Reborn on Our Wedding Day

My wedding day. Again.

I stood there, a young woman forced into an arranged marriage, about to become Abigail Blackwood.

In my previous life, a cold, brutal tyrant named Ethan, obsessed with a family vendetta, systematically destroyed everything and everyone I loved.

I suffered silently with a terminal illness no one knew about, watching in agony as he engineered my beloved grandfather' s public humiliation and death, and as my sister Ellie endured a horrific abusive marriage that tragically cost her, and her unborn child, their lives.

His cruelty knew no bounds: public shaming, forcing me to play piano until my fingers bled for his mistress's amusement, endless torment for every desperate plea.

Overwhelmed by despair and humiliation, I chose to die by my own hand.

But somehow, fate intervened. Here I am, back on our wedding day.

And so is he.

Ethan Blackwood remembers everything, just as I do. The monster who tormented me now acts kind, attentive, even regretful, desperately trying to atone.

But my heart is a fortress of old wounds, my soul scarred by unimaginable pain. Can I ever trust him, or is this just another, more sophisticated game?

This second chance is both a gift and a terrifying burden. I am determined to protect my family, to rewrite our tragic history, and to never again be the pawn in his brutal game. Can love truly blossom from such a foundation of hatred and despair?

The priest' s voice was low.

He spoke of Abigail Hayes, née Vance.

A life cut short.

No mention of children.

Just empty words about a young woman gone too soon.

Ethan Blackwood stood near the polished casket.

His face showed nothing.

A blank mask.

This was Abby' s funeral, a quiet affair for a daughter of old New England money, a family known for service, now fading.

Months earlier, the air in the Blackwood mansion was always cold.

Abby knew it was their anniversary.

Ethan would be home.

He had to be.

It was an obligation, written into their prenuptial agreement, a document as cold as their marriage.

She waited in the formal dining room.

The table was set for two, a single white rose in a crystal vase.

Her chef, bless him, had tried.

Abby smoothed the silk of her dress.

She felt the familiar ache deep in her bones. Leukemia. Aggressive.

She hadn' t told Ethan. Why would she?

The sound of the front door echoed.

Ethan' s voice, sharp and impatient, carried through the hall.

Then another voice, light, musical. Isabelle Moreau.

Abby' s breath caught.

Ethan walked in, Isabelle clinging to his arm, radiant and smiling.

He looked at Abby, then at the table.

"We have a guest, Abigail."

Isabelle' s eyes, a striking blue, scanned Abby.

"Oh, Abby, darling. I hope you don' t mind. Ethan insisted I join. He said you wouldn' t be feeling up to much."

Ethan' s gaze was like ice.

"Isabelle is sensitive to germs. Try not to... contaminate her. You look pale."

The words hit Abby like stones.

Contaminate.

Her illness, a secret shame he now weaponized without even knowing its name.

Later, after Isabelle had picked at her food, chattering about her latest shopping trip, Abby found Ethan in his study.

The room smelled of expensive whiskey and his disdain.

"Ethan, we need to talk about Gregory."

Her brother-in-law, Ellie' s husband. His political career was crumbling.

Blackwood Industries was squeezing him, a slow, deliberate strangulation.

"Your sister needs help. Your grandfather' s legacy funds are next."

Ethan didn' t look up from his papers.

"Gregory Thompson is a fool. And your grandfather, Senator Vance, orchestrated this disgusting marriage. He drove Isabelle away years ago. This is the price."

His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"He forced me. You all did."

Abby felt a wave of dizziness.

"Isabelle left on her own, Ethan. Years before... before us."

"Lies. Your family has always been manipulative."

He finally looked at her, his eyes filled with a hatred that stole her breath.

"Your suffering is a small price for what your family did."

The effort of the confrontation left Abby weak.

A deep cough rattled her chest.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, tasting blood.

She needed to see Ellie.

The next day, Abby drove to Ellie' s modest suburban house.

It felt a world away from the Blackwood mansion.

Ellie opened the door, her smile too bright.

A bruise, faint but visible, colored her cheekbone.

"Abby! What a surprise."

Inside, the house was quiet.

Ellie' s hands trembled as she made tea.

"How are you, really?" Abby asked, her voice gentle.

Ellie' s composure broke.

Tears streamed down her face.

"Gregory... he' s been... difficult. The pressure from his campaign failing."

She touched her cheek. "It was an accident."

Abby knew it wasn' t.

Then, Ellie' s voice dropped to a whisper.

"I' m pregnant, Abby."

A small, fragile hope in her eyes.

"Don' t tell anyone yet. Especially not Gregory. He... he wouldn' t be happy."

Ellie hugged her tightly.

"You can always stay here, you know. With me."

Abby held onto her sister, the warmth a stark contrast to the chill in her own life.

That evening, Ethan and Isabelle were in the main living room.

Abby passed the doorway, unseen.

Isabelle was curled on the sofa, Ethan' s arm around her.

He was smiling, a genuine smile Abby hadn' t seen directed at her in years.

He whispered something, and Isabelle laughed, tilting her head back.

He leaned in and kissed her, a long, tender kiss.

Abby' s heart clenched.

It was a brutal confirmation of everything she already knew.

