The scent of old mahogany and lavender polish was always comforting, reminding me of the life my father built for us. But standing in my late brother Jonathan's study today, it was suffocating. The dimly lit room made shadows loom large; a gnawing dread settled in the pit of my stomach as I shuffled through his belongings.

I wasn't looking for anything in particular, or so I had convinced myself. More than anything, I needed to be closer to Jonathan—to try and find an explanation of why his death had felt so… wrong.

My mind was cut off by muffled voices. My heartbeat quickened in alarm at the immediate recognition. Damon and Clarissa—my husband and stepmother, who had been my pillars since Jonathan died.

Cautiously curious, I creep to their voices. They were situated in the next library. Their hushed tones marked clearly in the quiet of the house. I pressed my shoulder against the doorframe, straining to listen hard.

"We've waited long enough," Damon whispered strongly. "Her grief renders her vulnerable. It's now or never.

"We can't rush this," Clarissa replied, her tone cold and calculating. "Gerald still holds the reins. We need to ensure Elara inherits everything before we make our move. If we act too soon—"

"Act too soon?" Damon's voice rose slightly. "We've already done everything else, haven't we? Jonathan's death cleared the way. What more do you want me to do, Mother?"

My breath caught in my throat. Mother?

I stumbled back, hitting a pile of books and sending them crashing noisily onto the floor. Their talking stopped dead.

"Elara?" Damon's voice then cut through, sharp and probing.

I froze, my mind racing. I tried to collect my thoughts while making sense of what I just heard as footsteps approached. I turned and bolted back into Jonathan's study, desperate for any place to hide. My fingers were trembling as I pushed papers into a drawer and pressed myself behind the heavy oak desk.

The door creaked open.

"Elara? Are you in here?" Damon's voice was calm, too calm.

I held my breath.

"Perhaps she just passed by," Clarissa said, her tone dismissive. "Let's not draw attention to ourselves."

After a tense moment, the door shut again, and their voices receded into the distance. My heart pounded as I slumped against the desk.

Mother. Damon was Clarissa’s son. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. My husband wasn’t just a stranger who had fallen in love with and married me. He was part of a scheme to take everything my family owned.

Jonathan.

My stomach churned with each replay of Damon's words within my mind: Jonathan's death cleared the way.

I felt a wave of nausea and staggered over to the desk chair, clutching at my chest. This was no longer grief; this was rage.

I needed proof.

Desperation drove my fingers through Jonathan's files as I dug for anything to connect the dots. Finally, after what felt like minutes of time standing still, I found it, a folder, stuck beneath a pile of legal documents. Inside were emails, notes, and financial statements.

One email caught my eye:

To: Jonathan Hayes

From: C.H.

Subject: Urgent—Inheritance Issue

"Jonathan,

I have reason to believe Clarissa is attempting to manipulate the estate. We need to meet. This can't wait."

C.H.—Charles Hawthorne, our family's attorney and one of Jonathan's closest confidants. My brother must have uncovered something before his death.

The door flung open, welcoming Damon’s sturdy build.

What are you doing in here, Elara?" he asked, and his tone sounded almost accusing.

I forced a shaky smile. "I was-I wanted to feel close to Jonathan. That's all."

His eyes flickered down to the papers in my hands. "What's that?"

"Nothing," I stammered fast, hugging the folder behind my back.

Damon stepped a step further, his countenance sullied in dark mood. "Is there something I need to know? You’ve been acting strange lately.”

"I should be asking you that." I snapped, the fear finally giving way to defiance.

His jaw tightened. "You should focus on grieving your brother, not digging into things that don't concern you."

"Which would be what, pray tell?" I shot back. "My brother? My family's legacy? Or the fact that my husband and stepmother are conspiring behind my back?"

His eyes flashed with something I couldn't quite place—anger, maybe fear.

"Elara, you don't understand—"

"No, Damon," I cut in, my voice shaking. "I understand perfectly. Jonathan didn't just die, did he? You and Clarissa—"

I was cut off. Damon lunged at me, and the next thing, darkness welcomed me.

*****

I woke up to the smell of drugs and beeping machine sounds that facilitated the piercing pain in my head. One look at my cloth and I quickly realized I was in the hospital.

