Reborn: After 99 Divorces

The wind biting at Elaina Velasquez's exposed skin wasn't just cold; it was a physical assault. She stood at the edge of the ornamental pond on the far side of the Boone estate, her heels sinking into the damp, freezing mud. Her body trembled, not just from the temperature, but from the vibration of pure, unadulterated fear rattling her bones.

Amanda Olsen stood three feet away. She looked immaculate. Her camel-colored cashmere coat was belted tightly at her waist, her hair perfectly coiffed despite the gale. She didn't look like a killer. She looked like the cover of a magazine.

"Why?" Elaina's voice was a jagged whisper. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold her shattering reality together. "He was an old man, Amanda. He was harmless."

Amanda tilted her head. A small, pitying smile played on her lips, the kind one might offer a slow child. "Harmless things are often in the way, Elaina. Grandpa Boone liked you. That was a problem."

Elaina felt the bile rise in her throat. The image of Cordero's grandfather, the only person in this godforsaken family who had looked at her with anything other than disdain, gasping for air as the oxygen flow was cut... it made her knees weak.

"You killed him," Elaina said, the words tasting like ash. "And you're going to pay for it. I have the logs. I know you were in his room."

Amanda took a step forward. Her expensive leather boots crunched on the gravel. "Who is going to believe you? The foster trash? The gold digger who trapped Cordero with a baby that didn't even survive?"

Elaina flinched. The mention of the miscarriage was a physical blow. Her hand went instinctively to her flat stomach. The emptiness there was a constant, aching void.

"Cordero hates you," Amanda continued, her voice smooth, conversational. "He calls you a parasite. A virus. Did you know he was with me the night you lost the baby? We were celebrating."

"Liar," Elaina spat, though tears were hot in her eyes.

"He never loved you. He sees you as a mistake he's waiting to correct." Amanda reached into her deep pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. "He signed these this morning. Divorce papers. He didn't even have the courage to give them to you himself."

Elaina stared at the envelope. It was the final nail. The end of the humiliation she called a life. She reached out, her fingers numb and clumsy. "Give it to me."

Amanda held it out, her smile widening. "Here."

Elaina stepped forward.

Amanda didn't let go of the papers. Instead, she lunged.

It happened with terrifying speed. Amanda's hands, manicured and strong, slammed into Elaina's chest. The force was unexpected. Elaina's heels slipped on the slick mud. Gravity betrayed her.

The world tilted backward.

The water hit her like a thousand knives.

It was shockingly cold. It stole the air from her lungs instantly. Elaina thrashed, her heavy wool coat soaking up the water like a sponge, dragging her down. The pond was deeper than it looked, an artificial abyss designed for aesthetics, not safety.

She broke the surface, gasping, choking on the murky water. "Help!"

Amanda stood on the bank. She watched. She didn't move. She didn't scream. She just watched, her hands tucked deep into her coat pockets, observing the ripples as if she were watching a leaf float downstream.

Elaina kicked, her legs tangling in the underwater reeds. The cold was paralyzing her muscles. Her limbs felt like lead. She went under again. This time, the water filled her nose, her throat. Her lungs burned. It was a fire inside her chest, a desperate, searing need for oxygen that wouldn't come.

Cordero.

The name flashed in her mind. His cold eyes. His turned back. The way he looked at her like she was dirt on his shoe. A memory from just yesterday-the wedding-surfaced. Amanda had "accidentally" stepped on the train of her gown as she walked down the aisle, causing her to stumble into a floral display. Everyone had laughed at her pathetic, clumsy performance.

I never fought back, she thought, the darkness closing in around the edges of her vision. I just took it. I let them win.

Her struggles weakened. The burning in her lungs faded into a terrifying numbness. The darkness wasn't just in her eyes anymore; it was wrapping around her brain, heavy and final.

She sank. The last thing she saw was the distorted, wavering shape of Amanda Olsen standing on the shore, victorious.

Then, nothing.

A jolt.

A violent, electric spasm tore through her body.

Elaina gasped, her body arching off the mattress. Her lungs expanded, sucking in greedy, desperate gulps of air. It wasn't water. It was sweet, dry, air-conditioned oxygen.

She sat up, her chest heaving, sweat drenching her hairline. Her hands clawed at her throat, expecting the choke of pond water, but finding only dry skin.

She was screaming inside, but no sound came out. She scrambled backward, her back hitting a padded headboard.

Headboard?

Elaina blinked, her vision swimming. She wasn't in the pond. She wasn't dead.

