His Obsession, Her Second Life

My fiancé, Declan, was my childhood sweetheart. But a traumatic brain injury from a car wreck turned him into a violent monster. I stayed, determined to wait for the man I loved to come back.

Then his new therapist, Dr. Christie Howard, arrived. She was supposed to help him heal, but instead, she began to manipulate him, turning him against me.

At a charity auction, a man lunged at them with a knife. I screamed a warning. But Declan didn't protect me. He pulled me in front of himself and Christie, using my body as a human shield.

The blade sank into my side. In my previous life, that was just the beginning. For Christie, he let his men throw me down a flight of stairs. For Christie, he stood by as she desecrated my mother's ashes.

And in the end, the two of them murdered me in a staged car crash, leaving me to die in a heap of twisted metal.

But I woke up, not dead, but in my bed.

A full year before they killed me. This time, things would be different. I had a plan.

Chapter 1

I woke up with the phantom pain of a car crash. The memory was sharp, a brutal flash of twisted metal and Declan' s face, cold and unconcerned, as his new lover, Christie, slammed the accelerator. They had left me to die.

But I wasn't dead. I was in my bed, in Declan' s mansion. The morning sun streamed through the window. It was a day I remembered from my past life. A day one year before my murder.

I had been given a second chance.

I threw the covers off and stood up, my body still weak from a memory of abuse that hadn't happened yet in this timeline. The resolve was instant, solid as a rock in my chest. I would not let it happen again.

I walked out of the bedroom and down the grand staircase. My father, Albert Avery, was in the living room, reading the newspaper. He looked up and smiled when he saw me.

"Morning, sweetheart. Declan still sleeping?"

I didn't answer his question. I walked straight to him, my hands clenched at my sides.

"Dad, I want to break the engagement."

His smile vanished. He put down his paper, his brow furrowed with confusion. He looked at me, really looked at me, and his expression softened with concern.

"Emily, what' s wrong? Did you and Declan have another fight?"

He thought it was just another fight. He didn' t know the half of it. He didn' t know about the nights Declan, in a blind rage, would throw things, his voice a roar that echoed in my head for days. He didn' t know about the bruises I covered with makeup.

A tremor ran through me. I squeezed my hands tighter, my nails digging into my palms. The physical pain was a welcome distraction from the storm of memories.

"I can' t do it anymore, Dad. I just can' t."

My voice was a hoarse whisper. It was a vague answer, but it was all I could give him without sounding insane.

He didn't press, just watched me with worried eyes. He knew. He must have known some of it.

The memories flooded in, unwanted and sharp.

I remembered Declan before the accident. We were childhood sweethearts. He was the brilliant, confident CEO, and I was his proud fiancée. Our life was a fairy tale. He was gentle, adoring. He would bring me flowers for no reason and hold me like I was the most precious thing in the world.

Then came the car wreck. A drunk driver T-boned his car. He survived, but a traumatic brain injury changed everything.

He came home from the hospital a different man. The gentle Declan was gone, replaced by a monster plagued with severe PTSD and intermittent explosive disorder.

His rages were terrifying. The smallest thing could set him off. A misplaced book, a meal that wasn't to his liking, a question he didn't want to answer.

One night, he broke my arm. He' d thrown a heavy glass statue, aiming for the wall, but I had moved the wrong way.

When the rage passed, he was a wreck. He saw my arm, the unnatural angle of it, and he crumpled to the floor. He sobbed, banging his own head against the hardwood until it bled, begging me to forgive him. He looked so broken, so full of self-hatred.

And like a fool, I had knelt beside him, my own tears mixing with his blood.

"It' s okay, Declan. I' m not leaving you. I' ll never leave you."

I said it over and over, a mantra of my own doom. I believed his illness was the enemy, not him. I loved the man he used to be, and I was determined to wait for him to come back.

Then his family hired Dr. Christie Howard. She was a brilliant therapist, renowned for her work with TBI patients. She was supposed to be our savior.

At first, she seemed professional, caring. But soon, things started to change. Declan began to rely on her completely. Her word was law.

His focus shifted from me to her.

"Christie says I need absolute quiet."

"Christie says your visits are stressing me out."

He started canceling our dates to have extra sessions with her. He bought her expensive gifts, "for her excellent care," he' d say. He defended her when I questioned her methods, which seemed designed to isolate me.