A nurse entered, her face kind but cautious. "Mrs. Atherson, you're awake."

"Where am I?" I croaked.

"You were in an accident," she said softly. "Your husband found you unconscious in the study. He said you have been under a lot of stress since your brother's passing."

My stomach dropped. An accident? Good one, Damon and Clarissa.

"I need to speak to someone," I said, my voice hoarse. "The police. I need—"

The nurse hesitated. "Your husband has asked us to limit your visitors for now. He's worried about your mental health."

Mental health. Of course. Damon and Clarissa were covering their tracks, painting me as unstable.

When the nurse left, someone came and injected me, and in a few minutes, everything was blank. It was over; they had won.

*****

That night, as I wavered in and out of consciousness, I felt something in the room. Not Damon, not Clarissa—it was. otherworldly.

"Elara," a voice whispered, soft and haunting.

I opened my eyes to see a figure cloaked in shadow, its form shifting and indistinct.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

I am a harbinger of second chances," the figure said. "Your life was taken unjustly. You have been given the chance to return to right the wrongs and claim your justice."

"Return?" My voice shook.

"To the moment it all began," the figure replied. "But be warned, vengeance comes at a cost." Darkness flooded me again.

*****

“Babe, wake up. It’s afternoon.” Damon stood towering over me with an eerie smile.

I looked around; this was my bedroom, not the hospital. I was back at Hayes Manor, sunlight My phone buzzed on the nightstand, displaying the date.

I had been sent back two years prior, and Jonathan's funeral was tomorrow.

“I’d avenge you, Brother.” I thought.

Are you okay?" Damon asked, his voice soft and yet probing.

I did a forced nod, still reeling in my head. "Just a bad dream." I whispered hoarsely.

I looked at him, secretly hoping that I was mistaken, that the man who swept me off my feet was not planning to destroy me.

He looked back at me, his eyes attempting to bore holes into my soul, studying me as though he could tell I knew something.

"I’m sorry, my love." he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. "After everything with Jonathan, you deserve to rest. You've been under so much stress."

His touch was soft, sending shivers down my spine. I fought hard to keep my expression neutral.

"I'll be fine," I said quickly, pulling the covers up to my chest.

Damon cocked his head. His smile never wavered. "You've always been strong, Elara. But just remember—you don't have to go through this alone. I am here for you."

The words, as spoken with so much sincerity, burnt in my ears.

You're here to destroy me, I thought. But I couldn't let him see my rage—not yet.

"I know," I replied, forcing a weak smile. "Thank you."

Satisfied, Damon leaned down and kissed my forehead. "Get some rest. I'll check on you later."

As soon as he was gone, I shot up, shallow breathing. My hands shook while pressing against my face. He's watching me already.

*****

After Damon was gone, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the morning sunlight streaming through the window. My mind was racing, the memories of my first life—my real life—flashing before me like a reel of horror.

Damon and Clarissa. My husband and my stepmother. Partners in crime, murderers of my brother, and conspirators in a scheme to destroy my family. They'd killed Jonathan to clear the path to my inheritance. Then, when I got too close to the truth, they'd killed me too.

And now Damon was here, pretending to care, as if I didn't know what he truly was.

I looked at the clock. 8:15 a.m. Jonathan’s funeral was in less than 24 hours, and I needed to be in character to prevent suspicions.

****

Before I stepped into the dining room, I rehearsed every word, every glance. Damon was already seated at the table, sipping his coffee, his phone in his hand, and my father, Gerald Hayes, sat at the head of the table, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he scrolled through his tablet. He looked up and gave me a small smile.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he said.

"Morning, Dad." I replied, sliding into my seat.

"I couldn't," I said, forcing a faint smile. "Too much on my mind."

Moments later, Clarissa entered, her emerald-green dress clinging perfectly to her frame, her diamond necklace glittering in the morning light. She carried an air of effortless elegance, but I now knew the truth—she was a viper wrapped in silk.

Elara, dear," she cooed, her voice as honeyed as dripping acid. "You look so pale. Didn't you sleep well?"

I shook my head and reached for the pot. "Just a rough night, is all. Hard to get over. everything."

"Of course, poor thing," she murmured, her tone rife with performative empathy. "We are suffering each in our own fashion. Jonathan's passing was so… devastating."

