The Unwanted Wife's Foresight

My hands white-knuckled the steering wheel, watching the tour bus - my son and mother-in-law inside - slide towards a freezing cliff edge.

Panic seized me, but not just for the immediate danger; I had lived this exact, horrific day before.

In my first life, my firefighter husband, Andrew, scoffed at my desperate calls, choosing to celebrate with his mistress Molly and her son over saving his own family.

His callous dismissal led to their deaths, my ruin, and finally, my own murder at his hands for exposing him.

Now, facing the same impossible choice and a chilling text where he declared me "psychotic" for reporting the crash, I knew I would not beg the man who had already killed me once.

This time, with the terrifying foresight of memory, I would save them, and myself, even if it meant destroying the monster I once married.

The world came back in a scream, the shriek of metal grinding against rock.

My eyes snapped open. I was gripping the steering wheel of my car, knuckles white, the engine stalled. Through the windshield, not twenty yards ahead, a tour bus was sliding sideways on a patch of black ice, its back end swinging out over the cliff edge that dropped straight down to the frozen surface of Lake Michigan.

Inside that bus were my son, Matthew, and my mother-in-law, Debra.

This was it. The day it all ended. The day I died.

Because I had lived this day before.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. The first time, I had watched this happen in a daze of disbelief. I' d fumbled for my phone, my first and only thought to call my husband, Andrew Scott, a Fire Lieutenant whose station was less than five minutes away.

He had laughed at me then. He' d told me to stop being so dramatic, to stop trying to ruin his day.

His day. He was at a middle school science fair, playing "celebrity judge" for his high school sweetheart Molly' s son. His entire crew was with him.

In that first life, I had screamed and begged. I had called my friend Ethan, who used his money and influence to force Andrew' s station to respond. They had arrived late, angry and resentful. Andrew, in a display of arrogant heroism, had insisted on saving his mother and son first, ignoring all protocols. His reckless actions unbalanced the bus.

It had tipped. It had fallen.

And everyone on it died.

Later, after Molly broke up with him over the scandal and he lost his job, Andrew came to our home. He blamed me. He blamed Ethan for exposing him. And then he killed us both.

Now, the bus teetered on the precipice, a fragile metal shell holding everyone I was supposed to love. The grinding noise stopped, replaced by an awful, precarious silence.

I was back. I had a second chance.

A second chance to save them. A second chance to save myself.

My hand, shaking uncontrollably, reached for my phone. The screen lit up, showing a picture of me, Andrew, and a smiling Matthew from a vacation we took two years ago. A lifetime ago.

This time, I would not make the same mistake. This time, I knew Andrew was not my savior.

He was the monster I had to escape.

My fingers flew across the screen, dialing Andrew' s number out of a terrible, ingrained habit. The line connected, and the familiar sound of his impatient voice filled the car.

"Gabrielle, what is it now? I'm busy."

"Andrew," I said, my voice tight and strained. "There's been an accident. The bus, the one with Matthew and your mom, it's crashed on the scenic route. It's hanging over the cliff."

A woman's voice murmured in the background, soft and cloying. Molly. "Is that Gabby? What does she want now?"

Andrew's tone turned to ice. "A crash? Are you serious? We're at the science fair. Caleb is about to get his award. You can't just make things up to get attention."

"I am not making this up!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "I am looking at it right now! It's going to fall! You're the closest unit, you have to get here!"

"Oh, for God's sake," Molly's voice cut in, louder this time, right next to the phone. "Andrew, tell her to stop. She's just jealous because you're spending the day with me and Caleb. It's pathetic."

"She's right, Gabrielle," Andrew said, his voice dripping with condescension. "This is a new low, even for you. Go home and cool off. We'll talk about your little psycho-drama later."

He hung up.

The dial tone buzzed in my ear, a sound of absolute finality. My breath hitched. It was happening exactly as it had before. The same words, the same callous dismissal.

I looked at the bus. A few faces were pressed against the windows, their expressions a mixture of confusion and growing fear. I saw a man I recognized from church, Mr. Henderson, trying to calm people down.

My phone buzzed. A text from Andrew.

Stop calling my firehouse. I've told them you're having a psychotic break. They won't respond. Get help.

Rage, cold and pure, washed over me. He wasn't just neglecting his duty; he was actively obstructing it. He was sealing their fates to protect his fragile ego and his precious day with Molly.

In my first life, this was the moment I fell apart. I had screamed his name into the dead phone, pounded the steering wheel until my hands were bruised, and cried in pure, helpless terror. I had clung to the idea that he was my husband, that he had to care, that this was all some horrible misunderstanding.

This time, there was no misunderstanding. I saw him for what he was.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I would not beg him. I would not rely on the man who had already killed me once.

My gaze fell on my mother-in-law's face in one of the bus windows. She was on her phone. A second later, my phone rang. It was her.

"Gabrielle! What is going on?" she shrieked, her voice shrill with panic and accusation. "Why isn't Andrew here? This is his job! Did you do something to make him mad again? I swear, you are the most useless wife a man could have!"

"Debra, listen to me," I started, trying to keep my voice calm.

"I will not listen! You're a doctor, do something! No, you probably can't even do that right. You should have been more like Molly. She knows how to support a man, not drag him down with her endless career demands!"

The phone call was a torrent of abuse, each word a familiar sting. I had spent years enduring this. Years of being told I wasn't enough, that my success as a surgeon was a flaw, that I was cold and unfeminine compared to the sainted memory of Andrew's high school flame.

I had bought them this house. I paid the mortgage. I funded Andrew' s hobbies, paid for Debra' s living expenses, and poured every spare dollar into a family that saw me as little more than an ATM.

And for what? To be left to die on a cliffside while my husband celebrated with another woman and my mother-in-law blamed me for it.

The line went dead. She had hung up on me.

A sudden commotion outside my car snapped me back to the present. A few cars had stopped behind me, and people were getting out. The family members of other passengers. A woman ran towards me, her face streaked with tears.

"You're the fire lieutenant's wife, aren't you? Why isn't anyone here? Someone said you called and told them it was a prank!"

A man grabbed my car door, yanking it open. "What the hell is wrong with you? My parents are on that bus! Are you trying to kill them?"

They surrounded me, their fear and anger, misdirected by Andrew's lies, crashing down on me. Someone shoved me, and I stumbled back against my car. The verbal assault became physical. They saw me not as a fellow victim, but as the cause of their nightmare.

And Andrew, my husband, was unreachable. Laughing, probably, at a school gymnasium.