"Keep your hands off my boyfriend, you desperate bitch!"

The champagne hit me square in the face.

The chilled liquid slid down my chin and soaked into the silk neckline of my dress.

Under the glare of the Cross Aerial anniversary chandelier, the string quartet abruptly stopped playing. The low hum of corporate chatter died out, replaced by the sharp turning of heads.

I blinked the sting from my eyes and studied the girl screaming at me.

"Did you hear me?" she yelled, her voice echoing through the silent banquet hall. "Adrian doesn't want you!"

She looked about twenty-two. Ten years younger than me. Her dark hair parted straight down the middle, paired with a muted crimson lip and a vintage-cut emerald gown. A walking replica of myself from nine years ago.

I didn't reach for a napkin. I stood perfectly still.

"Security, get her out of here," a man muttered nearby.

"No, let her stay," the girl shouted, pointing a manicured finger at my chest. "Let everyone see the stalker! She's been following him all night."

"Who told you that?" I asked, keeping my tone flat.

"Adrian did," she snapped, stepping closer. "He told me about the older woman harassing him. He said you show up to his corporate events uninvited just to stare at him."

"Did he mention my name?"

"He doesn't need to." She crossed her arms, her chin jutting out. "He said you were pathetic. A psycho who can't accept rejection. Back off. Find your own man."

A few guests murmured, their eyes darting between my dripping dress and her furious posture.

I unclasped my evening bag.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Camille," she spat. "And you're making a fool of yourself."

"Camille," I repeated, tasting the syllables. "How long have you been dating him?"

"Six months," she said, lifting her chin higher. "He's taking me to Paris next week. We're looking at apartments."

"Paris," I said. "The penthouse at the George V? He likes the corner suite."

Camille faltered for a second, her eyes narrowing. "How do you know that?"

"I know a lot about his preferences." My fingers brushed against the rigid edge of a folded document inside my clutch. "I know he likes his coffee black, his suits tailored by a man named Giorgio in Milan, and his mistresses young and naive."

"Shut up," she hissed. "He told me you forge documents to trap him."

"Did he tell you he forged my signature on the company's lease agreement?" I asked, pulling the paper free. "Or that the watch he wears was a gift from my dead father?"

She blinked, confused.

"I rarely attend these events, Camille," I said, snapping the paper open under the crystal lights. "But I always bring my paperwork when I do."

"What is that?" She frowned, leaning in. "A restraining order? Because I'll gladly sign one against you."

"Read it." I held the paper inches from her painted face.

Her eyes darted to the embossed seal, then to the printed names. Her jaw dropped. The crimson color drained from her cheeks.

"Read it out loud," I instructed, my voice cutting through the silence.

She shook her head, stepping back. "No."

"Fine. I will." I turned slightly, addressing the circling crowd. "Adrian Vega. And Sloane Vega. Date of marriage: October 14th, nine years ago."

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Whispers erupted instantly.

"His wife?"

"I thought he was single."

Camille stared at the paper, her hands trembling. "No. That's a lie. It's a fake."

"It's a state-issued certificate." I folded it neatly and slipped it back into my bag.

"He said he was single," she whispered, her voice cracking. "He swore to me."

"He says a lot of things." I tilted my head, studying her terrified expression. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"For keeping my husband company." I offered her a sharp, thin smile. "Give me your phone."

She stared at me, paralyzed.

"The phone, Camille. Hand it over."

She fumbled in her purse, pulled out her device, and unlocked it. I snatched it from her grip. I typed my number into her contacts, saved it under my full name, and tossed the device back. She caught it against her chest.

"Next time he leaves his watch at your place, call me," I said. "I'll drop him off myself. Saves him the Uber fare."

I turned my back on her and walked toward the exit.

"Wait!" Camille called out, a desperate edge to her tone. "He promised me a ring! He said he was going to propose in Paris!"

I paused, looking over my shoulder. "He promises everyone a ring. Ask the receptionist on the third floor. Or the marketing director he fired last month."

"Ma'am, is there a problem here?" A burly security guard stepped through the crowd, his hand resting on his radio.

I turned to him. "No problem. Just giving a young lady some life advice."

"She threw a drink at you," the guard pointed out. "Do you want me to escort her out?"

"No, let her stay," I said, glancing back at Camille's pale face. "She needs to enjoy the party. It's her boyfriend's anniversary, after all."

