A deal between families forced my Fiancé Marco Corvini to marry me.

My parents were dead.

His obsession was Isabella Falcone, the princess of our rivals.

In the end, Marco devoured my family’s empire and threw me to the wolves.

He paraded Isabella on his arm like a prize he’d won.

Twenty years later, I was on my deathbed.

My own son—our son—held the poison.

He said I was useless, that his father needed the Falcone family’s power.

Then I opened my eyes. I was back.

Back on the day of my blood oath.

This time, to save my family, I didn’t sign my name on the pact.

I signed hers. Isabella Falcone’s.

As for me? I took the fortune my parents left me and disappeared.

This time, I wouldn’t be the fool bleeding for a man who was never mine.

Twenty years of marriage ended with my murder. My husband, Marco Corvini, and my son were the ones to carry it out. Of course, he’d already devoured my family’s empire. All for Isabella Falcone, the princess of our rivals.

I opened my eyes. I was back.

Back in the church on the day of my blood oath with Marco, the day after my parents were buried.

“In the name of Romano and Corvini, we witness this blood oath. An oath to bind two empires. In blood and in law.” The priest's voice boomed through the cavernous halls of Holy Name Cathedral in Chicago.

My fiancé, Marco, stood beside me.

He held the ceremonial dagger, a family heirloom.

But his eyes were locked on Isabella Falcone in the back pew.

Just like the last time.

She wore a blood-red silk dress, a victor's smirk plastered on her face.

I recognized the sapphire necklace.

The showstopper from the last Sotheby’s auction.

Looks like Marco spared no expense to keep her happy.

She knew Marco loved her.

And me? I was just the sacrifice on the altar.

Memories of my past life sliced through my heart.

My wedding night. I waited for him in my new silk nightgown.

All night. Marco never came.

He was busy comforting Isabella, who was supposedly “shaken up” by our ceremony.

“She's a guest, Samara. You're family. Family understands.”

He fed me that lie for twenty years.

And for twenty years, I fought him with the only weapons I had: my father’s old guard and my grip on the family business.

But he was patient.

A termite, eating away at my foundation, one piece at a time.

He spent two decades isolating me, stripping me of my power, waiting.

He waited until our son came of age—the rightful heir to inherit everything.

Only then, when I had served my purpose, did I truly become useless.

Until our son stood over my deathbed with poison.

“You’re useless now, Mom. Dad needs the Falcones.”

Until Marco leaned in close, his final words a twist of the knife.

“Did you really think I could love a tool? You were always so naive, Samara.”

My nails dug into my palms, drawing blood.

The sharp pain pulled me from the spiral of memory.

It made me sharp.

Now, this man was about to play the same game.

But this time, I wouldn't be his pawn.

“Marco,” I said, my voice soft.

He finally tore his gaze away from Isabella. “What?”

Impatient. Like I was a stranger he couldn’t stand.

“This blood pact,” I asked. “Did you read it carefully?”

He frowned. “Of course I did. You think I’d make that kind of mistake?”

My heart felt like it was ripping in two. Even here, before God, at the altar, his voice dripped with disgust for me.

“I just wanted to confirm the bride's name,” I said, keeping my voice smooth.

Marco glanced at the pact, scoffing. “Samara Romano. Who the hell else would it be?”

The contempt in his eyes was all the guarantee I needed.

The moment he turned to the priest to confirm the details, I moved.

My hands trembled, but my will was steel.

I switched the pact on the altar with an identical one I’d hidden in my sleeve.

This new version had one small change.

Once signed, this pact was family law. Unbreakable.

Marco wanted Isabella?

Fine. I’d give her to him.

I pricked my finger with the tip of the dagger, my blood dripping onto the new name.

The pain almost brought tears to my eyes.

Not from the cut. But because twenty years of misery were finally ending.

A single drop of my blood hit the page, landing squarely on the name I’d written there: Isabella Falcone.

“The oath is sealed,” the priest declared, his voice like it was coming from a great distance.

Marco nodded, satisfied, a triumphant glint in his eye.

He thought he’d played everyone perfectly.

He had no idea he'd just chained himself to the woman he actually wanted.

And me? I was finally free.

After the ceremony, the guests drifted away.