She was in a room. A large, opulent room bathed in the soft glow of bedside lamps. Red rose petals were scattered across the silk duvet cover. A massive floral arrangement forming the intertwined initials 'C & E' was propped against the far wall.

She looked at her hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. She brought them to her face.

Smooth.

She traced her cheekbone. The scar... the jagged scar she had gotten from the fire two years ago... it was gone. Her skin was unblemished.

"No," she whispered, her voice raspy. "No, this isn't real."

She turned her head to the bedside table. The digital clock glowed red in the semi-darkness.

October 14, 2019.

Elaina froze. Her breath hitched.

Five years.

She had gone back five years.

This was the night. The wedding night. The night everything started to go wrong. The night she thought she had won the lottery by marrying Cordero Boone, only to find out she had walked into a slaughterhouse.

She looked down at her body. She was wearing the red silk nightgown she had bought specifically for this night. The one Cordero had ripped off her, not in passion, but in anger, before leaving her to sleep alone.

She was alive.

The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and fast. She grabbed the silk sheets, bunching them in her fists, grounding herself in the texture.

I'm alive.

And she remembered. She remembered the freezing water. She remembered Amanda's face. She remembered every insult, every slap, every cold shoulder from Cordero.

The handle of the bathroom door turned.

The sound was loud in the silent room. The metallic click echoed like a gunshot.

Elaina's head snapped up. Her heart hammered against her ribs, terrifyingly fast. Someone was in there.

She knew exactly who it was.

The door swung open, releasing a cloud of steam into the cool bedroom air.

Cordero Boone stepped out.

He was wearing nothing but a white towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his broad shoulders, tracing the defined lines of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen. He was younger here. The stress lines that had etched themselves around his eyes in her previous life were gone. He looked powerful. Vibrant.

And utterly terrifying.

Elaina scrambled backward on the bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It was an instinctive reaction, a muscle memory of fear.

Cordero stopped wiping his hair with a smaller towel. He lowered it, his dark eyes locking onto hers. There was no warmth in them. No affection for a new bride. Just a cold, simmering disgust that made the air in the room feel heavy.

"What is this?" His voice was deep, gravelly. He gestured to her huddled form with the hand holding the towel. "More acting? I thought we were done with the performance once the guests left."

Elaina's mouth opened, but no words came out. Seeing him alive, breathing, standing there with that familiar arrogance... it was disorienting.

He walked toward the bed. Every step was predatory.

"You got what you wanted, Elaina," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You're a Boone now. You have the ring. You have the access to the trust fund. Don't pretend to be the shy, blushing virgin now."

He reached the edge of the bed and leaned over, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her legs. The mattress dipped under his weight. The scent of him-sandalwood and expensive soap-hit her. It was the smell of her husband. The smell of the man who had let her die.

"I..." Elaina started, her voice shaking. "I didn't..."

"You didn't what?" He sneered. "You didn't spike my drink last month? You didn't orchestrate this whole shotgun wedding because you claimed to be pregnant? Oh wait, you 'lost' it just in time for the honeymoon, didn't you?"

The memory assaulted her. In her past life, she had been confused by his accusations. She had cried, begged him to believe her. She hadn't drugged him. She hadn't lied. But Amanda had set it up perfectly. The fake positive test planted in her bag. The drugged drink at the party that she had handed to him, unaware of what was in it.

He believed she was a monster. A trapper.

Elaina looked at him. Really looked at him. In her past life, she had cowered. She had tried to touch his hand, to plead.

Now, she felt a cold resolve hardening in her chest. She knew the truth. She knew he was a pawn in Amanda's game just as much as she was. But his cruelty... that was his own choice.

She released her grip on the duvet. She didn't pull it down, but she stopped using it as a shield. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze.

"I am not acting," she said. Her voice was quiet, but steady. "And I am not the villain you think I am, Cordero."

He laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "Right. You're the victim. The poor foster girl who just happened to land the biggest catch in Manhattan."

He pushed himself off the bed, disgust radiating from him. He turned his back to her, and without a shred of hesitation, he dropped the towel.

Elaina gasped and looked away, turning her head sharply toward the window. Her face burned.

"Don't flatter yourself," Cordero said dryly. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajama pants. "I have zero interest in touching you. You're repulsive to me."

The words stung, but not as much as they used to. Words couldn't kill her. Ponds could.