The abuse escalated. Christie would subtly provoke him, then step back and watch the explosion with a clinical, detached look in her eyes. I became his punching bag, both literally and figuratively.

The final betrayal in my last life was Christie desecrating my late mother' s ashes. In my grief and rage, I' d confronted her. Declan had walked in, seen Christie crying with a scratch on her arm, and he' d beaten me unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was in their car, with Christie behind the wheel, a triumphant smirk on her face as she drove us into a concrete barrier.

Now, standing in the living room, the memory was so vivid I could almost smell the gasoline.

"He' ll never let you go, Emily," my father said, his voice grave, pulling me back to the present. "You know how he is. He' s possessive. He' ll go crazy."

"I know," I said, my voice steady now. "His love isn' t love. It' s a cage."

And I had no intention of being a bird in a cage again. Not in this life.

"I have a plan," I told my father. "But I need help. Someone Declan fears. Someone he can' t control."

There was only one person who fit that description. Holt Brewer.

Holt was a reclusive, enigmatic billionaire. His power rivaled, and in many ways surpassed, the Phelps family fortune. He and Declan were fierce business rivals. Declan hated him with a passion, seeing him as a constant threat.

"Brewer?" My father looked skeptical. "He' s a ghost. Why would a man like that help us?"

"He will," I said with a certainty that surprised even myself.

Because in my past life, after I was dead, Holt Brewer had destroyed Declan. He had unearthed every crime, every dirty secret of the Phelps corporation and laid them bare for the world to see. He had done it for me.

And I remembered something else. A small, almost forgotten detail. A few years ago, at a charity auction, a man had anonymously paid a ridiculous sum for a simple bracelet I had donated, a piece my mother had left me. The money had gone to a children's hospital. I later found out the anonymous buyer was Holt. He'd had the bracelet returned to me with a simple note: "Some things are too precious to be sold."

He had loved me from afar, silently, for a decade. I was betting my life, and my father's, that this love was real.

"I' m going to ask him to help us fake our deaths," I said, the words tasting strange and drastic on my tongue. "It' s the only way to escape Declan for good. We' ll leave the country and start over."

My father stared at me, his face pale. The extremity of my plan finally seemed to make him understand the depth of my desperation.

Just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hall.

"Emily, darling, I' m home."

It was Declan' s voice. And he wasn' t alone. I could hear Christie' s soft footsteps beside his.

I quickly smoothed the expression on my face, pushing the terror and hate down deep inside. I had to play my part, just for a little while longer.

Declan walked in, a handsome smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. Christie was beside him, looking at me with a fake, sympathetic tilt of her head.

"You look pale, Emily," Declan said, his brow creasing in feigned concern. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Just a headache," I lied smoothly.

He nodded, accepting the lie without question. He turned to Christie.

"Christie had a long session today. Her throat is a bit sore. Could you make her some honey lemon tea, Emily? The way you do."

It was a command disguised as a request. In my past life, I would have argued. I would have pointed out that we had staff for that. My defiance would have earned me a slap later, in private.

I remembered the sting of his hand, the coldness in his eyes.

I hated him. I hated the sight of him. And I hated the woman standing beside him, her eyes gleaming with a possessive victory she thought I couldn't see.

This time, I just smiled. A calm, empty smile.

"Of course, Declan."

I turned and walked towards the kitchen, feeling their eyes on my back. Christie' s gaze was sharp, surprised by my easy compliance.

Let her be surprised. This was just the beginning.

In the kitchen, I went through the motions of making the tea. My hands were steady as I sliced the lemon and measured the honey, but my heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

My phone, tucked in my pocket, vibrated silently. I glanced back toward the living room. They were talking, their voices a low murmur. I pulled the phone out and saw the text from an unknown number.

The plan is in motion. Seven days. A car will be waiting.

It was from Holt' s assistant. Hope, fierce and bright, surged through me. Seven days. I just had to survive for seven more days.

I quickly deleted the message and slipped the phone back into my pocket just as Declan walked into the kitchen.

"Who was that?" he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes were sharp, suspicious.

I stiffened, my back to him. My mind raced, searching for a plausible lie.

"It was the caterer for the engagement party," I said, turning to face him with a placid expression. "Confirming the menu changes."

His shoulders relaxed. The suspicion in his eyes faded, replaced by a soft, possessive look that used to make me feel cherished and now only made my skin crawl.

"Good," he said, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. He rested his chin on my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. "I don' t want anything to go wrong. It has to be perfect."

