The chandeliers sparkled like frozen constellations above the grand ballroom, their golden light spilling over polished marble and velvet-draped tables. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, accompanied by the sweet melody of a string quartet.
It was a night meant for fairy tales.
For Elena Cruz, it was meant to be the happiest night of her life.
She sat at the long head table, draped in white silk and lace, her wedding gown shimmering beneath the glow of the lights. Diamonds—Adrian's diamonds—hung heavy at her throat, catching every flicker of light as if to announce her triumph to the world.
She was Elena Vale now, the wife of Adrian Vale—the man every woman in high society whispered about. Billionaire. Cold. Untouchable. And somehow… hers.
Or so she had believed.
Her lips trembled against the rim of her champagne flute as she smiled politely at the guests. Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown, hiding their tremors. She had dreamed of this day for years, prayed for Adrian to finally look at her with the warmth she had always craved.
And yet, as the night stretched on, the air grew heavy. Too heavy.
Adrian sat beside her, devastatingly handsome in his tailored black suit, his every move commanding the room. His hand rested on the back of her chair, a picture of intimacy for the cameras, but his body was taut, his smile coldly polite.
When his dark eyes slid toward her, Elena's heart faltered.
It wasn't affection in them.
It was something sharper. Something that burned.
She brushed the thought aside. It's nerves, she told herself. Every groom is like this. He'll soften later. He has to.
The applause died down as waiters approached with gleaming crystal goblets filled with crimson wine. Adrian's hand moved smoothly, lifting one, his lips curving into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"To my lovely wife," he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear.
The words should have melted her. Instead, they chilled her.
He tilted the glass toward her lips.
Elena's breath caught. Something about the moment felt wrong. The faint bitterness in the air, the sharpness of his gaze, the way her stepsister Bianca watched from across the table with a smile that was just a little too smug.
Her stepmother, seated beside her father, didn't even glance Elena's way—her attention fixed firmly on Adrian, as if admiring the son-in-law she had schemed so hard to secure.
A prickling unease swept over Elena's skin.
Her lips barely brushed the rim of the glass.
Adrian's hand pressed firmly at her back. "Drink," he whispered, his tone silk over steel.
She looked up at him. The man she had loved since her youth. The man she had fought her family for, abandoned friendships for, begged her father to approve. His face was carved from marble, flawless and cold.
And still, she obeyed.
The liquid touched her tongue—rich, velvety, bitter. Too bitter.
Her throat convulsed as she swallowed.
The taste lingered, sharp and metallic. Wrong.
Within seconds, warmth spread down her throat and across her chest—not the comforting warmth of wine, but a searing heat that coiled into her stomach like fire.
Her pulse raced. The chandeliers above blurred into streaks of gold. The laughter of the crowd warped into hollow echoes.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the table. "A–Adrian… what… what did you—?"
Adrian leaned in, brushing his lips against her temple. To the crowd, it looked like a tender kiss. To Elena, it was the whisper of the devil himself.
"Did you really think I married you for love?" His breath ghosted hot against her skin, his words soft, cruel. "You were a pawn, Elena. Nothing more. A way to crush your father's company and give Bianca what she deserved."
Her heart dropped into an abyss.
She pulled back, shaking her head weakly. "N–No… you… you can't…"
Bianca's laugh carried across the room—light, mocking, cutting. The sound stabbed through the haze of her crumbling world.
Elena's chest tightened as the poison took hold. Her body betrayed her, legs buckling beneath the weight of her gown. The goblet slipped from her fingers, shattering into a pool of dark red on the marble floor.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
She collapsed forward, and Adrian caught her—arms strong, gentle almost. For a moment, hope flared desperately in her chest. He wouldn't let me die. He couldn't…
But then his arms vanished.
He let her fall.
The marble floor was mercilessly cold against her cheek. Pain spread like fire through her veins, every breath harder than the last.
Around her, people whispered. Some gasped. Some turned away. None moved to help.
Her father's voice was tight, controlled. "Elena—" But he didn't rise from his seat.
Her stepmother's hand on his arm stilled him, her smile hidden behind a delicate fan.
And Adrian crouched beside her, every inch the concerned husband for the eyes of the guests, but his hand—when it tilted her chin—was cold, mocking.
"You should have known better," he whispered, his lips curving cruelly. "Bianca was always the one I wanted."
Her stepsister appeared at his side, smug and radiant in a gown nearly identical to hers. Bianca's smile was sharp enough to draw blood.
Elena's vision blurred with tears. How could I have been so blind?
Her chest heaved. Her lungs screamed for air. Her body grew cold.
Darkness edged her vision as the world pulled away.
Her final thought was not of Adrian. Not of Bianca. Not even of her father, who sat silent as she died.
It was of herself.
If I could live again…
I would never trust them.
I would never love him.
I would make them all pay.
The darkness swallowed her whole.
A gasp ripped from her throat as Elena bolted upright.
Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths, sweat clinging to her skin. She pressed a trembling hand to her heart, half-expecting to feel the searing burn of poison still there.
But there was nothing.
No gown. No diamonds. No cold marble beneath her cheek.
She looked around wildly, and her breath caught.
The pale pink curtains fluttered in the breeze. The cracked wooden desk sat beneath the window. The worn textbooks on the nightstand—the very ones she had used in her second year of university—lay stacked neatly, untouched.
Her bedroom.
Her old bedroom.
Elena staggered from the bed, her legs trembling as she crossed to the desk. Her eyes landed on the calendar pinned to the wall.
The date froze her blood.
Three years earlier.
Her hands shook as she reached for the mirror, staring at the reflection that met her.
Not the broken bride who had collapsed beneath a chandelier. Not the woman who had died humiliated at her own wedding.
But a younger Elena. Innocent. Softer. Untouched by betrayal.
A choked laugh escaped her lips, spilling into sobs. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed against the edge of her bed, clutching the fabric of her nightdress.
It was real.
Somehow—by miracle, by curse—she was alive.
Reborn.
This time, she would not be the naive bride they destroyed.
Her tears dried as her lips curved into a smile colder than Adrian's had ever been.
This time, Elena Cruz would not be the victim.
This time, she would be their nightmare.