I pushed through the heavy double doors into the quiet corridor, leaving her standing in the center of the whispering crowd.

My shoes struck the marble floor, the sharp sound echoing off the empty walls.

The adrenaline began to fade, leaving a hollow ache in my chest.

My fingers found the cold metal of the pocket watch strapped to my wrist. My thumb traced the worn engraving. It was the only piece of my mother's jewelry I hadn't pawned. Nine years ago, I sold the rest to hand Adrian five hundred thousand dollars to build Cross Aerial.

Six years ago, I faced three debt collectors alone in a windowless warehouse to save his life. I bought his safety with my sanity, earning a permanent panic disorder.

I had already burned alive for this man once.

I pushed through the revolving glass doors and stepped into the cool night air.

I reached the valet stand outside. The wind bit at my damp skin, drying the champagne into a sticky residue.

"Ticket, ma'am?" the valet asked, stepping forward.

Before I could answer, the pocket watch seared my wrist.

I gasped, clawing at the leather strap. The metal burned like a branding iron against my flesh.

"Ma'am? Are you alright?" the valet asked, his voice warping into a low, distorted hum.

Tick. Tick. TICK.

The sound of the internal gears amplified, drowning out the street traffic. The rhythmic ticking echoed violently inside my skull, growing louder, faster.

A blinding flash of heat swallowed my vision.

The street vanished.

I stood trapped inside a glass tower. Flames licked up the walls, eating through the floorboards, smoke choking my lungs. The heat blistered my skin, peeling it back in agonizing strips. I pounded on the reinforced pane, screaming for help, my fists leaving bloody smears on the glass. My throat burned. My eyes watered.

On the other side, untouched by the fire, stood Adrian.

He wore his tailored charcoal suit, not a single hair out of place. He looked right at me. He didn't reach for the door handle. He didn't pull out his phone to call for help.

He simply watched me burn.

He raised a crystal flute of champagne, offered me a slight nod, and took a slow sip.

The vision snapped black.

I stumbled forward, gripping the valet podium to keep from collapsing. Cold sweat drenched my spine, mixing with the spilled champagne. My chest heaved as I sucked in greedy lungfuls of oxygen.

"Do you need an ambulance?" the valet asked, gripping my elbow.

I yanked my arm away. "No. Just my car."

My phone vibrated in my palm, illuminating the dark pavement.

A new text message from Adrian glowed on the screen: I heard you met Camille tonight.

I heard you met Camille tonight.

The screen glared against the dark pavement. Against my wrist, the pocket watch pulsed, the metal retaining an unnatural heat from the vision of the glass tower. The phantom smell of smoke still lingered in the back of my throat, ash coating my tongue.

I typed a single word: Yes.

"Ma'am?" the valet asked, holding out my keys.

I shoved the phone into my clutch, snatched the keys from his hand, and drove into the night.

At ten o'clock the next morning, the front door unlocked.

Adrian walked into the kitchen, his tailored navy suit completely unwrinkled. He didn't offer a greeting. He bypassed the coffee machine, walked straight to the marble island, and pushed a single sheet of paper across the smooth surface.

"You made quite a scene last night, Sloane," he said.

I picked up the paper. It was a bank transfer receipt.

"She threw a drink at me, Adrian," I replied, keeping my tone flat. "I just introduced myself."

"You terrified her. She called me crying from the coat check." He tapped the edge of the document. "Two million dollars. Consider it an apology for the champagne. And an incentive to keep your distance from Camille."

I stared at the black ink. Two million.

The zeroes blurred together.

"Two million," I repeated. "The exact amount you owed the loan sharks six years ago."

Adrian stiffened. His hand dropped to his side. "We agreed never to bring that up."

"I stood in a warehouse with three armed men while you hid in a motel," I reminded him. "I handed them the deed to the only thing my mother left me. You pushed the foreclosure papers across this exact table. You told me I saved your life."

"And I compensated you for it," he countered, his voice rising. "Cross Aerial is a billion-dollar company now. You live in a ten-million-dollar house. You have everything you could possibly want."

"Except a husband."

"We have an arrangement," he said, smoothing his tie. "You get the lifestyle, the status, the black card. I get my freedom."

"And Camille gets the ring?" I asked.

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "She told you about Paris."

"She brags loudly." I dropped the paper back onto the island. "You're buying my silence for your mistress with the exact same price tag you put on my mother's house."

"She's young, Sloane. She got spooked. Leave her out of our arrangement."