You mean convenient, I thought, keeping firm onto the handle of the pot.

Damon leaned over and put his hand on my knee—a familiar touch, yet it made my skin crawl. "If you need anything, Elara, just say the word," he whispered softly.

I nodded, looking at the cup in my hand. "Thank you."

****

Breakfast passed in a blur of false smiles and mundane conversation. My father discussed estate matters with Clarissa while Damon occasionally chimed in, his easy demeanour masking the monster beneath. I answered when necessary, but my mind was elsewhere.

Afterwards, I excused myself, saying I needed some time alone. Damon offered to join me, but I quickly declined. "I just need to clear my head." I said, avoiding his gaze.

He hesitated, then nodded. "All right. Just let me know if you need me."

I waited until I was out of sight before making my way to Jonathan's study.

*****

The study was just as I had remembered it—warm, masculine, and steeped in my brother's essence. A faint smell of leather and old books wafted through the air, and in the centre of the room was a mahogany desk with stacks of papers on top.

I hurriedly opened the drawers, searching for the folder that I knew was in one of them. Within minutes, I found it—a thick folder labelled "Estate Concerns.”

Inside were notes, emails, and financial statements. My heart was racing as I scanned the pages, the weight of Jonathan's suspicions coming back to me.

Then I found it. The email from Charles Hawthorne, our family attorney.

To: Jonathan Hayes

From: C.H.

Subject: Urgent—Inheritance Issue

"Jonathan,

I've uncovered some alarming information regarding the estate. I suspect Clarissa is involved in manipulating your father's assets. We need to meet immediately. This can't wait."

My hands shook as I held the paper. Jonathan had known, and they knew that he knew. It was why he lost his life.

"Elara?"

Damon. I was startled, but I quickly comported myself. I turned to see Damon standing in the doorway. I slowly adjusted the folder behind me to prevent him from noticing.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Uhmm, just going through Jonathan’s items," I said, forcing a casual tone. "I wanted to feel closer to him, especially today.”

His gaze flickered to my hands, and I gripped the folder tighter.

"Did you find anything interesting?" he asked, stepping closer.

"Not really," I lied, taking a step back.

Damon tilted his head, his expression softening into something almost affectionate. "Elara, you've been acting strange. Is everything ok?"

The last time he asked this question, I lost my life.

"Nope, I’m just tired.

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Just don't push yourself too hard, okay?"

I nodded, forcing a faint smile. "I won't."

As he left, I released a shaky breath.

****

Later that evening, I sat in my room, the folder hidden beneath my mattress. My mind was a storm of plans and possibilities. I couldn't trust anyone—not yet.

But one thing was clear: I wouldn't let Damon or Clarissa destroy my family. Not this time.

The estate had never felt so still that night, as if it held its breath. Even the hallways, still noisy during the night hours, had an uncanny silence to them. Outside, rainstorms began to brew; it sounded as though the house itself had noticed that a battle was commencing.

I paced my room, my fingers twitching to reach for the folder under my mattress. The letter kept replaying in my mind. Jonathan’s voice echoed in my head, pleading with me to take action. But what was I supposed to do without raising Damon's or Clarissa's suspicions?

A knock at my door startled me.

“Elara?" Damon's voice was muffled through the wood, but I could still hear the concern in it—or rather, the perfect imitation of concern.

I took a deep breath, schooling my expression before I opened the door. Damon stood there, his dark hair slightly damp, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

Are you alright?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "You have been shut in here all evening."

"I am alright," I lied, forcing a small smile. "I am just tired."

He took another step closer to me and stroked my hair. “You know I am here for you, you don’t have to bear your pain alone.” He then raised my chin. “You look so pale.”

I swallowed hard. "Grief does that to people.

His hand brushed my arm, and I bit back the urge to flinch. "Again, you don't have to go through it alone," he said softly.

The words were meant to comfort, but they only caused my skin to crawl. How many times did you say something similar before you killed me, Damon?

"Thanks," I muttered, stepping back. "I think I just need some sleep.”

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on me before he nodded. "All right. If you need anything, I am at your service.”

He smiled and stood up to leave. As soon as he shut the door, I heaved a sigh of relief. I need to move fast; I cannot continue to pretend like this.