He pressed a kiss to my temple.

"I was worried for a second," he murmured. "I thought... I don' t know. I can' t stand the thought of you leaving me, Emily. You know that. I' d fall apart."

I had to fight the urge to flinch away from his touch. I looked at our reflection in the polished steel of the refrigerator. He looked like a devoted lover holding his fiancée. It was a beautiful lie.

He was so arrogant, so certain of my love and loyalty. He' d used that love to chain me to him, to excuse his cruelty, to make me complicit in my own suffering.

Not anymore. This time, I knew the truth. His "love" was a sickness, a selfish need to possess, and I was done being his cure.

"I should take this to Christie," I said, my voice carefully neutral as I gently extricated myself from his grasp. It was a small act of defiance, a physical representation of the distance I was putting between us.

He let me go, a frown briefly touching his lips before he smiled again.

"Of course. Don' t keep her waiting."

I carried the tray into the living room. Christie was lounging on the sofa, looking perfectly at home. She watched me approach with an unreadable expression.

I placed the cup of tea on the coffee table in front of her.

"Your tea, Dr. Howard."

She picked it up, took a delicate sip, and then made a face.

"It' s a bit too sweet, Emily. Could you add more lemon?"

Her tone was patronizing, as if speaking to a child or a servant. It was a deliberate provocation, a test.

In my first life, this was where the fight would have started. But now, I just nodded silently.

"My apologies."

I took the cup back to the kitchen, squeezed in more lemon juice, and returned. I set it back down in front of her without a word.

She took another sip.

"Now it' s too sour." She sighed dramatically, setting the cup down with a clatter. "My throat is very sensitive. I suppose it' s too much to ask for a simple cup of tea."

I could feel Declan' s eyes on me, waiting for my reaction. I could feel the anger, hot and familiar, rising in my chest. I wanted to throw the scalding tea in her smug face.

Instead, I took a deep breath. I reached for the sugar bowl on the tray, took a clean spoon, and scooped up a small amount of sugar. I held it out to her.

"You can add as much as you like, Dr. Howard," I said, my voice flat. "That way, it will be perfect for you."

It was a small, passive-aggressive act, but it was enough.

Christie' s eyes widened, first in surprise, then in fury. She turned to Declan, her face instantly crumpling into a mask of hurt and betrayal.

"Declan!" she cried, her voice trembling. "Did you see that? She' s being rude to me. After all I' ve done for you!"

She stood up, her hands clenched into fists.

"I can' t stay here! I try so hard to help you, to manage your condition, and your fiancée treats me like this! If she' s going to be here, then I' m leaving! You can find another therapist!"

I almost laughed. It was her favorite move. The threat to leave. It always worked. Declan was terrified of being abandoned, terrified of his own mind without her to "manage" it.

I opened my mouth to defend myself, to point out the absurdity of her complaint.

"Declan, she was the one who-"

"That' s enough, Emily!" Declan' s voice was sharp, cutting me off.

He stood between us, his back to me, facing Christie. His whole posture was protective.

He turned his head, his gaze cold and hard.

"Apologize to Christie."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, incredulous. He couldn't be serious. He had seen the whole thing. He knew she was lying, provoking me.

"What?" I whispered.

"I need her, Emily," he said, his voice lowering, taking on a wheedling tone he used when he wanted to manipulate me. "You know I do. My recovery depends on her. Just... for me. Please. Apologize and we can move past this."

He was asking me to swallow my pride, to validate a liar, all for his own selfish needs. It was always about his needs.

I remembered a time, years ago, before the accident. Someone at a party had made a rude comment about my dress. Declan had overheard. He' d calmly walked over, dressed the man down with a few quiet, cutting words, and then led me away, his arm a warm, protective circle around me. He had been my knight in shining armor.

Now, that knight was demanding I bow to the dragon.

The love I thought I still harbored for the man he once was died a final, painful death in that moment. It crumbled into ash and blew away, leaving nothing but cold, hard resolve.

He didn't love me. He didn' t even respect me. I was just a possession, a familiar comfort he was willing to sacrifice for a new, more useful one.

Fine. I would play the part. For seven more days.

"You' re right," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. I looked past him, at Christie' s triumphant face. "I' m sorry, Dr. Howard. It was my mistake."

The words felt like poison in my mouth.

I couldn' t stand to be in that room for another second.