"Why her?" I asked, looking up from the paper. "Is it the youth? The blind devotion?"

"She doesn't complicate things," he said. "She doesn't look at me like I owe her my life."

The words landed like a physical blow.

My jaw clenched. He didn't want a partner. He wanted a fan. My presence was a walking reminder of the pathetic, desperate man he used to be. He was paying me to stay out of sight so he could play the self-made billionaire for a twenty-two-year-old girl.

In the previous timeline—the one that ended with me burning alive behind glass—he offered this exact payout. I had thrown the paper in his face. I had screamed, fought, and begged him to respect our marriage. I played the hysterical wife, giving him all the ammunition he needed to lock me away.

I looked at his confident posture, the slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He expected me to shatter. He wanted me to yell so he could call me crazy.

Not this time.

I reached for the silver pen resting near his elbow.

I uncapped it and signed my name on the acknowledgment line. The ink flowed over the thick paper.

"Done," I said. I slid the receipt back to him.

Adrian blinked. His fingers hovered over the document. The muscles in his jaw tightened, then released.

"You're taking it?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"It's two million dollars," I replied. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Just like that. No lecture about morality? No threats to expose me to the board?"

"You want me away from Camille. You paid the invoice. We're settled."

He stared at me, searching my face for a trap. He studied the set of my shoulders, the steady grip I kept on the marble counter.

"You're acting strange," he noted, his eyes scanning my expression.

"I'm acting like a woman who just got paid," I said. "Now, if you don't mind, I have errands to run."

He didn't move immediately. He looked down at my signature, tracing the curves of the letters as if looking for a hidden message.

"Good," he said finally. His tone lacked its usual arrogance, replaced by a thin layer of confusion. "See that you stick to the deal."

He turned on his heel and walked out. The front door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the sprawling, empty house.

I let out a long breath. The humiliation burned in my chest, a hot, tight knot of anger. He had priced my six years of sacrifice, my panic attacks, my loyalty, at exactly two million dollars. I was entirely at a disadvantage. I had no leverage in his company, no access to his private servers, and no immediate way to strike back.

But I had time. And I had the memory of the fire.

I walked into my home office and locked the door.

I pulled my laptop from the desk drawer and flipped it open. I logged into my private banking portal. The two million dollars already sat in my domestic checking account, a clean, untraceable wire transfer from one of his shell companies.

I didn't let it sit there for a single minute.

I opened a new tab and initiated an international wire.

Destination: The offshore account I opened nine months ago under my maiden name.

I typed in the full amount. I clicked confirm.

The screen loaded, the progress bar inching across the display.

My phone buzzed on the desk. A notification from the bank popped up on the lock screen.

Transfer complete.

I refreshed the page on my laptop. The new balance loaded in bold green numbers. The two million dollars settled neatly into the account, joining a massive sum of capital. It was the exact missing fortune Adrian had spent the last six years hunting down, completely unaware it was resting comfortably in my hands.

"Six years of marriage, and you still sit there looking like a charity case."

The silver serving tongs rested lightly in my grip. I clamped them around a thick slice of roasted duck and transferred it to Vivienne's porcelain plate. My fingers did not shake. Not a single tremor.

"Thank you for the observation, Vivienne," I replied.

"You drag the Vega name down," my mother-in-law continued. She ignored the food, fixing her cold stare on my face. "You possess no pedigree. No connections. You are entirely unworthy of the Cross Aerial legacy."

I reached for the cranberry glaze. I knew her next line. I had memorized this exact script over dozens of identical Friday dinners.

"If you had any decency," I mouthed silently as she spoke the words aloud, "you would step aside for someone who can actually elevate my son."

At my right, Adrian sliced his steak. The serrated knife scraped harshly against the ceramic. He didn't look up. He didn't offer a single word of defense.

"Did you hear me, Sloane?" Vivienne demanded.

"Loud and clear," I said, setting the crystal bowl down. "Would you like more glaze?"

Marcus, Adrian's father, scoffed from the head of the table. "She has no shame, Viv. Stop wasting your breath. Pass the potatoes."

I picked up the heavy serving dish and spooned the roasted potatoes onto Marcus's plate.

Adrian's phone buzzed against the mahogany table. The screen lit up with an unsaved number.

He dropped his napkin and pushed his chair back. "I need to take this."

"Sit down, Adrian," Marcus ordered, pointing his fork at his son. "We are discussing your future."

