Isabella gasped.
Her lungs expanded violently, sucking in a massive gulp of air. It felt like she had just broken the surface of a freezing ocean.
Her hands shot out and clamped around a leather steering wheel. Her manicured nails dug so deeply into the material that her fingertips ached.
She blinked rapidly. The world was too bright. The violent thunderstorm was gone. The deafening sound of crunching metal was gone.
She was sitting in the driver's seat of a stationary car. Sunlight poured through the windshield, warming her skin.
She looked down at her chest. No blood. No crushed ribs. She took a deep breath. Her lungs expanded smoothly, without the agonizing puncture of broken bones.
She looked out the windshield. Directly in front of her bumper was a classic yellow New York taxi cab. The two cars were touching, a minor fender-bender in the middle of a bustling Manhattan street.
Isabella's breath hitched. She slowly raised her eyes and looked into the rearview mirror.
Staring back at her was a young, flawless face. There was no thick medical gauze on her forehead. There were no dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes. Her skin was glowing, her hair perfectly styled.
Her hands shook uncontrollably as she reached over to the passenger seat. She grabbed her phone.
She pressed the power button. The screen lit up.
The date displayed in bold white numbers. It was exactly four years ago.
The day of the minor car crash. The exact day Kaylie used the distraction of this accident to show up at the Conrad estate and claim her place.
The memories hit Isabella like a physical blow. The flashbulbs in the hotel room. The cold voice of Dorman cutting her off. The terrifying feeling of the brake pedal hitting the floor. The metallic taste of her own blood. Kaylie's smiling face under the black umbrella.
A violent tremor of pure disbelief racked her entire body. She stared at her unblemished hands gripping the steering wheel, then back at the rearview mirror, her chest heaving as she sucked in greedy, desperate breaths of air. A wave of hysterical, broken laughter threatened to bubble up in her throat, choking her. Dead. She had been dead. She had felt her ribs snap and her lungs fill with blood. And now... now she was not. The sheer absurdity of the situation felt like a razor's edge balanced precariously between absolute madness and a chilling, newfound reality.
The blood in Isabella's veins slowly turned to ice. The frantic terror in her eyes evaporated, hardened by the crucible of betrayal she had just relived, and was replaced by a dark, bottomless abyss of absolute cold.
She was back.
A sharp tapping sound came from the glass beside her head.
Isabella turned. Brenda, her personal maid, was standing on the Manhattan sidewalk, peering through the window with an expression of exaggerated panic.
"Miss Isabella! Miss Isabella, are you hurt?" Brenda shouted through the glass, her hands fluttering nervously.
Isabella didn't move. She stared at Brenda. In her past life, she had thought Brenda was just a clumsy, loyal servant. Now, she remembered how Brenda had systematically leaked her schedule to Kaylie for four years.
Isabella pressed the silver button on the armrest. The window rolled down with a smooth mechanical hum.
She turned her head slowly. She locked eyes with Brenda.
Isabella's gaze was devoid of any human warmth. It was the stare of a predator looking at a very small, very stupid insect.
Brenda's frantic babbling died in her throat. She physically took a step back, her shoulders hunching under the sudden, crushing weight of Isabella's stare.
Isabella pushed the heavy car door open. She stepped out onto the pavement. Her designer heels clicked sharply against the concrete.
She walked to the front of the car and looked down. The bumper had a scratch no longer than her pinky finger.
A slow, chilling smirk curled the corner of Isabella's mouth.
This pathetic little scratch. This was the butterfly that flapped its wings and started the hurricane that killed her.
Isabella turned around. She leaned her lower back against the car door and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked down at Brenda, utilizing her height advantage to physically dominate the space.
"Call the estate," Isabella ordered. Her voice was perfectly calm, smooth as silk, and hard as titanium.
Brenda blinked, confused by the lack of tears or panic. "M-miss? Shouldn't we call the police first?"
"I said," Isabella's voice dropped an octave, vibrating with undeniable authority, "call the estate. Tell them I've been in an accident. Tell them to send a car for me immediately."
Brenda swallowed hard, intimidated by the sudden shift in her mistress's aura. "Yes, Miss Isabella. Right away."
Brenda fumbled in her apron pocket, pulled out her phone, and walked a few steps away to make the call.
Isabella turned her head and looked down the long, bustling avenue of Fifth Avenue. The yellow cabs, the rushing pedestrians, the towering glass skyscrapers.
She took a slow, deep breath of the exhaust-filled city air.
Kaylie wanted to play the victim. Dorman wanted a corporate pawn. Ivor wanted a convenient hole to hide his cowardice.
Isabella closed her eyes. Her fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against her arm. She was going to give them exactly what they wanted. She was going to play the perfect, obedient, naive fake heiress.
And then, she was going to rip their lives apart, piece by piece, from the inside out.
