Chapter 3

The first month of marriage was a masterclass in invisible warfare.

Ryan and I occupied opposite ends of the Ashford townhouse. He had the master suite. I had a guest room that his mother had helpfully furnished with a single twin bed and no curtains.

"We didn't want you to get too comfortable," Victoria said, her smile razor-thin. "Since it's temporary."

"How thoughtful," I said. "The minimalism is very chic."

She blinked, clearly expecting tears. I gave her nothing.

In my first life, I'd cried that first night. Curled up on that narrow bed, wondering what I'd done wrong.

Now, I slept like the dead. Revenge is an excellent sedative.

Ryan ignored me completely, except during public appearances.

Arthur insisted we attend three social events per month as a couple. Optics for the family trust board.

At these events, Ryan would place his hand on my lower back, smile for cameras, and then drop me like a used napkin the moment we were out of frame.

Serena attended every single one.

She'd drape herself over Ryan in the corners, laughing too loudly, touching his arm, making sure I saw.

The society wives whispered behind their hands.

*"Poor thing." "She must know." "Why doesn't she just leave?"*

I let them whisper. Every pitying glance was a brick in the wall of my case.

Because I was building a case.

Not for divorce. For survival.

I documented everything. Screenshots of Ryan's absences. Timestamps of Serena's visits. Victoria's verbal abuse, recorded on my phone tucked in my cardigan pocket.

In my first life, I had no evidence. No leverage. Nothing.

This time, I was armed.

The mysterious texter, "D," contacted me once more, three weeks into the marriage.

*"Arthur's health will decline soon. When it does, they'll try to renegotiate. Don't let them."*

Who was this person? How did they know the family's secrets?

I wanted to ask, but something told me not to push. Not yet.

Arthur's health did decline. Rapidly.

By week six, he was bedridden. By week eight, he was gone.

The funeral was enormous. Washington's elite packed the cathedral.

Ryan delivered a eulogy that was polished, emotional, and completely hollow.

I sat in the front row, wearing black, and grieved genuinely. Arthur had been decent to me. In both lifetimes, he'd been the only one.

After the burial, Victoria cornered me in the kitchen of the estate.

"Now that Arthur is gone," she said, her voice ice, "there's no reason to continue this charade. Sign the early termination. Take your money. Leave."

She slid a document across the counter.

Early termination. Reduced payout: fifty thousand instead of two hundred.

And, of course, it would void the hidden clause in Appendix C.

I picked up the document, pretended to read it.

"No," I said.

Victoria's face went white, then red.

"Excuse me?"

"The contract is twelve months. I intend to honor it." I set the paper down. "Arthur would have wanted that."

Invoking Arthur's name was a calculated strike. Victoria's nostrils flared.

"You ungrateful little—"

"Mother." Ryan appeared in the doorway, his face drawn. "Not today."

Victoria shot me a look of pure hatred and swept out.

Ryan lingered. He studied me, his brow furrowed, as though seeing me for the first time.

"Why are you staying?" he asked quietly. "You clearly don't want to be here."

"Maybe I have my reasons."

"What reasons could you possibly have?"

I held his gaze. "Twelve months, Ryan. That was the deal. I keep my word."

Something shifted in his expression. Confusion, maybe. Or the faintest crack of curiosity.

He left without another word.

Nine months and three weeks remained.

And somewhere out there, "D" was watching.

That night, another message arrived.

*"Well played. But be careful. Serena is more dangerous than you remember. She's already talking to the trust's lawyers. She knows about Appendix C."*

My blood went cold.

If Serena knew, then Ryan would know by morning.