. A faded wool rug.

This wasn't the ocean. This wasn't the afterlife. This was her old bedroom in the servant's quarters of the Montgomery estate.

Elenora raised her hands, holding them up to the moonlight. They were smooth. The jagged, ugly scars across her palms from the broken glass of the car crash were gone. Her skin was young, unblemished.

She pressed her unscarred hands against her face, feeling the heat of her own skin. She was alive.

Elenora threw off the thin cotton blanket. Her bare feet hit the faded wool rug. The fibers scratched against her soles, a grounding, physical sensation that proved she wasn't a ghost.

She stumbled toward the cheap wooden desk in the corner of the room. Her breathing was still erratic, her chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged movements. She snatched the smartphone lying next to a stack of textbooks.

She pressed the power button. The screen flared to life, blinding her for a second.

She squinted at the lock screen. October 14th.

The year displayed beneath the date made her stomach drop. It was five years ago. Five years before the crash. Five years before Delphine's smirk. Five years before Poppy.

Elenora stared at the glowing numbers until they blurred. Hot tears spilled over her lower lashes, tracking down her cheeks. She clamped a hand over her mouth, biting down hard on her own palm to muffle the sob that ripped through her throat. The metallic taste of blood bloomed on her tongue.

She spun around and walked to the cheap full-length mirror attached to the closet door.

A seventeen-year-old girl stared back at her. Her cheeks were slightly fuller, her eyes wide and naive, her long dark hair tangled around her shoulders. She looked so young. So stupid.

Elenora slowly lowered her hand to her stomach. It was flat. Empty. She pressed her fingertips into her abdomen, a phantom ache radiating through her pelvis. Poppy wasn't here. Poppy hadn't even been conceived yet.

A sharp, frantic knocking on her bedroom door shattered the silence.

Elenora flinched. She quickly wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the air deep into her lungs to steady her racing heart.

She walked over and twisted the brass lock.

The door flew open. Her mother, Joleen Pruitt, pushed her way into the room. Joleen was wearing her crisp, black-and-white maid's uniform, the apron tied tight around her waist. Her face was flushed with panic.

Joleen slammed the door shut behind her and kept her voice in a harsh, frantic whisper. "Elenora! Why are you still in your pajamas? Are you out of your mind?"

Elenora stared at her mother. Her mother's harsh voice hit her like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the fragile vulnerability of her grief. Yes, now was not the time for sorrow. Sorrow was a luxury belonging to her past life. In this life, she only had room for survival and vengeance. She looked at the woman who had constantly pushed her to submit, to endure, to beg for scraps from the Montgomery family.

"Why would I be dressed?" Elenora's voice was hoarse, scraping against her throat.

Joleen pointed a trembling finger toward the closet. "Mr. Donovan is leaving for Boston in twenty minutes! He needs you to accompany him. You know he likes you to manage his schedule on these trips. Get dressed. Now."

Donovan.

Hearing that name was a physical blow. A violent wave of nausea hit Elenora's stomach. The image of Donovan shoving her into the bloody glass flashed behind her eyes. Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ground together.

She turned her back on Joleen and walked to the edge of the twin bed. She sat down, her spine rigid.

"I'm not going," Elenora said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

Joleen's eyes bulged. She rushed forward and grabbed Elenora's shoulders, her fingers digging into the cotton of her pajama top. She shook her. "What is wrong with you? Do you know how lucky you are that he even looks at you? This is our only chance to secure a place in this house! You have to go!"

Elenora looked down at her mother's hands. A surge of pure, unadulterated disgust crawled up her spine.

She violently shoved Joleen's hands away. The force of the push made Joleen stumble backward. Elenora stood up, towering over her mother.

"Don't touch me," Elenora hissed.

Joleen gasped, her hands flying to her chest. She started to cry, the tears ruining her careful makeup. "Elenora, please. We have nothing. If you don't keep him happy, they'll throw us out on the street. You have to be smart about this."

Elenora listened to the pathetic, cowardly words she had heard a thousand times in her past life. Her eyes turned to ice. The naive girl in the mirror was dead.

"Listen to me very carefully," Elenora said, her voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. "I am never following Donovan Montgomery around like a stray dog ever again. If you want to grovel, do it yourself."

Joleen shrank back, terrified by the dark, murderous look in her daughter's eyes. She stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing without a sound.

Downstairs, in the grand marble foyer of the Montgomery estate, Donovan Montgomery IV stood waiting.

He wore a bespoke navy suit that accentuated his tall, athletic frame. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, his jaw tight. He lifted his left arm, glancing at the million-dollar Patek Philippe watch on his wrist.

He was annoyed.

His executive assistant, Linden, stepped forward, his head bowed respectfully. "Sir, should I send someone upstairs to hurry Miss Elenora?"

Donovan let out a short, derisive scoff. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair. "No. Let her play her little games. She thinks making me wait makes her more desirable. It's pathetic."

He turned his back to the grand staircase, his expensive leather shoes clicking sharply against the marble floor. "Bring the car around. I'm not waiting for her."

Upstairs, Joleen panicked. She grabbed Elenora's wrist with a desperate, bruising grip and dragged her out of the bedroom, pulling her down the long, carpeted hallway toward the grand staircase.

"You are going down there, and you are going to apologize!" Joleen hissed, pulling her forward.

Elenora let herself be dragged until they reached the top of the marble stairs. Then, she planted her feet. She ripped her wrist out of Joleen's grip with a violent jerk.

The rubber sole of Elenora's slipper squeaked sharply against the polished marble edge of the top step.

The sound echoed through the cavernous foyer.