The Blackwood Charity Gala was the event of the season.

Abby knew she had to be there.

One of her grandfather' s oldest charities, a literacy program for underprivileged children, was about to be hostilely taken over by a Blackwood subsidiary. It would destroy his legacy.

She found Ethan near the champagne fountain, Isabelle radiant beside him in a glittering gown.

Abby walked towards them, her steps heavy.

This was her only chance.

She sank to her knees before Ethan, the cold marble floor chilling her through her thin dress.

Gasps rippled through the nearby guests.

"Ethan, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The Vance Literacy Program. It was my grandfather' s life. Don' t let your company destroy it."

Ethan looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

Isabelle' s eyes gleamed with triumph.

"My dear Abby," Ethan said, his voice carrying clearly. "Perhaps you' re looking for a new role? Isabelle needs a new personal assistant. Someone... dedicated."

Isabelle laughed, a light, cruel sound.

"Oh, Ethan, you' re terrible! But Abby, while you' re down there... I' m in the mood for some music. Play something for us. Something... melancholic."

Abby stared up at Ethan, her mind reeling.

Isabelle' s personal assistant?

The humiliation burned through her.

Ethan' s lips curled into a smirk.

"What' s wrong, Abby? Not to your liking? I thought the Vances were all about service."

He was enjoying this, watching her break.

For her grandfather. For Ellie.

"I' ll do it," Abby said, her voice barely a whisper. "I' ll be her assistant. Just... spare the charity."

Ethan' s eyes, however, had already lost interest.

He turned to Isabelle, his arm sliding around her waist.

"Actually, darling, I think we' ve had enough drama for one night. Let' s dance."

He led Isabelle away, leaving Abby kneeling on the cold floor, her sacrifice dismissed, her plea ignored.

The crowd parted for them, whispers following in their wake.

The strain, the public degradation, it was too much.

A sharp pain shot through Abby' s chest.

She gasped, clutching at her heart.

Her vision blurred.

The glittering ballroom spun around her.

She swayed, then collapsed, the world going dark.

When she woke, she was in a small, sterile room off the main hall.

Dr. Chen, her oncologist, was beside her.

His face was grim.

"Abby, you can' t keep pushing yourself like this. Your white blood cell count is dangerously low."

"How long, David?" she asked, her voice weak.

He hesitated. "The new treatment... it' s not working as we hoped. A few months. Maybe less, if you don' t rest."

A strange sense of calm washed over Abby.

"If I die," she said, her voice clear. "If I die soon... Ethan might stop. He might leave my family alone. My death could be their salvation."

Dr. Chen looked horrified.

"Abby! Don' t talk like that. Life is precious. We' re not giving up."

He stood abruptly. "I have to get back to my other patients. But you need to go home. Now."

He left, his disapproval hanging in the air.

Abby managed to get a car home.

The Blackwood mansion was silent, empty.

Ethan and Isabelle were likely still at the gala, or perhaps somewhere more private.

She found a note on her pillow. Ethan' s sharp, impersonal script.

"Isabelle has a headache. The sound of your coughing from the guest wing is disturbing her. Keep your windows closed."

Her coughing.

He didn' t care that she was ill, only that her suffering inconvenienced Isabelle.

A wave of profound resignation washed over her.

He truly felt nothing for her. Nothing but contempt.

The next morning, Abby went to see Ellie.

She found her sister in the kitchen, a tense silence hanging in the air.

Gregory Thompson, Ellie' s husband, was there.

He was pacing, his face flushed.

"It' s your family' s fault!" he yelled, not at Ellie, but as if addressing the room. "The Vances are cursed! Dragging me down with them!"

He saw Abby. "You! Your husband is ruining me!"

"Gregory, please," Ellie said, her voice trembling. "Abby isn' t well."

"She' s never well!" he sneered. He grabbed Ellie' s arm, his fingers digging in. "And you, you' re useless!"

"Let her go, Gregory," Abby said, her voice low but firm.

He laughed. "Or what? You' ll tell your powerful husband?"

He shoved Ellie hard. Ellie cried out, stumbling against the counter.

Abby rushed to her sister' s side.

"Get out, Gregory," Abby said, shielding Ellie.

He glared at them, then stormed out, slamming the door.

Ellie was pale, her hand pressed to her stomach.

"I' m okay," she whispered, but her eyes were wide with fear. She looked so tired, so worn down by his abuse.

Abby held her, a cold dread settling in her heart.

Later that week, the annual Vance Foundation board meeting was scheduled.

The hostile takeover by Blackwood Industries was imminent.

Abby knew Ethan wouldn' t listen to private pleas.

She had to force his hand.

She walked into the Blackwood Industries boardroom during a press conference Ethan was holding.

Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled.

Ethan was at the podium, speaking about corporate responsibility.

The irony was sickening.

Abby walked to the front, her heart pounding.

She knelt again, this time before the entire press corps.

"Mr. Blackwood," she said, her voice clear and steady, though it cost her everything. "You offered me a position as Ms. Moreau' s personal assistant. I accept. I will serve her in any way she wishes. In return, I ask only that you honor your previous... implication. That you would spare the Vance Foundation."

A stunned silence fell over the room.

Ethan' s face was a mask of fury.