Jana Doyle POV:
I shot up from the mattress, my hands clawing wildly at my own throat.
My lungs screamed for air. I gasped, sucking in huge, greedy mouthfuls of oxygen, but the phantom sensation of suffocation still gripped my windpipe. The memory of the black-market clinic, the dirty needle, and the cheap, burning anesthetic forcing the life out of me was so fresh I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.
Cold sweat pasted my silk nightgown to my spine. A violent shiver ripped through my shoulders.
I whipped my head around, my eyes wide and frantic. There was no rusty surgical table. There was no overwhelming stench of bleach mixed with rotting flesh.
Soft, golden morning light filtered through the blinds of my Manhattan apartment, casting long shadows across the familiar plush carpet. This was my old bedroom.
My hands shook violently as I threw off the heavy duvet. I looked down, grabbing the hem of my nightgown, and ripped it upward to expose my stomach.
I stared at my pale skin. There was only one scar. It was the old, faded surgical line from five years ago. The mark of my desperation. The physical proof of how much I had craved my father Fred's love, so much so that I had willingly let them cut a kidney out of my body to save him.
But the other wound—the fresh, gaping, bloody hole where they had brutally carved out my remaining kidney in my past life—was gone.
I stumbled out of bed. My bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor, sending a shock of reality up my legs. I wasn't dead.
I lunged for the desk and snatched my phone. The screen lit up, flashing a date that made my breath hitch. It was exactly one year ago.
I had been reborn. I was back six months before my so-called "terminal illness" diagnosis.
A wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crashed into a wall of venomous hatred inside my chest. I bit down on my lower lip so hard that the skin broke. The sharp, rusty taste of my own blood flooded my tongue, grounding me in the present.
Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of bright color caught my attention.
Sitting innocently on my nightstand was a delicate, orange velvet Hermes box.
My stomach dropped. My legs felt like lead as I walked over to it. I reached out, my fingers stiff and cold, and slowly flipped the lid open. Inside rested a small, expensive-looking glass bottle filled with a pale yellow liquid.
It was the "nutrient supplement."
My sweet, caring twin sister Kyleigh had just given this to me yesterday. She had smiled her perfect, innocent smile and told me she pulled strings to get this special conditioning medicine from Switzerland, just for my health.
In my past life, I had cried tears of gratitude. I had swallowed this liquid every single day. And six months later, my hair started falling out in clumps. I started coughing up blood into white handkerchiefs. My organs began to shut down one by one.
Kyleigh had always been an expert at using the smallest, most invisible things to destroy everything I had.
The realization exploded in my brain. The mystery of my terminal illness was solved. This wasn't medicine. It was a slow-acting, lethal poison.
I grabbed the bottle. I squeezed the glass so hard my knuckles turned a bruised, pale white.
The image of Kyleigh standing over my dying body in that filthy clinic, a smug, victorious smile twisting her beautiful face, flashed behind my eyes. My stomach convulsed.
I dropped the bottle back into the box and sprinted to the bathroom.
I gripped the edges of the marble sink and dry-heaved violently. Bile burned the back of my throat. I turned on the faucet, cupped the freezing water in my hands, and splashed it brutally against my face.
I forced myself to look up.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror had red, bloodshot eyes, but the gaze was as cold and sharp as a butcher's knife.
For years, I had begged for my parents' affection. I had clung to my fiancé Axel, hoping his love would be my salvation. Instead, they had drained my blood, harvested my organs, and thrown me away like garbage.
I reached for a towel and slowly, methodically, wiped the water from my face. With every drop I wiped away, I locked every ounce of weakness, every pathetic hope for love, deep inside a steel vault in my chest.
Suddenly, the harsh, demanding buzz of the intercom doorbell shattered the morning silence. It rang again, long and entitled.
I walked out of the bathroom, my steps silent on the hardwood, and approached the intercom screen by the front door.
On the video feed, Axel stood in the hallway. He was wearing a custom Armani suit, his jaw tight, his finger pressing the button with visible impatience.
And right beside him, leaning intimately against his arm, was Kyleigh. She looked up at the camera and waved with a sickeningly sweet smile.
Today was the monthly Doyle family dinner. In my past life, I would have been up two hours ago, doing my makeup, picking the perfect dress, standing by the door like an obedient dog waiting to please them. Axel loved having both sisters fawn over him. Kyleigh used these moments to show him how much softer and sweeter she was compared to me.
I stared at the two of them through the screen. My lips curled into a slow, cruel smile.
They thought I was still the same desperate, love-starved fool. They had no idea I had crawled back from hell.
I pressed the talk button. My voice came out like a blade forged in ice.
"Get in. The door is unlocked."
