The honeymoon had barely ended when the recording arrived.

The voice on the other end claimed to be me—speaking from the edge of death, seven years in the future.

"Divorce Victor Weston. He'll cheat on you with Georgia Kaufman. And eventually, he'll get you killed."

That night, I slapped divorce papers onto the table.

Victor didn't take it well. He pleaded, raged, even dragged university leadership into our marriage to pressure me. But my resolve was iron.

The next day, I went to Skyfire Group headquarters to terminate my lab's cooperation with his company. But as I approached his office, I heard voices.

I stopped. Through the cracked door, I saw my husband—panting, his body pressed over my former student, Georgia Kaufman.

"Don't be brainless like her," Victor sneered. "Give me a smart son, not a fool."

Georgia murmured something inaudible. Victor laughed.

"That AI recording was just to trick her. Didn't expect she'd actually believe it. It's 2025—who's still that gullible?"

He pulled away to light a cigarette, smoke curling around his smirk. "Once the brat's born, I'll marry you. Who says I owe her anything? I was born owing her nothing."

He exhaled. "But this stays buried. Understand?"

As a professor of life sciences at Riverdale University, I knew AI's limits. I knew what could be faked. But I also knew that warning hadn't been a trick—it was a lifeline.

——

I didn't storm in. Not yet.

I messaged Victor's secretary: Send every department manager to Mr. Weston's office. Now.

Moments later, the door swung open. Confused executives flooded in.

Georgia scrambled like a startled rabbit, ducking behind the mahogany desk to hide her disheveled state.

Victor opened his mouth to roar—then saw me step out from behind the crowd.

He froze.

"Grace..." His finger trembled as he pointed. "You set this up!"

I ignored him. My gaze swept the discarded clothes on the floor, then locked onto the woman cowering behind the desk.

"Georgia Kaufman," I said, voice calm but cutting. "Last week, you swore you'd never have any improper relationship with my husband."

Victor's face flushed crimson. Being caught like this by his entire executive team—a fatal blow to his ego.

"Grace Sullivan!" he snapped. "What are you doing? You're acting like a shrew, not a professor!"

I scoffed and walked toward the desk.

When I reached Georgia, I grabbed her wrist. My grip was unyielding.

"Your father beat your mother to death," I said, loud enough for the room. "I fought to get justice for her. I put him behind bars."

Georgia trembled, eyes darting.

"You said you didn't want to rot in the mountains. So I brought you to the city. Paid for high school. Sponsored you through university. Gave you a life."

I leaned closer. "You told me you'd spend this life repaying my kindness."

My gaze dropped to her rounded belly.

"This is your repayment? Climbing into my husband's bed and carrying his bastard?"

Whispers erupted.

"She's the student Mrs. Weston sponsored?"

"Slept with her mentor's husband? Got pregnant? That's lower than dirt."

"Her father killed her mother? And she does this to the woman who saved her?"

"Bad blood. Like father, like daughter."

I yanked Georgia's wrist, dragging her from hiding.

"No!" She broke free and crawled toward Victor. "Victor... help me..."

His humiliation boiled over.

"Get out!" he roared at the staff. "Whoever says another word is fired!"

The managers fled, eager to escape but desperate to spread the news.

When the door clicked shut, Victor slumped against the desk, rubbing his temples.

"How much did you hear?" His voice dropped dangerously low.

Georgia snatched her clothes, clutching them to her chest.

"Enough," I said coldly. "I heard you stripping her."

He cursed, then guided me to a chair, his demeanor shifting from rage to manipulation.

"Gracie, be reasonable. I'm the founder of Skyfire Group. I built this empire."

He met my eyes—no remorse.

"Without an heir, who inherits the company? You lost our child. You can't conceive anymore. What choice did I have?"

Victor punctuated his desperation with sharp, stinging slaps to his own face.

Thud.

He dropped to his knees before me. "But Gracie, Gigi is pregnant. I have a child now."

He looked up, eyes swimming with guilt and entitlement. "Have mercy on me. Let Gigi carry this baby to term. The heir to the Skyfire Group cannot be born out of wedlock."

He shuffled closer, grabbing the hem of my skirt. "The moment the child turns one month old, I'll divorce her. I'll court you again. We'll remarry, and you'll resume your place as Mrs. Weston."

Georgia crawled forward to kneel beside him. "Professor Sullivan, punish me however you want, but please—don't blame Victor. He loves you."

Love?

From her mouth, about Victor and me—the word made bile rise in my throat.

My rage shattered its dam. My hand lashed out, striking her face with every ounce of strength I had left.

"You don't get to—"

Smack!

My head snapped sideways. Stinging heat spread across my cheek, radiating into my jaw.

Victor had hauled Georgia into his arms. His other hand—the one that just struck me—trembled at his side.

"Grace, you've gone too far," he snarled. "Stop bullying her."

I stared at him, blood running cold. Bullying her?

Georgia cradled her stomach, shrinking into his chest like a wounded animal. Victor didn't spare me another glance—he scooped her up and stormed out.

I made my way back to the university, mind numb.

I'd read the diary in the suitcase. I knew about the affair. But seeing him strike me to protect her? That was a different kind of agony.

