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.

"Where did you get that hairpin?" I asked, cutting through Camille's shrill argument with Marcus.

The dining room fell silent. Camille blinked, her hand flying to the right side of her head. Her fingers brushed the silver crescent moon.

"Adrian gave it to me," she snapped, lifting her chin. "He said it suited me."

"It looks cheap," Vivienne sneered, adjusting her silk shawl. "Just like the rest of you. I am calling security."

I pushed my chair back. The wood scraped harshly against the marble floor.

"Where do you think you're going, Sloane?" Marcus demanded, slamming his palm on the table.

"I've lost my appetite," I said.

"You sit back down," he ordered. "We are not finished discussing your failures as a wife."

"I believe we are," I said, keeping my posture rigid.

"You let a tramp walk right into our dining room," Vivienne said, her tone thick with disgust. "You cannot even control your own husband."

"He is your son, Vivienne," I replied. "Perhaps you should have taught him how to lock a door."

"How dare you speak to me like that?" she gasped.

"Discuss his manners with Camille," I said, gesturing to the girl in the white dress. "She wants the job."

I walked out.

I reached the master suite and twisted the deadbolt. The lock engaged with a heavy thud.

I grabbed my laptop from the nightstand and carried it to the velvet armchair by the window. I booted the encrypted drive. My fingers struck the keys, sharp and fast.

Silver crescent moon hairpin. Right side.

White silk halter dress.

Dressing room mirror.

I documented every detail from the vision. In my previous life, I spent my final days screaming at Adrian, demanding answers about his sudden obsession with this girl. I died choking on smoke, ignorant of when or how he found her. He had molded her into a replica of me, and I had simply let him.

Not tonight.

I picked up my phone and dialed a number I kept buried in a secure contact folder.

It rang twice.

"Sloane," a rough, low voice answered.

"Are you busy, Julian?" I asked.

"Never too busy for you. What do you need?"

Nine months ago, I found him bleeding behind a dumpster in the rain. I paid off the eighty thousand dollars he owed to a local syndicate, handed him a burner phone, and told him to wait for my call.

"I need a background check. Fast and quiet."

"Give me a name."

"Camille. She claims to be Adrian's girlfriend."

"Last name?"

"I don't have one yet. She's twenty-two, wears vintage cuts, and just got thrown out of the Vega estate."

"I'll find her," Julian said. "What's the objective?"

"Track her schedule for the last six months," I instructed. "Every hotel, every restaurant, every flight. I want to know exactly when Adrian brought her into the picture."

"You think he's hiding assets under her name?"

"Adrian is arrogant, but he isn't stupid," I said. "He wouldn't trust a twenty-two-year-old with his money. But he might trust her to move it."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"Pull the transaction logs for Cross Aerial's offshore accounts. I want the entire cash flow."

"That requires bypassing their internal security," Julian noted, the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background. "It might trigger an alert if I push too hard."

"Then don't push," I said. "Slip in. Just get me the numbers."

"Got it, Sloane."

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone and leaned against the cold glass of the windowpane.

Rain began to spit against the glass, distorting the streetlights. Down below, the iron gates of the estate swung open. A black sedan tore onto the main road, its taillights bleeding into the dark. Camille, retreating from the battlefield.

Adrian thought he held all the cards. He thought he could buy my compliance with two million dollars while he built a younger, more obedient version of me. He expected me to play the victim.

I was going to flip the table before they even set the pieces.

Hours passed. The house remained silent. Adrian never returned from his supposed business emergency.

At midnight, the screen of my phone illuminated the dark room.

A single encrypted message from Julian.

I unlocked the device and opened the text.

Halfway through the cash flow. Someone accessed the same archive before you. Vivienne's clearance. Access time: 3:00 PM today.