She heard the rustle of fabric as he dressed. When she looked back, he was pulling a t-shirt over his head. He didn't even look at the bed. He walked straight to the chaise lounge by the window, grabbed a spare pillow from the armchair, and threw it down.

"I sleep here," he stated. "You stay on your side of the room. If you try to come near me, I'll have you removed from this house faster than you can say 'alimony'."

He lay down on the narrow sofa, turning his back to her immediately.

Elaina sat in the middle of the massive, empty bed. The silence in the room was deafening. She looked at the man who was supposed to be her partner. He hated her. The world hated her. And the woman who killed her was probably sleeping soundly a few miles away.

She swung her legs off the bed and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Manhattan sprawled out below them, a grid of glittering lights. It looked beautiful and indifferent.

She placed her hand against the cold glass.

I died, she thought. And I came back.

She wasn't going to spend this life crying over a man who wouldn't look at her. She wasn't going to be the victim.

She turned around and looked at Cordero's sleeping form.

"Sleep well, husband," she whispered into the darkness. "Because things are going to be very different this time."

She climbed back into bed, pulling the silk sheets up. She didn't sleep for a long time.

The knock was soft. Tentative. But in the dead silence of 2:00 AM, it sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.

Elaina's eyes snapped open. She hadn't been fully asleep, just drifting in a haze of exhaustion and planning. She knew that knock. She remembered it.

In her first life, she had been asleep. She had woken up to hear Cordero talking to someone, soft murmurs that she interpreted as intimacy. It had fueled her jealousy, made her act crazy the next morning.

This time, she lay perfectly still. She controlled her breathing.

On the sofa, Cordero groaned. He shifted, the leather creaking under his weight. "What the hell?" he muttered.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the door, annoyed. He stood up, his movements stiff, and walked across the room.

Elaina watched through her eyelashes.

He opened the door a crack.

"Cordero?"

The voice was sweet, dripping with synthetic concern. Amanda.

"It's late, Amanda," Cordero said, his voice rough with sleep. He didn't open the door wider. He stood in the gap, blocking her view of the room.

"I know," Amanda cooed. "I just... I saw the light under the door earlier. I couldn't sleep thinking about you. I know how hard this is for you. Being forced into this..."

Elaina's fingernails dug into her palms under the duvet. The audacity.

"I brought you some warm milk," Amanda said. "With a little honey and nutmeg. Just like your mom used to make. It helps with the stress."

Elaina almost gagged. Warm milk? It was so cliché it was insulting. But it was calculated. It highlighted Amanda's role as the "childhood friend" who knew his comforts, contrasting with the "stranger" wife in his bed.

"I don't need milk, Amanda," Cordero said. He sounded tired, but not receptive.

"Are you sure?" Amanda's voice lowered. She stepped closer; Elaina could see the shadow of her movement in the sliver of light from the hallway. "Is... is she asleep? Is everything okay? Did she try anything?"

"She's asleep," Cordero said shortly. "Go to bed, Amanda."

"Can I just come in for a second? I left my-"

"No."

The word was sharp. Final.

Elaina's eyebrows shot up. In her memory, she thought he had let her in. She thought they had laughed together. But he hadn't.

"It's my wedding night, Amanda," Cordero said, his voice dripping with irony. "Regardless of how I feel about it, having another woman in the room isn't appropriate. Goodnight."

He closed the door. He didn't slam it, but he closed it firmly right in her face.

Elaina heard a muffled gasp from the other side, then silence.

Cordero leaned his forehead against the wood of the door for a second. He let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn't look like a man in love with his mistress. He looked like a man trapped in a cage, being poked by everyone around him.

He turned and walked back toward the sofa. As he passed the bed, he paused. He looked down at Elaina.

She kept her eyes shut, breathing evenly.

"Unbelievable," he muttered to himself. "Sleeps like the dead while my life falls apart."

He threw himself back onto the sofa, punching the pillow into shape.

Elaina opened her eyes in the darkness.

He had sent Amanda away. He had defended the sanctity of the marriage, even if he hated the wife.

It was a small piece of information, but it was vital. Cordero wasn't Amanda's puppet yet. He was honorable, in his own twisted, cold way.

Elaina stared at the ceiling. Her mind began to race, connecting dots she had missed the first time. Amanda wasn't just attacking her; she was actively trying to isolate Cordero, painting herself as the only safe harbor.

She wants to be the savior, Elaina thought. So I have to stop being the villain.

She needed to change the narrative. And it had to start immediately.

She closed her eyes, forcing her body to relax. Tomorrow was going to be a war. She needed rest.