Marco went straight to Isabella, whispering in her ear.

She laughed, a sweet, cruel sound, making sure everyone saw her with the ‘heir apparent.’

No one noticed me in the corner.

Just like for the last twenty years.

I went back to the Romano estate and straight to my room.

I opened the safe and took out the documents for the secret trust fund my mother left me.

Fifty million dollars.

Before she died, she had gripped my hand. “Samara, if you ever need to run, use this money. Make a new life for yourself.”

I didn’t understand her then. I understood now.

My mother had been a sacrifice, too. Another political marriage.

Her lifetime of pain had bought me my key to escape.

I was grabbing my passport and cards when I heard Marco's voice outside the heavy oak door. He was on the phone. His voice was so tender, I almost didn't recognize it.

“Don’t worry, Isabella. The blood oath is just a formality.”

My hand froze.

“Once the pact is official, I’ll have a legitimate reason to get rid of her.”

I stared, my eyes wide.

In my last life, he was a rabbit. Cautious. Scared of the power I wielded.

This time, he saw my silent hatred and mistook it for weakness.

The fool. He was trying to make his move early.

“You sure that little bitch won’t cause any trouble?” Isabella’s laugh, sharp as glass, cut through the oak door.

I heard Marco’s voice, dripping with an affection he never once showed me.

“If she breathes a word out of line, I’ll make her disappear. For good.”

I stood in the doorway of the study.

Marco was hanging up the phone, a flush on his face from the tenderness of his call with Isabella.

When he saw me, it vanished. Replaced by an icy guard.

“Samara. What are you doing here?”

His tone was for an unwelcome stranger.

The old me would have cried. Would have asked him why he was so cold.

Now, I just wanted to laugh.

“This is my house, Marco. Or did you forget?” I let the words hang in the air.

Until Marco finished devouring the Romano family business, I was still the one in charge here.

A flash of anger crossed his face.

“I meant you should have knocked. I’m handling important family business.”

“Is plotting my murder part of ‘family business’ now?”

My voice was dead calm.

The color drained from Marco’s face. “What did you hear?”

“I heard enough.” I strolled to my father’s whiskey bar and poured a drink. “It was all very touching.”

Just then, the study door swung open.

Isabella walked in, wearing the one-of-a-kind Valentino wedding dress.

My wedding dress.

And now, she was wearing it.

Isabella feigned innocence, a hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, my! Samara, I didn’t know you were here.”

She turned to Marco, her eyes full of pouty charm. “Darling, you didn’t tell me she was still here.”

Marco’s expression softened instantly. “Isabella, you don’t have to apologize. This will all be ours soon enough.”

I felt the room spin.

A scene from my past life flashed in my mind.

Me, in this same dress, crying in front of the mirror.

Because Marco had said Isabella looked better in white.

“White is too pure for you, Samara. Don’t you think red suits you better?”

In the end, I wore a blood-red dress to my own blood oath ceremony.

Like an animal for slaughter.

And now, Isabella was here, wearing my wedding dress, parading her victory.

“That dress is beautiful,” I said with a light laugh.

Isabella froze, clearly not expecting that.

“Is it? I thought you’d be angry,” she said, feigning concern. “It was made for you, after all.”

“Angry?” I shook my head. “Why would I be? It suits you perfectly.”

I stepped closer, looking the dress over.

“You know, I always thought this dress was a bit much. Too heavy for me.”

Isabella’s smile was a little tight. “Really?”

“But on you, it’s perfect.” My own smile grew wider. “After all, a woman like you needs a good costume to play the part.”

The air in the room went still.

Marco’s face was like stone. “Samara, what are you saying?”

“I’m complimenting Isabella,” I said, turning to him. “Don’t you think she looks beautiful in it?”

Marco’s gaze snapped to Isabella, his eyes full of a fierce need to protect her.

“Of course she’s beautiful. Isabella is beautiful in anything.”

The words were a clean, sharp knife in my gut.

In our past life, he never once called me beautiful.

Even in our wedding photos, he looked like he was at a funeral.

“Well, since you two are a perfect match, I won’t disturb you.”

I turned to leave, but Marco stopped me.

“Wait.” He took my favorite whiskey from the cabinet.

“Have a drink?” He tried to make his voice gentle. “We need to talk.”

