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."

"You need to behave. I can't lose you."

His voice dropped low, threaded with something twisted. "Gracie, I'm no longer the boy scavenging rotten vegetables to survive. I'm Victor Weston of Skyfire Tech. My reach is infinite."

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged with finality.

I sat before the vanity, the diary's contents burning in my mind. He was right. Against his capital and power, my resistance was an ant against a tsunami.

A knock. Then that artificial floral perfume—sickeningly sweet.

Georgia slipped in, placing a glass of milk on the table. "Professor Sullivan, please. For your health."

Bile surged. I lashed out, sweeping the glass off the table. It shattered, a jagged shard slicing the top of her foot. Blood bloomed, turning the spilled milk a grotesque pink.

I seized a handful of her hair, yanking her head back until she met my eyes.

"Georgia Kaufman. After all these years—how exactly did I wrong you?" My voice shook. "I brought you to the city. Helped your mother divorce that monster. And you? You let your father lure you back with candied hawthorns. Your mother went to find you and was beaten to death."

I tightened my grip. "I took you in at sixteen. Raised you. Where is the debt?"

She shoved me away, eyes veined red.

"Who asked you to save me? If you hadn't meddled—if your lawyer friends hadn't pushed for the death penalty—my father would still be alive! I wouldn't be an orphan!"

I froze. The realization struck like a blow. She had hated me from the beginning.

"You hate me because justice was served? You think your mother deserved to die?"

Her silence was answer enough.

The commotion drew Victor in. His gaze flicked from Georgia's bleeding foot to my face. Cold disappointment settled in his eyes.

"Gracie, I've indulged you too much."

I didn't understand those words until the psychiatric hospital's iron gates slammed shut behind me.

He visited a week later. "Apologize to Georgia. I'll take you home."

I looked him in the eye and cursed her name instead.

He left furious. I thought it was a bluff—a power play to break me.

Then reality shattered.

In the garden, a girl who spent her days counting leaves was strangled by another patient mid-episode. I watched the life leave her eyes. Primal fear finally took hold.

I begged the doctors for three days before Victor returned. To buy freedom, I sold my pride.

"I was wrong, Victor." I forced out the lie. "I love you. That's why I was jealous. Please—take me out."

Satisfaction softened his features. He helped me out of the hospital gown, sprinkled pomelo water over me to wash away bad luck.

"Gracie, leave it all behind. From now on, be obedient. Let's go home."

Back at the villa, the yard was ruined earth. The peach trees—once vibrant—had been uprooted, leaving ugly, gaping pits.

A memory surfaced: the year Victor got into No. 1 High School, Grandma Weston died. He'd wept all night by her grave. Terrified he'd abandon everything, I'd asked, "Victor, will you stay?"

He'd gripped my hand. "My home is wherever you and Joel Sullivan are. Silly girl, I'm not going anywhere."

Tears pricked my eyes. My voice rasped. "Victor, with Georgia Kaufman living here now... is this still the home you wanted?"

He looked down at me, Adam's apple bobbing. Before he could speak, Georgia's voice drifted from upstairs.

"Victor! I found the graduation photos! You looked so young!"

She bounded down, but froze when she saw me. The photos disappeared behind her back.

I released Victor's hand and stepped toward her, palm extended.

"Give them to me."