Later that night, I sneaked out of my room with the folder firmly held beneath my arm, and then I went to find Charles Hawthorne to have a talk with him. I had to. Resorting to calling him would not work if I was in the house because everyone would hear and see me there.

Although the storm had cut the power supply, the halls were pitch dark, except for the intermittent flashes of lightning. I made my way fast along the hall, not making a sound because the carpet was quite thick. My destination was the library. The only line that could not be spied on was the one there—well, at least it hadn't been yet.

The library welcomed me with the quiet noise of the door that I gently closed behind me. The room's scent was a mix of old leather and polished wood, which was slightly relaxing and familiar. I put the folder on the desk and picked up the telephone.

As soon as I dialed the first number, a voice unexpectedly broke the silence.

“Midnight studying?”

I stopped, midway to the receiver, frozen in fear. Glancing slowly toward the doorway, I saw Clarissa standing there, holding a candle in her hands, whose light was flickering and dancing over her face, across the dark.

“Couldn't sleep,” I responded, keeping my calm as much as I could.

With every step she took, the candlelight flickered across her green eyes, emitting a cold brilliance in the dark room. “I can imagine, especially with Jonathan’s burial being tomorrow. Were you looking for something? I can help.” She offered

“No,” I lied. “I just… miss Jonathan.”

Her expression softened, and she crossed the room, putting the candle on the desk. "We all do, darling," she said, her tone warm but her eyes calculating. "He was such a bright light in this family."

I forced myself to nod, keeping my gaze on the folder.

"What's that?" she asked, gesturing to it.

Just some documents I happened to find in his bedroom," I said, my heartbeat getting faster

Her hand hovered over the folder, her manicured nails grazing the edge. "Mind if I take a look?"

“Well, these are just old documents,” I replied as I quickly pulled the folder away from her without letting her open it.

"Nothing significant.

Her eyes caught mine, and for an instant, I thought she would push the issue. But then she smiled, a keen curve of her lips that ran chills down my spine.

"Of course," she said smoothly. "I understand how precious Jonathan's belongings must feel to you right now."

I nodded, clutching the folder tightly.

Turning for the door, Clarissa paused and faced me. "You know, Elara," she said, her voice light, yet not quite, "grief can make people paranoid. You must take good care of yourself."

I'll keep that in mind," I answered softer than a whisper.

She left, and I practically collapsed into the chair, shaking.

*****

By the time I got to Charles Hawthorn's office two days after Jonathan’s burial, I was coming completely unglued. The folder was heavy in my bag, the piece of evidence that could pull apart everything.

Charles raised his head as I walked in, his brows wrinkled with worry. "Elara," he said, standing up from his desk. "You are. tense."

"I want to talk to you," I said, shutting the door behind me.

He motioned me to sit down, and I placed the folder on his desk. "I found these in Jonathan’s study," I answered. My voice vibrated. "He was doing something when it happened. “I do not think thieves killed him."

Charles's face had a serious look as he opened the file. His eyes passed over the papers very slowly, and his jaw tightened.

“This is serious.” His tone was serious. "If what is written here is factual, then your family is in danger."

"It's worse than that," I said. "Clarissa and Damon are working together. They killed Jonathan, and I think they're planning to—"

I stopped, my throat constricting.

They already did. I thought. They killed me too.

Charles nodded solemnly, his face white.

"We'll need more evidence before we can take this to the authorities. If we move too soon—"

In an instant, the sound of a loud crash came from outside the office interrupted us. We froze, our eyes locked upon each other. Charles rose and went to the door, peering through the frosted glass.

"What is it?" I whispered.

“I don't know,” he uttered, with a low voice. “Stay here.”

He moved into the hallway, and I plastered myself against the wall, my heart racing like a runaway train.

Moments later, a scream ripped through the atmosphere.

"Charles!" I shouted, running to the door.

Besides my own, all of the other apartment doors in the hallway were shut, and the only noise was the sound of feet fleeing down the stairs. I came out, my breath in short puffs, my eyes looking around.

Then I noticed Charles lying motionless on the floor, blood collecting beneath him.

I slammed a hand over my mouth, stifling a cry of agony. They did this

This was not a warning; it was a declaration of war.