I looked at the bottle. I remembered this from before.

Every time Marco hurt me, he’d pull out the whiskey to ‘make peace.’

As if a glass of liquor could wash away the wounds.

“No, thank you,” I said, sharp and final. “I don’t drink.”

Marco frowned. “You never used to be like this.”

“People change, Marco.” I met his eyes. “Sometimes, you change to survive.”

Isabella cut in. “Perhaps Samara just needs time to adjust to the new arrangement.”

She sounded considerate, but her eyes were gleaming with triumph.

“Speaking of arrangements,” I said, as if I’d just remembered. “Marco, I need my mother’s trust fund.”

The color drained from Marco’s face.

“What trust fund?”

“Don’t play dumb,” my voice turned cold. “My mother put fifty million dollars in a trust for me before she died. For my future. I need it now.”

Marco and Isabella exchanged a look.

I saw the panic in their eyes.

Marco scrambled for an excuse. “That money… it was repurposed. For a critical family investment.”

“What investment?”

He couldn’t meet my eyes. “The Tear of Sicily. I bought it for Isabella. It was a… gesture of goodwill. To the Falcones.”

The Tear of Sicily.

Auction price: forty-eight million dollars.

My mother’s blood money, used by this man to buy a trinket for another woman.

I felt a wave of dizziness and almost collapsed.

Isabella proudly held up her left hand. The pink diamond glittered under the light.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Marco said only I was worthy of it.”

I stared at the diamond, remembering my mother’s hand in mine as she was dying.

“Samara, I earned this money with my life. If you ever need to escape, don’t hesitate.”

Now, the money she’d earned with her life was a decoration on another woman’s hand.

I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to scream.

“I see.”

I turned and walked to the door.

Marco called out from behind me.

“Samara.”

He came to my side, his voice low and laced with a threat.

“Don’t forget your place, Samara. You’re a Romano heir. Your weakness is our weakness. And right now, we need the Falcones.”

He slammed the study door shut behind me. The sound was like a gunshot.

I stood in the hall, feeling more alone than ever.

The home I grew up in now felt more suffocating than a prison.

But I had the key.

The name on the blood pact was changed.

Soon, Marco would discover he hadn't gotten a tool, but the woman he truly wanted.

And I would finally be free of this hell.

Over the next few days, I started secretly selling off my luxuries.

Limited-edition bags, diamond necklaces, priceless pieces of art.

Everything my mother had picked out for me.

Now, they were my ticket out of this hell.

I moved the money through an offshore company into a Swiss bank account.

Marco was oblivious.

He was too busy planning a “honeymoon” with Isabella.

On the third morning, Marco knocked on my door.

“Samara, I need to talk to you.”

His voice was a little softer than before, but his eyes were still empty.

I opened the door. He was holding a check.

“This is for you,” he said, handing it to me. “The trust fund was used, but I’m not leaving you with nothing.”

I glanced at the number.

One million dollars.

A generous compensation for my mother’s fifty-million-dollar legacy.

The old me would have cried with gratitude, thinking he was planning for our future.

The new me wanted to laugh in his face.

“Thank you for your generosity, Marco.”

I took the check. My calm surprised him.

“And I’m taking Isabella to Las Vegas,” he continued. “The family has some business to handle there.”

“That’s nice,” I nodded. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Marco frowned.

My obedience was making him nervous.

In my last life, my screaming fits were my only shield. He knew I’d call my father’s old guard and watch his new empire burn. That fear kept me alive. This time, my silence was the weapon.

“You… you really don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” I gave him a hollow smile. “Business is business.”

Marco stared at me for a long time, his eyes full of confusion and unease.

“Maybe we should get the official family heir portraits done first,” he said suddenly. “It’s important for the family’s image.”

I knew he was testing me.

Trying to use a formal ritual to make sure I was still under his thumb.

“Of course,” I said, still compliant. “When?”

“This afternoon.” A flicker of pride crossed his face. “I’ve booked the best photographer in Chicago.”

As we spoke, Isabella floated down the staircase.

She was wearing a pink Chanel suit, looking sweet and innocent as a lamb.

“Darling, what are you two talking about?” She linked her arm through Marco’s.