"I' m feeling tired," I said, turning away. "I' m going to go lie down."

I walked out of the room, not waiting for a response, and fled up the stairs, the sound of Declan' s soft, placating voice soothing his precious therapist following me all the way.

Back in my room-our room-I started pulling my clothes from the closet. I folded them neatly and placed them in a suitcase I' d hidden under the bed. Photos from our life together were on the nightstand. I picked up the silver frame and stared at the smiling faces of two people who no longer existed. With a flick of my wrist, I placed it face down.

Declan found me like that, surrounded by piles of clothes and memories. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me against his chest.

"Still angry with me, darling?" he murmured into my hair, his tone soft and cajoling. He thought this was a simple tantrum.

He thought a few sweet words and a guilty conscience could fix anything.

I wanted to shove him away, to scream at him to never touch me again. But I couldn't. Not yet. I leaned back against him, a silent, hateful compliance.

"No," I said, my voice flat. "I' m not angry."

He clearly didn' t believe me. He sighed, a long-suffering sound. "I know today was difficult. Christie can be... intense. But she' s essential for my health. Let me make it up to you."

He spun me around to face him. "There' s a charity auction tonight at the Plaza. Get dressed. We' ll go buy you something pretty. Anything you want."

He thought he could buy my forgiveness. He always did.

"I don' t want to go," I said, my voice firm.

His grip on my arms tightened, his smile turning into a thin, hard line. "We' re going, Emily. It' s not a request."

He held my gaze, his eyes dark with a warning. He was daring me to defy him. I looked away first. There was no point in fighting this battle. I would lose, and it would only make him more suspicious.

"Fine," I said, the word clipped.

He strong-armed me out of the house and into his car. At the auction, he made a show of doting on me, buying a diamond necklace for a price that made the crowd gasp.

"Declan Phelps is such a doting husband!" a woman whispered behind us. "He spoils her rotten."

I heard her and felt a bitter laugh bubble in my throat. Spoil me? He showered me with jewels and designer clothes in public, a glittering facade to hide the ugly truth of what he did to me in private. He bought me a new phone after he smashed my old one against a wall. He bought me a new car after he' d dented my driver' s side door with his fist.

This necklace was just another piece of hush money.

I knew this song and dance. After the public display of affection, he' d turn his attention to Christie, and I would be forgotten. In my past life, he would eventually shove me in front of a car for her. That memory was a cold stone in my gut.

I couldn' t stand it. "I need some air," I mumbled, and slipped away to the restroom.

When I came back, he was gone. A commotion from the far end of the ballroom drew my attention. I pushed through the crowd, a sense of dread coiling in my stomach.

And there he was. Declan had a man pinned against the wall, his face contorted in a mask of fury.

"Don' t you ever touch her again," Declan snarled.

The man on the floor was babbling, "I' m sorry, Mr. Phelps, I just bumped into her, I swear!"

Christie was standing nearby, her dress slightly askew, a hand pressed to her chest as if in terror. Her eyes, however, were cold and calculating.

People were whispering. Someone near me explained the scene. The man, a drunk executive, had stumbled into Christie. Declan had seen it and lost his mind, accusing the man of assaulting her. He was playing the hero.

It was the same way he used to protect me. The thought was a fresh stab of pain.

"She' s my therapist, under my protection!" Declan roared, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent room. He was establishing his ownership. "Anyone who disrespects her, disrespects me."

He wrapped a protective arm around Christie' s shoulders and started to lead her away.

Then, everything happened at once.

The executive on the floor, humiliated and enraged, scrambled to his feet. He pulled a small, gleaming object from his pocket. A knife.

"Declan, look out!" I screamed, my voice raw with instinct.

Declan heard me. He turned. But instead of moving Christie out of the way, he reacted with a cold, brutal pragmatism. He yanked my arm, pulling me directly in front of him, using my body as a shield to protect himself and Christie.

A searing, white-hot pain exploded in my side.

I looked down. The handle of the knife was sticking out of my abdomen. The man' s face was a mask of shock.

The world tilted. My vision tunneled.

The last thing I saw was Declan' s face, pale with a flicker of something that might have been panic, as he kicked the attacker away and his arms came around me.

"Emily!" he shouted, his voice tight with alarm. "Oh god, Emily!"

He was a "loving husband" again. The irony was so thick I could taste it, metallic and bitter, like the blood rising in my throat.

Then everything went black.