"It's a business emergency," Adrian said, buttoning his suit jacket. He refused to meet my eyes. "Entertain my parents, Sloane. I'll be back."

"Adrian—" I started.

He didn't wait. He turned his back on the table and walked out of the formal dining room. The heavy double doors shut firmly behind him, the brass latch clicking into place.

Silence stretched across the room, thick and suffocating.

"He can't even stand to be in the same room as you," Vivienne noted, picking up her wine glass. "How pathetic."

I picked up my fork. Before I could spear a piece of asparagus, the brass latch clicked again. The heavy oak doors swung open.

It wasn't Adrian.

Camille stepped over the threshold.

My fork clattered against the rim of my plate.

She wore a white silk halter dress. Her dark hair was pinned up rigidly on the right side, the left side falling straight past her collarbone. She wore a muted crimson lipstick.

My lungs tightened.

It was a carbon copy of the outfit I wore the night Adrian proposed to me nine years ago. Down to the exact asymmetrical hairstyle.

Vivienne lowered her glass, her eyes narrowing. "Who are you? Security is supposed to keep the gates locked."

"I'm Camille," she said. Her voice rang out, bright and arrogant, entirely lacking the terror she displayed at the anniversary party. "Adrian invited me."

"My son invited you to our private family dinner?" Vivienne asked, exchanging a sharp look with Marcus.

"He said it was time I met his parents," Camille replied.

She walked straight toward the empty chair beside me. Adrian's chair. She wrapped her manicured fingers around the mahogany backrest and looked down at me. A victorious smirk stretched across her painted lips.

"He said this seat would be opening up soon," Camille added.

I stared at the white silk halter dress. I stared at the hairstyle.

He didn't just want a young mistress. He wanted a young version of me. He dressed her in my past, parading a replica of his wife right into my home. The double objectification settled in my chest like a lead weight.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here," I said, keeping my voice dangerously low.

"Adrian bought me this dress," Camille countered, smoothing the silk over her hip. "He picked it out himself. He said white is my color."

"He lied," I said. "It washes you out."

Camille's smirk faltered. She leaned closer, dropping her voice so only I could hear. "He told me you took the two million. He said you agreed to step aside."

"I agreed to take his money," I corrected, picking my fork back up. "I never said I was leaving my dining table."

"You don't belong here," Camille hissed.

"Neither do you, little girl," Marcus barked from the head of the table. "I don't care who you are sleeping with. Are we hiring escorts for dinner entertainment now? Get out of my house."

Camille flinched. She looked toward the closed double doors, clearly expecting Adrian to burst back in and defend her honor.

The doors remained shut. He had abandoned her to the firing squad, just like he always abandoned me.

"I am not an escort!" Camille shouted, her face flushing red. "I am the woman your son actually loves! I'm taking her place."

"You are trespassing," Vivienne said, reaching for the silver bell beside her plate to summon the staff. "And you are wearing a cheap dress."

"It's custom silk!" Camille yelled.

My fingers brushed against the leather strap on my wrist. The cold metal of my mother's pocket watch rested against my pulse point.

Then, the temperature spiked.

The gears heated up, searing my flesh.

I pressed my thumb against the glass face to brace myself. The rhythmic ticking amplified, drowning out Camille's defensive stuttering and Vivienne's sharp insults.

Tick. Tick. TICK.

A sharp, violent vision from my past life sliced into my brain.

I stood in the shadows of a dimly lit dressing room. Adrian stood directly in front of me, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Camille.

She sat at a vanity mirror, wearing this exact white dress.

Adrian held a silver hairpin shaped like a crescent moon. He slid the metal into the right side of her dark hair, pinning it back.

"Hold still," Adrian murmured in the vision.

"Why does it have to be this style?" Camille asked, her reflection pouting. "It looks dated."

Adrian's eyes darkened. His grip on her shoulders tightened. "Because you need to look more like her."

The vision snapped black.

I blinked against the harsh glare of the dining room chandelier. The smell of roasted duck and red wine rushed back into my senses. The burning against my wrist faded to a dull throb.

Camille was still standing beside me, gripping Adrian's chair, arguing loudly with Marcus.

"I am his future!" Camille shouted, pointing a trembling finger at my father-in-law.

I didn't listen to the rest of her sentence.

My gaze locked onto the right side of Camille's head.

Pinned against her dark hair, catching the light of the crystal chandelier, was the exact same silver crescent moon.