“We’re going to get our family portraits taken,” Marco said, his voice softening for her.

Isabella’s eyes lit up. “Really? Can I come?”

She turned to me, pretending to ask for permission. “If Samara doesn’t mind, of course.”

The old me would have refused. Point-blank.

A family portrait was sacred. For official members only.

But now? I couldn’t wait for her to go.

“Of course,” I said. “As our most important ally, Miss Falcone should be there.”

Marco’s look grew even more complicated.

He was starting to realize I had changed, but he had no idea what it meant.

That afternoon, we arrived at the most exclusive photo studio on Michigan Avenue.

The photographer was a German man named Andreas, who shot portraits only for the elite.

“Mr. Corvini, a pleasure,” Andreas greeted us. “We are shooting the official portrait for the family heir today, correct?”

“Yes,” Marco nodded. “This is my fiancée, Samara Romano.”

The title felt like a sting.

Even now, he still saw me as his property.

“And this lovely lady?” Andreas gestured to Isabella.

“Isabella Falcone,” Marco’s voice went soft. “A… friend of the family.”

A friend of the family.

That’s what he called her in our past life, too.

Until the day I died, I was the “wife,” and she was always the “friend.”

But everyone knew which one he really loved.

“Before we begin, I need a prop,” Marco said, walking over to an antique jewelry box.

It held the Corvini family’s ruby ring, an heirloom passed down for five generations.

It symbolized the power of the family’s matriarch.

Last time, I didn't get to wear this ring until after we were married.

And even then, I never held the power it represented.

Marco picked up the ring and started walking toward me.

“Samara, this is…”

“Wow!” Isabella suddenly shrieked. “That ring is gorgeous!”

Without asking, she snatched the ring right out of Marco’s hand.

“Can I just try it on?” she asked, blinking her big, innocent eyes.

Marco’s instinct was to stop her, but her pleading look made him soften.

“Alright. But just to try.”

His indulgence was another tear in my heart.

The ring of the Corvini matriarch, slipped so easily onto another woman’s finger.

Isabella admired it on her hand. “It’s like it was made for me!”

Andreas started setting up the shot.

“Let’s start with a few of Mr. Corvini and Miss Falcone,” he suggested. “While the ring is on her hand.”

I watched Marco and Isabella pose. They hugged, they kissed, they tangled themselves up in intimate ways.

Andreas took at least a hundred shots.

In every single one, Marco’s eyes were full of a tenderness I had never seen.

“And now for Mr. Corvini and Miss Romano,” Andreas finally called me over.

Just as Marco walked toward me, Isabella “accidentally” bumped into a piece of equipment.

The expensive Hasselblad camera crashed to the floor, the lens shattering.

“Oh, my god! I’m so clumsy!” Isabella gasped, looking horrified.

Andreas’s face went pale. “The camera… we can’t shoot anymore today.”

Marco frowned, but when he saw the tears welling in Isabella’s eyes, his heart melted.

“It’s fine. We’ll reschedule,” he soothed her. “Don’t blame yourself.”

I watched the whole scene with cold detachment.

Isabella’s “accident.” Marco’s indulgence. The fact that I was, once again, forgotten.

It was all exactly the same as last time.

Back at the estate, Marco called me into his study.

“I have something for you.”

He pulled a plane ticket from his drawer.

One-way. Destination: Sicily.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I think you need a vacation,” Marco said, avoiding my eyes. “We have a family villa in Sicily. You can rest there for a while.”

I looked at the date on the ticket.

Three days from now.

“This is exile,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

Marco’s face darkened.

“It’s not exile. It’s for your protection,” he said coldly. “Chicago isn’t safe for you right now.”

“And when will you come get me?”

Marco was silent for a long moment.

“After I’ve stabilized the alliance with the Falcone family here in the States.”

His answer confirmed it.

He was shipping me off so he and Isabella could be together without any inconvenience.

“I understand,” I said, taking the ticket. “Thank you for the arrangement.”

My compliance made him uneasy again.

“Samara, you…”

He was cut off by the screech of tires outside.

We went to the window and saw a black Lincoln sedan skid to a halt at the estate gates.

A second later, the window rolled down and the black barrel of a gun appeared.

Marco’s face changed. “Get down!”