Elliana gripped the silk bedsheets. Her knuckles were stark white. Cold sweat soaked through her thin nightgown, pasting it to her skin. Her legs still throbbed with the phantom pain of crushed bones.
She lunged toward the nightstand. Her trembling hand knocked over a glass of water, but she ignored it. She grabbed her smartphone, her thumb slipping against the glass screen as she frantically tapped it awake.
She stared at the digital date display glowing brightly against the lock screen.
October 12th.
It was exactly six months before the car crash.
A wave of intense nausea hit her stomach. The room spun. She dropped the phone onto the mattress. She threw the blankets off and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
Her feet hit the thick Persian rug. Her knees buckled instantly, and she collapsed onto the floor.
She did not care about the sting in her kneecaps. She scrambled up and sprinted out of the master bedroom barefoot.
She ran down the long, carpeted hallway. Her shoulder clipped an antique vase on a pedestal. It wobbled wildly, but she did not stop to look. Her mind was entirely consumed by the image of Clara's lifeless, bloody face.
She reached the door at the end of the hall. She shoved it open with so much force that the heavy wood slammed against the wall with a loud bang.
The morning sun filled the nursery.
Clara was sitting in the middle of the playmat. She was wearing a clean yellow dress, quietly brushing the hair of a plastic doll. She jumped at the loud noise and looked up with wide eyes.
Elliana dropped to her knees. She crawled across the floor and pulled Clara into her chest. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed her tight.
Hot, heavy tears spilled down Elliana's cheeks. They soaked into Clara's soft hair.
"Mommy?" Clara asked softly. She dropped the doll and patted Elliana's back with her small, warm hands. "Are you sad?"
Elliana buried her face in Clara's neck. She felt the steady, strong pulse of her daughter's heartbeat against her own skin. She inhaled the sweet scent of baby shampoo.
Holding her daughter's warm body, the hellish memories of the burning car intertwined with the peaceful reality of the nursery. A violent shudder ripped through her spine. It wasn't a nightmare. It was a warning. A second chance granted by the universe. In her past life, she had shrunk herself into nothingness, hoping her submission would earn her family's safety. It had only bought them a fiery grave. The agonizing phantom pain in her crushed leg served as a brutal reminder. She swore to the heavens, right then and there, that she would never be weak again.
She was alive. They were both alive. She had crawled back from hell.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed from the hallway, breaking the silence.
Marta, the head nanny, appeared in the doorway. She held a glass of warm milk on a small tray. Her eyes swept over Elliana sitting on the floor in a wrinkled nightgown, and a flash of blatant disgust crossed her face.
"You need to go downstairs and prepare Mr. Lancaster's breakfast," Marta said. Her tone was flat and demanding. There was no respect in her voice.
Elliana froze. The memories from her past life crashed into her brain. Marta was the mole. Marta was the one who reported her every move to Kyle. Marta was the reason Kyle always knew exactly how to manipulate Devontae against her.
Elliana slowly released Clara. She stood up. She did not lower her head. She did not bite the inside of her cheek like she used to when she was anxious.
She looked down at Marta. Her eyes were as cold and sharp as broken glass.
Marta felt the shift in the air. She took a half-step backward, her grip tightening on the tray. The milk sloshed over the rim of the glass.
Elliana wanted to wrap her hands around Marta's throat. Her fingers twitched with the urge to cause physical pain. But she forced her jaw to relax.
"Put the milk on the table," Elliana ordered. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.
Marta blinked, confused by the authority in Elliana's tone. She frowned, walked over to the small table, and slammed the glass down. The heavy base hit the wood with a sharp clack.
Elliana did not flinch. She stared directly into Marta's eyes.
"Leave the room," Elliana said. "Do not interrupt us again."
Marta opened her mouth to argue, but the dead look in Elliana's eyes stopped her. She muttered something under her breath, turned on her heel, and marched out of the room. Her posture was stiff with arrogance.
Elliana waited until the door clicked shut. She walked into the adjoining bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.
She looked at her reflection. Her face was pale. Her eyes looked exhausted from years of shrinking herself to protect Devontae's fragile ego. She had hidden her degree from the Rhode Island School of Design. She had buried her talent as an artisanal perfumer. She had played the useless trophy wife so he could feel like a king.
It had gotten her and her daughter killed.
She turned on the faucet. She splashed freezing water onto her face, scrubbing her skin until it turned red. She washed away the pathetic woman she used to be.
She walked into her massive walk-in closet. She grabbed the conservative, dull dresses Devontae liked and threw them onto the floor in a pile.
She reached into the back of the wardrobe and pulled out a sharp, tailored black silk blouse. She put it on. The fabric clung to her posture, making her look severe and untouchable.
Her phone buzzed on the vanity.
She picked it up. A calendar notification popped onto the screen.
Astor-Wexler Family Charity Gala - Next Week.
Elliana stared at the name. A slow, cruel smile spread across her lips. The first step of her revenge was right here.
