The morning light filtering through the manor's tall windows felt different now—sharper, more revealing. I'd barely closed the guest room door behind me when voices drifted up from the garden below—Sterling's low murmur, Vivian's theatrical laugh.

I moved to the window without thinking, drawn by the same masochistic instinct that had ruined me in my previous life. They stood on the stone terrace beneath a canopy of wisteria, Sterling in silk pajama pants, Vivian draped against him in a form-fitting dress that screamed expensive. His arm circled her shoulders with practiced ease, and she was playing the fragile flower to perfection—one hand pressed delicately to his chest, her face tilted up in rehearsed adoration.

"Are you alright?" I could just make out his murmur through the half-open window. His voice was soft with concern that I'd once foolishly believed was reserved for me.

Vivian's reply was too quiet to hear, but the way she nestled closer said everything.

Then, as if she'd sensed my gaze, Vivian looked up directly at my window. The smirk that spread across her face was slow and deliberate. She mouthed two words, her lips exaggerating every syllable so I wouldn't miss them: "I win."

I held her stare for three full seconds, then drew the curtain shut.

Let her have her morning victory lap. It would make the fall that much more satisfying.

Moments later, Sterling's voice reached me through the closed window—this time directed at me, sharp enough to carry across the distance.

Then Sterling's gaze found mine, and the warmth in his eyes died instantly. His expression turned cold, calculating, dismissive. "I assume you were smart enough to have Garrett call Vivian last night," he said, his tone sharp as a blade. "Don't get any ideas about things that will never belong to you."

The words hit me like a physical blow, but not for the reasons he intended. In my previous life, standing in this exact spot, he'd said something entirely different: "It doesn't matter who it was. Don't worry about it—just accept being Mrs. Ashford."

I'd thought those words meant acceptance, maybe even the beginning of love. How naive I'd been. He'd only meant that I was convenient, a placeholder until he could secure his position as head of the family. The moment he'd gained that power, he'd discarded me like yesterday's newspaper.

I'd loved him once. Loved him desperately, completely, foolishly. When I'd been struggling through medical school, drowning in debt and despair, he'd been my salvation. The Ashford family scholarship had covered my tuition, and Sterling had personally guaranteed my acceptance into the program. Years later, when I'd become a successful doctor, I'd voluntarily taken the position as the family's private physician just to be near him.

What a joke that seemed now.

"Of course," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "I know exactly where I stand."

Sterling's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he'd expected more of a reaction. But I simply nodded politely and continued down the hallway, leaving them to their performance.

As I reached my room, my phone buzzed with a text message. Maxwell's name appeared on the screen, and my heart skipped a beat.

**"Flying to London on business. Will be back in two weeks. Wait for me."**

I stared at the message for a long moment, then tucked the phone away without responding. Let him wonder. Let him wait.

The next few days passed in a strange sort of suspended animation. The manor continued its daily rhythms—servants bustling about their duties, Sterling conducting business from his study, Vivian floating through the halls like she owned the place.

But I noticed things I'd missed before. The way the staff whispered when Vivian passed, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes holding something that looked almost like pity. The way Sterling's jaw tightened whenever he caught Vivian staring at herself in mirrors, adjusting her appearance with obsessive precision.

Vivian, for her part, seemed determined to make my life as uncomfortable as possible. She made pointed comments within earshot of the servants about "certain people" who "threw themselves at unavailable men." She questioned my medical credentials loud enough for half the household to hear. She even went so far as to suggest that I was "taking advantage of elderly patients" during one particularly vicious encounter in the library.

I endured it all with the patience of someone who knew exactly how this story would end. In my previous life, Vivian's obsession with Sterling had eventually consumed her. She'd spiraled into addiction and mental illness, convinced that if she could just be perfect enough, beautiful enough, devoted enough, he would finally love her the way she loved him.

The irony was that Sterling had always believed in her devotion. Even as she'd fallen apart, he'd seen her as his one true love, the woman who'd never betrayed him. If only he'd known the truth about the nights she'd spent with other men, desperately trying to make him jealous, or the pills she'd started taking to maintain her perfect facade.

But that was then. This time, things would be different.

On the fifth day after Maxwell's departure, I was making my way up the main staircase when Vivian appeared at the top landing. She'd been waiting for me, I realized—positioned perfectly to block my path.

"I need to ask you something," she said, her voice tight with barely controlled anger. "Why do you insist on inserting yourself between Sterling and me? Don't you have any shame?"

I paused on the stairs, looking up at her. In the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass windows, she looked almost ethereal—beautiful and fragile and completely unhinged.

"Only someone like you would want Sterling Ashford," I replied coolly. "I'm not interested."

Her face flushed crimson. "You're lying! You've been chasing after him for years!"

"Have I?" I continued up the stairs, moving to step around her. "Maybe you should ask yourself why you're so threatened by someone who supposedly doesn't matter."

As I passed her, I heard her sharp intake of breath, felt the shift in the air that meant she was moving—

"Dr. Wren!" Vivian's scream pierced the afternoon quiet. "What are you doing! Don't—!"

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs, and watched in horror as Vivian tumbled down the marble staircase. Her body hit each step with sickening thuds, her limbs twisting at unnatural angles, until she finally came to rest at the bottom in a crumpled heap.

For a moment, the world went completely silent. Then the screaming began.