Downstairs, Donovan stopped walking. He turned around slowly, his brow furrowed in irritation, and looked up at the top of the stairs.

He expected to see Elenora flustered, blushing, rushing down the steps to apologize for keeping him waiting. He expected the usual look of pathetic adoration in her eyes.

Instead, Elenora stood at the very top of the staircase, looking down at him.

She wasn't wearing makeup. Her hair was a mess. But it was her eyes that made Donovan's breath catch in his throat.

There was no adoration. There was no warmth. She was staring down at him with a look he had never seen before-a look mixed with freezing detachment, distance, and even... profound contempt, as if she were looking at a completely irrelevant, rotting corpse on the side of the road. It wasn't the usual desperate plea for his attention. This blatant dismissal made an inexplicable, irritating heat prickle at the back of his neck, feeling like a physical blow to his massive ego.

Elenora didn't blink. She held his gaze, letting all the disgust and venom of her past life pour into that single look, pinning him to the marble floor.

Elenora held Donovan's gaze. She didn't flinch. She slowly lowered her foot onto the first marble step, then the next, moving with a deliberate, unhurried grace that she had never possessed before.

She stopped halfway down the staircase. She kept a distinct physical distance between them, utilizing the height of the stairs to look down at him.

Donovan's brow furrowed deeper. He adjusted his watch again, a nervous habit he used when he felt his control slipping. The coldness in her eyes was jarring. It made an uncomfortable heat prickle at the back of his neck.

He shoved his hand into the pocket of his tailored trousers, masking his unease with arrogance. "Why aren't your bags packed?" His voice was a low, demanding bark that echoed off the high ceilings.

Elenora stood perfectly still. She didn't wring her hands. She didn't look at the floor.

"I'm not going to Boston today," she said. Her voice was completely flat, devoid of the nervous tremor that usually accompanied her words when she spoke to him.

Donovan let out a harsh, mocking laugh. The sound grated against Elenora's eardrums.

"Is this a new tactic?" Donovan sneered, taking a step toward the bottom of the stairs. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Playing hard to get? Don't mistake my tolerance for patience, Elenora. Go pack your bag. Now."

Behind Elenora, Joleen let out a strangled gasp. The maid scrambled down the stairs, practically throwing herself between Elenora and Donovan.

"Mr. Donovan, please forgive her!" Joleen bowed so low her forehead almost touched her knees. She wrung her apron frantically. "She didn't sleep well last night. She's not thinking straight. I'll pack her bag right now-"

Elenora reached out and grabbed Joleen's shoulder. Her grip was like a vice. She yanked her mother backward, pulling her behind her own body.

Elenora locked eyes with Donovan again. "I'm staying home to prepare for the SATs. My exam is in three weeks."

Donovan stared at her. A flicker of genuine disbelief crossed his face, quickly replaced by a sneer of pure contempt.

"The SATs?" Donovan repeated, the words dripping with sarcasm. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her cheap pajamas. "Elenora, you could study for a decade and you still wouldn't get into an Ivy League. Don't use academics as an excuse to throw a tantrum. It's embarrassing."

In her past life, those words would have crushed her. They would have sent a hot flush of shame up her neck and brought tears to her eyes. She would have believed him.

Now, her heart didn't even skip a beat.

Elenora looked at him, her face a mask of absolute indifference. "My scores are my business. Not yours. Have a safe flight."

The dismissal was so casual, so utterly dismissive, that Donovan physically recoiled. The muscles in his jaw ticked violently. The veins in his neck bulged against the crisp collar of his shirt. He was used to her begging for his approval, not dismissing him like a pesky salesman.

"Fine," Donovan spat, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "Suit yourself."

He spun on his heel, his shoes slamming against the marble. He marched toward the massive front doors. He grabbed the brass handle and yanked the heavy wooden door open.

He stepped out and slammed the door behind him with a force that shook the walls. The loud BOOM echoed through the foyer, vibrating in Elenora's chest.

Elenora watched the closed door. The tension that had been keeping her spine rigid suddenly released. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He was gone.

She turned around and started walking back up the stairs.

Joleen scrambled after her, her face purple with rage. Joleen followed Elenora down the hallway and pushed her way into Elenora's bedroom just as Elenora was about to close the door.

Joleen slammed the door shut. "Are you insane? !" she shrieked, spit flying from her lips. "You just humiliated him! You ruined everything! He's going to cut off your tuition! He's going to throw us out!"

Elenora ignored her. She walked over to her desk, pulled out the wooden chair, and sat down. She reached out and grabbed a thick, heavy SAT prep book. She opened it to the math section and picked up a mechanical pencil.

Joleen saw red. She lunged forward, her hands clawing at the desk, trying to snatch the book away. "Stop ignoring me! You are going to call him right now and beg-"

Elenora reacted instantly. She slammed her forearm down on top of the open book, pinning it to the desk. She snapped her head up, her eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity.

"Touch my things again, and I swear to God, you will regret it," Elenora said, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

Joleen froze. Her hands hovered in the air. She stared at her daughter, completely paralyzed by the sheer dominance radiating from Elenora's posture.

"If you want to keep your job in this house, you will leave me alone," Elenora continued, her words precise and sharp as glass. "I am not your ticket to wealth. I am getting out of here on my own. Now get out of my room."

Joleen's lower lip trembled. She looked at Elenora as if she were a stranger. A sob tore from Joleen's throat. She covered her face with her hands and turned around, fleeing the room and leaving the door wide open.

Elenora didn't get up to close it. She lowered her eyes back to the page. She clicked the top of her mechanical pencil, the sharp lead pressing against the paper. She started to solve the first equation, her mind completely clear.