"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.

"Are you sure about the timestamp?" I asked, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Three o'clock sharp," Julian replied, his voice rough through the speaker. "I sent the image to your secure folder. Open it."

I tapped the screen. The encrypted file loaded. A black terminal window displayed a string of code, highlighting a single user ID. V_Vega_Admin.

"Vivienne," I murmured.

"She pulled the exact same offshore logs you wanted," Julian said. "Does your mother-in-law usually audit the shell companies?"

"Never." I stared at the green text. "She pretends the business runs on magic. She despises the operational side. She doesn't touch the books."

"Someone told her where to look," Julian pointed out. "Or she's looking for something specific. The cash flow over the last six months shows a lot of movement. Small, untraceable deposits."

"Building a nest egg for the new girl," I said.

The puzzle pieces from dinner snapped together. Vivienne's dramatic outrage. Marcus's perfectly timed disgust. The unlocked front gates. They didn't just tolerate Camille. Vivienne was actively managing her.

"She knows about the girl," I said, my voice dropping. "Vivienne set up the confrontation tonight to push me out."

"You think the mother-in-law brought her to the house?"

"Vivienne controls the estate security. No one gets through the front gates without her direct approval. She wanted Camille to sit in Adrian's chair. She wanted me to react, to scream, to throw a fit in front of Marcus."

"So they could justify cutting you off," Julian finished.

"Exactly. They need me to be the unstable, jealous wife."

"Do you want me to dig into Vivienne's communications?" Julian asked.

"Yes. Find out how often she speaks to Camille. Check the financial records for any direct transfers from Vivienne's personal accounts to Camille's."

"I'll need another day to bypass the personal banking firewalls."

"Take the time. Just don't trigger any alarms."

"Consider it done."

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed.

The next morning, my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Adrian's message appeared on the screen. Meet me at 4200 Oakwood Drive. Noon.

I drove to the address. It was a secluded property tucked behind a row of tall pine trees. A modern, glass-fronted house sat at the end of a long gravel driveway.

Adrian stood on the porch, checking his watch. He wore a gray suit, his posture relaxed.

"You're late," he noted as I approached the steps.

"Traffic," I lied. "What is this place, Adrian?"

"An investment," he said, pushing the heavy oak door open. "And a solution."

"A solution to what?"

"Our arrangement." He gestured for me to step inside. "After the disaster at dinner, it's clear the current setup isn't working. My parents are agitated. You're unhappy. I bought this property for you."

I crossed the threshold. The air inside smelled of fresh paint. The foyer stretched into a massive open-concept living space, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows.

"You bought me a house," I stated, scanning the empty room.

"An estate," he corrected. "Fully furnished. Private. You can decorate it however you want. You won't have to deal with my mother, and I won't have to worry about you clashing with my guests."

"Guests," I echoed. "You mean Camille."

"I mean anyone I choose to invite to my primary residence," he shot back, his tone hardening. "You took the two million, Sloane. This is the next step."

"Moving me out of sight."

"Giving you your own space," he argued. He walked toward the kitchen, running a hand along the quartz countertop. "You should be thanking me. You get a quiet life, fully funded, without the obligations of playing my wife."

"So I stay here, and Camille takes my place at the estate."

Adrian turned around, leaning against the counter. "Camille is temporary. She's young. She's fun. She doesn't demand anything from me."

"Unlike me."

"You demand my guilt," he said, his voice dropping. "Every time I look at you, you expect me to apologize for the past. I'm tired of apologizing, Sloane. I built an empire. I deserve to enjoy it without a shadow standing over my shoulder."

"I saved your life," I reminded him. "I stood between you and three men who wanted to break your legs."

"And I paid you for it!" he shouted, his composure slipping. "Two million dollars. A blank check for the rest of your life. What more do you want?"

"I want you to admit what you're doing," I said, walking closer to him. "You aren't just hiding me. You're replacing me."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Don't be dramatic. This is a business transaction. You live here. I live there. We stay married on paper to keep the board happy."

I took another step into the living room, heading toward the hallway.

The leather strap on my wrist grew warm. The metal back of my mother's pocket watch pressed into my skin, the temperature rising fast.

Tick.

A sharp sting radiated up my forearm. The internal gears roared in my ears, echoing like grinding machinery.

The freshly painted walls blurred. The afternoon sunlight filtering through the large windows turned a sickening, hazy orange.

I stood in this exact hallway, but the smell of paint vanished, replaced by the suffocating stench of gasoline.

The heavy oak door to the master suite stood in front of me.

In the vision, I slammed my fists against the wood. My knuckles bled.

"Adrian!" I screamed in the memory, my throat raw. "Open the door!"

His voice came from the other side, muffled but perfectly calm. "Stay put, Sloane. Don't make a scene. Just wait until the celebration ends, and I'll come get you."

"There's smoke!" I choked out, coughing as a gray cloud seeped under the door frame. "Adrian, please!"

"You always overreact," he said through the wood. "It's just a small fire in the kitchen. The staff is handling it. Stay in the room."

Footsteps retreated down the hall. He walked away.

The smoke thickened, burning my eyes, filling my lungs.

The vision collapsed.

I gasped, stumbling forward. My shoulder hit the wall. The orange haze vanished, leaving only the pristine, sunlit hallway.

The pocket watch cooled against my pulse.

"Are you listening to me?" Adrian asked, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.

I forced my breathing to steady. I pushed off the wall and turned to face him.

"I'm listening," I said, keeping my tone entirely flat.

He walked over, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a silver key ring. He stepped closer and dropped the metal into my open palm. His fingers brushed mine, cold and firm.

"This will be your home from now on," he said, offering a practiced smile. "You'll be safe here. Far away from the drama."

I stared at the jagged edges of the keys.

"Safe," I repeated.

"Exactly." He checked his phone, the screen lighting up his face. "I have a board meeting in thirty minutes. Have a look around. The movers will bring your things tomorrow."

He didn't wait for my response. He walked past me, heading straight for the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

"Adrian," I called out.

He didn't stop. He stepped into the room, grabbed the brass handle, and pulled the heavy oak door shut.

The deadbolt clicked into place from the inside.