Reborn in Fury

The scent of old mahogany and lavender polish was always comforting, reminding me of the life my father built for us. But standing in my late brother Jonathan's study today, it was suffocating. The dimly lit room made shadows loom large; a gnawing dread settled in the pit of my stomach as I shuffled through his belongings.

I wasn't looking for anything in particular, or so I had convinced myself. More than anything, I needed to be closer to Jonathan—to try and find an explanation of why his death had felt so… wrong.

My mind was cut off by muffled voices. My heartbeat quickened in alarm at the immediate recognition. Damon and Clarissa—my husband and stepmother, who had been my pillars since Jonathan died.

Cautiously curious, I creep to their voices. They were situated in the next library. Their hushed tones marked clearly in the quiet of the house. I pressed my shoulder against the doorframe, straining to listen hard.

"We've waited long enough," Damon whispered strongly. "Her grief renders her vulnerable. It's now or never.

"We can't rush this," Clarissa replied, her tone cold and calculating. "Gerald still holds the reins. We need to ensure Elara inherits everything before we make our move. If we act too soon—"

"Act too soon?" Damon's voice rose slightly. "We've already done everything else, haven't we? Jonathan's death cleared the way. What more do you want me to do, Mother?"

My breath caught in my throat. Mother?

I stumbled back, hitting a pile of books and sending them crashing noisily onto the floor. Their talking stopped dead.

"Elara?" Damon's voice then cut through, sharp and probing.

I froze, my mind racing. I tried to collect my thoughts while making sense of what I just heard as footsteps approached. I turned and bolted back into Jonathan's study, desperate for any place to hide. My fingers were trembling as I pushed papers into a drawer and pressed myself behind the heavy oak desk.

The door creaked open.

"Elara? Are you in here?" Damon's voice was calm, too calm.

I held my breath.

"Perhaps she just passed by," Clarissa said, her tone dismissive. "Let's not draw attention to ourselves."

After a tense moment, the door shut again, and their voices receded into the distance. My heart pounded as I slumped against the desk.

Mother. Damon was Clarissa’s son. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. My husband wasn’t just a stranger who had fallen in love with and married me. He was part of a scheme to take everything my family owned.

Jonathan.

My stomach churned with each replay of Damon's words within my mind: Jonathan's death cleared the way.

I felt a wave of nausea and staggered over to the desk chair, clutching at my chest. This was no longer grief; this was rage.

I needed proof.

Desperation drove my fingers through Jonathan's files as I dug for anything to connect the dots. Finally, after what felt like minutes of time standing still, I found it, a folder, stuck beneath a pile of legal documents. Inside were emails, notes, and financial statements.

One email caught my eye:

To: Jonathan Hayes

From: C.H.

Subject: Urgent—Inheritance Issue

"Jonathan,

I have reason to believe Clarissa is attempting to manipulate the estate. We need to meet. This can't wait."

C.H.—Charles Hawthorne, our family's attorney and one of Jonathan's closest confidants. My brother must have uncovered something before his death.

The door flung open, welcoming Damon’s sturdy build.

What are you doing in here, Elara?" he asked, and his tone sounded almost accusing.

I forced a shaky smile. "I was-I wanted to feel close to Jonathan. That's all."

His eyes flickered down to the papers in my hands. "What's that?"

"Nothing," I stammered fast, hugging the folder behind my back.

Damon stepped a step further, his countenance sullied in dark mood. "Is there something I need to know? You’ve been acting strange lately.”

"I should be asking you that." I snapped, the fear finally giving way to defiance.

His jaw tightened. "You should focus on grieving your brother, not digging into things that don't concern you."

"Which would be what, pray tell?" I shot back. "My brother? My family's legacy? Or the fact that my husband and stepmother are conspiring behind my back?"

His eyes flashed with something I couldn't quite place—anger, maybe fear.

"Elara, you don't understand—"

"No, Damon," I cut in, my voice shaking. "I understand perfectly. Jonathan didn't just die, did he? You and Clarissa—"

I was cut off. Damon lunged at me, and the next thing, darkness welcomed me.

*****

I woke up to the smell of drugs and beeping machine sounds that facilitated the piercing pain in my head. One look at my cloth and I quickly realized I was in the hospital.

A nurse entered, her face kind but cautious. "Mrs. Atherson, you're awake."

"Where am I?" I croaked.

"You were in an accident," she said softly. "Your husband found you unconscious in the study. He said you have been under a lot of stress since your brother's passing."

My stomach dropped. An accident? Good one, Damon and Clarissa.

"I need to speak to someone," I said, my voice hoarse. "The police. I need—"

The nurse hesitated. "Your husband has asked us to limit your visitors for now. He's worried about your mental health."

Mental health. Of course. Damon and Clarissa were covering their tracks, painting me as unstable.

When the nurse left, someone came and injected me, and in a few minutes, everything was blank. It was over; they had won.

*****

That night, as I wavered in and out of consciousness, I felt something in the room. Not Damon, not Clarissa—it was. otherworldly.

"Elara," a voice whispered, soft and haunting.

I opened my eyes to see a figure cloaked in shadow, its form shifting and indistinct.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

I am a harbinger of second chances," the figure said. "Your life was taken unjustly. You have been given the chance to return to right the wrongs and claim your justice."

"Return?" My voice shook.

"To the moment it all began," the figure replied. "But be warned, vengeance comes at a cost." Darkness flooded me again.

*****

“Babe, wake up. It’s afternoon.” Damon stood towering over me with an eerie smile.

I looked around; this was my bedroom, not the hospital. I was back at Hayes Manor, sunlight My phone buzzed on the nightstand, displaying the date.

I had been sent back two years prior, and Jonathan's funeral was tomorrow.

“I’d avenge you, Brother.” I thought.