My fingers were still gripping the banister when the manor erupted around me.

Servants appeared from every doorway—the kitchen, the east wing, the library—their uniforms blurring as they rushed toward Vivian's crumpled form at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Henderson reached her first, dropping to her knees with a gasp that cut through the chaos.

"Miss Blake!" Mrs. Henderson, the head housekeeper, dropped to her knees beside Vivian's motionless form. "Someone call for help!"

The study door burst open with such force it slammed against the wall. Sterling emerged like a man possessed, his face pale with terror. He took the stairs three at a time, his expensive shoes sliding on the polished marble in his haste.

"Vivian!" His voice cracked as he gathered her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Blood trickled from a gash on her forehead, staining his white shirt crimson. "Vivian, can you hear me?"

Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing green eyes swimming with tears. She looked so fragile, so broken, nestled against Sterling's chest like a wounded bird. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, each word punctuated by a sob.

"She... she pushed me," Vivian breathed, her gaze finding mine across the chaos. "I only wanted to ask her why she was targeting me... why she hated me so much..."

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. Every eye in the room turned toward me, and I felt the weight of their stares like stones pressing against my chest. The servants' expressions shifted from concern to suspicion, their whispered conversations creating a buzz that made my skin crawl.

"That's not—" I started, but Sterling's roar cut through my words like a blade.

"You!" He rose from the floor, Vivian still in his arms, his dark eyes blazing with a fury I'd never seen before. "You did this!"

He handed Vivian gently to Mrs. Henderson, his movements careful and reverent, as if she were made of spun glass. Then he turned on me, and I saw something dangerous flicker across his features—something that made my blood run cold.

"Sterling, please listen—" I began, but he was already moving.

His hand closed around my wrist like a vise, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. I gasped at the sudden pain, stumbling as he dragged me away from the staircase.

"You poisonous bitch!" he snarled, his voice low and deadly. "I should have known you'd try something like this. You can't stand seeing me happy, can you?"

"I didn't push her!" The words tore from my throat, desperate and raw. "Sterling, you have to believe me—"

"Believe you?" He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "After what you've done?"

We'd reached the sitting room now, and Sterling shoved me inside with enough force to send me stumbling. I caught myself against the back of a chair, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.

Sterling moved to the coffee table, his movements sharp and predatory. The crystal paperweight caught the afternoon light as he picked it up, its faceted surface throwing rainbows across the walls. For a moment, it looked almost beautiful.

Then he raised it above his head.

"You want to hurt the people I love?" His voice was eerily calm now, which somehow made it more terrifying. "Let me show you what that feels like."

The paperweight came down with brutal precision, connecting with my left hand with a sickening crack. White-hot pain exploded up my arm, and I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood. My ring finger bent at an unnatural angle, already beginning to swell.

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of screaming. Not when Vivian was probably listening from the hallway, savoring every moment of my suffering.

Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as the pain radiated through my entire hand. I cradled it against my chest, feeling the bone grinding against itself with every movement.

"That's just the beginning," Sterling said, his voice deadly quiet. "I'm going to destroy you, Dr. Wren. I'll make sure you never practice medicine again. I'll ruin your reputation, your career, everything you've worked for."

He grabbed my arm again, dragging me toward the storage room at the back of the house. The small, windowless space smelled of dust and old furniture, and the single bulb cast harsh shadows across the walls.

"You'll disappear," he continued, shoving me inside. "No one will remember your name. No one will care what happens to you."

Vivian appeared in the doorway, tears still streaming down her face, but I caught the flash of triumph in her eyes before she quickly looked away. She was enjoying this—every second of my humiliation and pain.

"Sterling," she whispered, her voice trembling with fake concern. "Maybe we should just call the police..."

"No." His answer was immediate and final. "She's going to suffer first."

The realization hit me like ice water in my veins. This was exactly how my previous life had begun to unravel. Sterling's rage, his need to control and punish, his complete inability to see past his own desires. If nothing changed, if no one intervened, I would be crushed beneath the weight of the Ashford family's power just as I had been before.

Sterling raised his hand again, and I closed my eyes, bracing for another blow.

The sound of a door opening made us all freeze.

"What exactly is going on here?"

Maxwell Ashford stood in the doorway of the storage room, his silver hair perfectly styled despite having just returned from London. His steel-gray eyes took in the scene before him—Sterling with his hand raised, me cowering against the wall with my broken finger, Vivian hovering nearby with her crocodile tears.

His face was a mask of controlled fury.

"Dad." Sterling's hand dropped to his side, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I heard uncertainty in his voice. "You're back early."

"Apparently not early enough," Maxwell replied, his tone ice-cold. "I repeat—what is going on here?"

Sterling straightened, quickly composing himself. "It's Wendy. She pushed Vivian down the stairs. She could have killed her."

But I saw my chance, the opening I'd been waiting for. With my voice hoarse from pain and fear, I forced out the words that would change everything.

"I didn't push her," I whispered. "She fell on her own."

Maxwell's gaze moved slowly from Sterling's face to my swollen, misshapen finger, then up to the security camera mounted in the corner of the hallway. The same camera that would have recorded everything that happened on those stairs.

When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of absolute authority.

"Sterling." Each word was precise, measured, dangerous. "Remove your hands from my fiancée. Now."