Chapter 3

“Ava. Go to the kitchen. Grab two housekeeper uniforms and some snacks. Don’t let anyone see you.”

Ava bit her lip.

“Wherever you’re going, Miss — I’m going with you.”

I stopped and looked at her.

In my last life, after I “married” Adrian, Diana shipped Ava off to some property upstate.

Made her scrub floors.

Two years later, Ava tried to send me a letter.

She had figured out Vivienne was still alive.

She never made it to the city.

They said her car went off a cliff.

“An accident.”

Right.

Sure.

I squeezed her hand.

“Okay. We go together.”

The second she was gone, I pulled a shoebox out from under my bed.

Inside: three hundred and twenty grand in cash.

Money I had saved from doing freelance sketches for private clients.

Diana always assumed I spent it on Adrian.

I never did.

He barely gave me anything.

But every time Vivienne saw something she liked, Diana made me pay.

“Your sister’s had it so hard, Willow. Just let her have this one.”

She had been saying that line since I was six years old.

From a cupcake, to a Chanel bag, to my whole damn life.

Downstairs, I heard Charles’s voice.

I tucked the cash into my bra, slipped out the window, and cut through the back hallway to Diana’s suite.

Her door was not fully shut.

“Did Willow follow her out?” Charles whispered.

“I’ve got eyes on her,” Diana said, irritated. “She’s always been a good girl. She’ll cry a little. Once Vivvy’s little ‘accident’ plays out, she’ll fall right in line.”

Charles hesitated.

“What if Adrian goes too hard on Vivvy at the altar? She’s fragile —”

“Oh, please. It’s theater. That boy is obsessed with her.” Diana laughed softly.

“He texted me last night. Everything’s set. Veil drops, he pretends to blow up, the Coles pretend to call it off. Three days later, we announce Vivvy hanged herself. Willow will feel so damn guilty she’ll marry him without asking a single question.”

Charles sighed.

“Poor Willow.”

I stood outside that door and felt… nothing.

Just a quiet, cold click, like a lock sliding shut in my chest.

Last life, on my deathbed, they used the exact same words.

“Poor Willow.”

Like a two-syllable receipt for thirty years of my life.

“Vivvy’s been through hell,” Diana went on, colder now. “She finally likes someone. What kind of mother would I be if I let her lose him?”

“Willow marrying Adrian is a gift. He doesn’t love her, sure. But he agreed to give her the ring, the last name, the credit cards. She’ll want for nothing.”

“But if Adrian keeps seeing Vivvy,” Charles said, “Willow’s going to figure it out.”

“So what?” Diana snapped. “By then she’ll be Mrs. Cole. Two families, one empire. What’s she going to do — file for divorce and start over? She’s a housewife. She’s got nowhere to go.”

I stared at the carpet, fists clenched in my sleeves.

They were not scared of me finding out.

They were sure that even if I did, I had no way out.

Diana and Charles were her parents.

Adrian was her man.

Both families had her back.

What could I do but shut up and take it?

Except they did not know I had already died once.

And they had no idea that the quiet little housewife they were so sure of?

In another life, I turned Adrian’s dying trust fund into the biggest fashion empire on the East Coast.

I knew every shipping route.

Every supplier in LA.

Every fabric mill in Milan.

Every crooked accountant in Adrian’s org chart.

I did not need the Shaws.

I did not need the Coles.

I would be just fine.

Better, actually.