Delina gasped, her lungs filling with air so violently it felt like she had been drowning.
She bolted upright in bed, clutching her chest. She expected to feel the cold plastic of a steering wheel or the wet mud of the crash site.
Instead, her fingers gripped high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Sunlight streamed through heavy velvet curtains she didn't recognize immediately. The room was silent, smelling of lavender and expensive fabric softener.
She turned her head and froze.
A heavy arm was draped over her waist. She traced the arm up to a broad, muscular shoulder. On the nightstand, gleaming in a stray beam of sun, sat a silver mask.
Hiram was sleeping next to her.
He was alive. He was whole. He was breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against her back.
Panic surged. Was this the afterlife? Hell? A cruel dream before the final darkness?
Reflexively, she kicked out. Her foot connected hard with his shin.
Hiram grunted. He woke instantly, his body tensing into a combat stance before his eyes were even fully open. He sat up, his gaze cold and alert, scanning the room for threats.
His hand shot out, grabbing the mask from the table. He secured it over his face in one fluid motion before turning to look at her.
"Sober already?" he asked.
His voice dripped with icy sarcasm. It was the voice of the tyrant, the man she had lived with for three years. Not the broken man weeping over her casket.
Delina stared at him, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She scrambled out of bed, tangling in the sheets. She rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it with shaking fingers.
She splashed cold water on her face, gasping. She stared at her reflection in the mirror.
No blood. No scars. Her skin looked younger, less tired. Her eyes were wide with terror.
She grabbed her phone from the marble counter. Her fingers trembled so much she dropped it once before unlocking the screen.
September 14, 2023.
She slid to the floor, her back against the cool tiles. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, hysterical and jagged. Tears streamed down her face.
It was exactly one year before the crash. A year seemed like a lifetime, but she knew better. The accident was the final move in a game that had been played for months. Florene had been laying the groundwork, manipulating finances, isolating her. The clock wasn't just ticking; it had already been running for a long time. It was the morning after their first anniversary "dinner," the one where she had gotten drunk to numb the pain of his indifference and passed out in his bed.
She had triggered a Time Loop.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted her spiral.
"If you're going to vomit, do it quietly," Hiram said through the wood. His tone was bored, dismissive.
Delina pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.
She stood up. She looked at herself in the mirror again. The fear began to recede, replaced by a cold, hard determination.
She wasn't dead. She had a second chance.
She smoothed her silk pajamas. A new fire lit her eyes.
She unlocked the door and stepped out.
Hiram was standing by the wardrobe, buttoning a crisp white shirt. His back was to her, radiating distance and annoyance.
Delina looked at his broad back. She superimposed the image of the weeping man at the funeral over this cold statue.
I won't be the victim this time, she vowed silently. And I will find out who you really are beneath that mask.