When Georgia first arrived at Riverdale, she was a mouse—skittish, flinching at loud noises. I broke protocol to mentor her. I guided her hands through experiments, added her name to papers she barely contributed to, shielded her from the harshness of academia.

I thought I was gaining a sister.

Instead, she was busy getting "close" to my husband.

I sat at my desk and drafted an email to the dean. Expulsion. The reason was clinical: Moral turpitude; interference in a mentor's marriage; pregnancy from an illicit affair with Victor Weston.

Victor was a celebrity in Riverdale. It took thirty minutes for the scandal to explode.

The hashtag #RiverdaleGradStudentHomewrecker trended instantly. The internet mob went to work—court documents about her father's crimes, her kindergarten records, her graduate transcripts. All of it unearthed and dissected.

People camped at the university gates, plastering the entrance with posters cursing Georgia's name.

Victor cornered me early the next morning. No apology for the slap.

"Take her back," he commanded. "Reinstate Georgia as your student. It's the only way I'll feel the child is safe."

"No."

The cost of defying Victor Weston was immediate. Pressured by Skyfire Group, the university suspended me.

In my past life, I'd swallowed my pride to keep my career—only to end up committed to an asylum a year later. I wouldn't make that mistake again.

The irony was bitter. I remembered the first time I saw Victor.

He was trailing his grandmother in the dead of winter, scavenging rotting cabbage leaves from the market floor because they couldn't afford fresh food.

I'd been a child then, but I knew how to manipulate my father. I faked a fainting spell from "hunger," claiming Dad's cooking was inedible, just to force him to hire a nanny.

My father, a widower who indulged my every whim, saw through the act but hired Grandma Weston anyway.

Her cooking was atrocious—worse than Dad's—but I ate every bite so Victor wouldn't have to scavenge again.

Under my father's tutelage, Victor's genius flourished. For a decade, Dad drove him to competitions, nurturing his talent until Victor swept every award in the state.

We built him.

And now, he was tearing me apart.

When college entrance exams came, Victor abandoned mathematics for computer science.

"Math Olympiad is fine," he'd said, "but I want to make money. A lot of it."

I remembered my promise. "If you want to be an academic titan like your uncle, I'll fund you. If you want to coast, I'll give you enough to spend however you please."

He achieved his dream—tech mogul, billions in the bank. But he betrayed the boy he used to be. The man who once vowed to shield me from the storm became the one plotting against me for Georgia's sake.

In my previous life, Georgia achieved a breakthrough in high-throughput DNA synthesis during her second year of graduate school. It fast-tracked her graduation.

I called a press conference with irrefutable evidence of her plagiarism. Victor intervened. The proof meant to hang Georgia became the noose around my own neck.

His PR team spun the narrative with terrifying efficiency. Recordings meant to expose Georgia were doctored to frame me—soliciting bribes, forcing students to entertain clients. My research notes were twisted into a petition detailing my "obscene tyranny."

Overnight, I went from respected scholar to pariah. The public bayed for my blood.

I gambled everything on one final press conference. Victor responded with a single medical report. He had me committed.

"I failed her as a husband," he told the cameras. "My wife is suffering from severe delusional disorder."

Five years later, when Victor finally remembered I existed, I truly had lost my mind. Georgia had tampered with my medication to secure her position. Clarity returned only in the final moments before death.

Victor, I had thought as darkness took me, you have nothing left to threaten me with.

My diary from that time was written in blood and tears. Even across two lifetimes, the resentment burned fresh. I loved my research, but I craved freedom more.

Back in the present, I walked into the bedroom to find history repeating itself.

Victor and Georgia, entangled in our marital bed. Stark naked.

I didn't scream. I raised my phone and snapped a photo.

"Enjoying yourselves?" My voice dripped ice. "Aren't you worried all that vigorous activity might dislodge the baby?"

Victor froze.

"We aren't even divorced yet, and you're dragging her back here?" I continued. "Or does defiling your wife's bed give you an extra thrill?"

I tapped my chin. "I suppose that makes sense. Animals don't need logic to rut."

He scrambled to shield Georgia, face twisting. "Get out!"

I stepped closer. "You used to call me Gracie, remember?"

His chest heaved.

"You swore on my father's grave—and your grandmother's—that you would only ever love me. That you'd never hurt me." I tilted my head. "Have you forgotten? Or are you waiting for lightning to strike her tombstone?"

I smiled. "My father wouldn't care, of course. To him, you were always just an outsider."

His grandmother was his only weakness. At her name, the veins in his neck bulged.

He lunged.

His hand clamped around my throat, slamming me to the floor. "Grace, you've gone too far!"

I didn't struggle. Just stared up at him, eyes void of fear. Perhaps my cold detachment terrified him more than screaming would have. He released me as if burned.

Then the switch flipped. He scooped me from the floor, trembling violently.

He carried me to the guest room, kicked the door shut, and crushed me into a suffocating embrace.

"Gracie, I told you! Once the baby is a month old, I'll remarry you. Why do you have to be so difficult?"

He seized my hand and forced me to slap his face. Over and over.

"Hit me. Punish me. I couldn't control myself, okay? But I need this child." His voice broke. "Gracie, I'll give you money. Whatever you want. Go anywhere—just tell me where you are. Don't leave me."