The door swung open, releasing a cloud of steam into the cool bedroom air.

Cordero Boone stepped out.

He was wearing nothing but a white towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his broad shoulders, tracing the defined lines of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen. He was younger here. The stress lines that had etched themselves around his eyes in her previous life were gone. He looked powerful. Vibrant.

And utterly terrifying.

Elaina scrambled backward on the bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It was an instinctive reaction, a muscle memory of fear.

Cordero stopped wiping his hair with a smaller towel. He lowered it, his dark eyes locking onto hers. There was no warmth in them. No affection for a new bride. Just a cold, simmering disgust that made the air in the room feel heavy.

"What is this?" His voice was deep, gravelly. He gestured to her huddled form with the hand holding the towel. "More acting? I thought we were done with the performance once the guests left."

Elaina's mouth opened, but no words came out. Seeing him alive, breathing, standing there with that familiar arrogance... it was disorienting.

He walked toward the bed. Every step was predatory.

"You got what you wanted, Elaina," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You're a Boone now. You have the ring. You have the access to the trust fund. Don't pretend to be the shy, blushing virgin now."

He reached the edge of the bed and leaned over, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her legs. The mattress dipped under his weight. The scent of him-sandalwood and expensive soap-hit her. It was the smell of her husband. The smell of the man who had let her die.

"I..." Elaina started, her voice shaking. "I didn't..."

"You didn't what?" He sneered. "You didn't spike my drink last month? You didn't orchestrate this whole shotgun wedding because you claimed to be pregnant? Oh wait, you 'lost' it just in time for the honeymoon, didn't you?"

The memory assaulted her. In her past life, she had been confused by his accusations. She had cried, begged him to believe her. She hadn't drugged him. She hadn't lied. But Amanda had set it up perfectly. The fake positive test planted in her bag. The drugged drink at the party that she had handed to him, unaware of what was in it.

He believed she was a monster. A trapper.

Elaina looked at him. Really looked at him. In her past life, she had cowered. She had tried to touch his hand, to plead.

Now, she felt a cold resolve hardening in her chest. She knew the truth. She knew he was a pawn in Amanda's game just as much as she was. But his cruelty... that was his own choice.

She released her grip on the duvet. She didn't pull it down, but she stopped using it as a shield. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze.

"I am not acting," she said. Her voice was quiet, but steady. "And I am not the villain you think I am, Cordero."

He laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "Right. You're the victim. The poor foster girl who just happened to land the biggest catch in Manhattan."

He pushed himself off the bed, disgust radiating from him. He turned his back to her, and without a shred of hesitation, he dropped the towel.

Elaina gasped and looked away, turning her head sharply toward the window. Her face burned.

"Don't flatter yourself," Cordero said dryly. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajama pants. "I have zero interest in touching you. You're repulsive to me."

The words stung, but not as much as they used to. Words couldn't kill her. Ponds could.

She heard the rustle of fabric as he dressed. When she looked back, he was pulling a t-shirt over his head. He didn't even look at the bed. He walked straight to the chaise lounge by the window, grabbed a spare pillow from the armchair, and threw it down.

"I sleep here," he stated. "You stay on your side of the room. If you try to come near me, I'll have you removed from this house faster than you can say 'alimony'."

He lay down on the narrow sofa, turning his back to her immediately.

Elaina sat in the middle of the massive, empty bed. The silence in the room was deafening. She looked at the man who was supposed to be her partner. He hated her. The world hated her. And the woman who killed her was probably sleeping soundly a few miles away.

She swung her legs off the bed and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Manhattan sprawled out below them, a grid of glittering lights. It looked beautiful and indifferent.

She placed her hand against the cold glass.

I died, she thought. And I came back.

She wasn't going to spend this life crying over a man who wouldn't look at her. She wasn't going to be the victim.

She turned around and looked at Cordero's sleeping form.

"Sleep well, husband," she whispered into the darkness. "Because things are going to be very different this time."

She climbed back into bed, pulling the silk sheets up. She didn't sleep for a long time.

The knock was soft. Tentative. But in the dead silence of 2:00 AM, it sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.

Elaina's eyes snapped open. She hadn't been fully asleep, just drifting in a haze of exhaustion and planning. She knew that knock. She remembered it.

In her first life, she had been asleep. She had woken up to hear Cordero talking to someone, soft murmurs that she interpreted as intimacy. It had fueled her jealousy, made her act crazy the next morning.

This time, she lay perfectly still. She controlled her breathing.

On the sofa, Cordero groaned. He shifted, the leather creaking under his weight. "What the hell?" he muttered.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the door, annoyed. He stood up, his movements stiff, and walked across the room.

Elaina watched through her eyelashes.

He opened the door a crack.

"Cordero?"

The voice was sweet, dripping with synthetic concern. Amanda.

"It's late, Amanda," Cordero said, his voice rough with sleep. He didn't open the door wider. He stood in the gap, blocking her view of the room.

"I know," Amanda cooed. "I just... I saw the light under the door earlier. I couldn't sleep thinking about you. I know how hard this is for you. Being forced into this..."

Elaina's fingernails dug into her palms under the duvet. The audacity.

"I brought you some warm milk," Amanda said. "With a little honey and nutmeg. Just like your mom used to make. It helps with the stress."

Elaina almost gagged. Warm milk? It was so cliché it was insulting. But it was calculated. It highlighted Amanda's role as the "childhood friend" who knew his comforts, contrasting with the "stranger" wife in his bed.

"I don't need milk, Amanda," Cordero said. He sounded tired, but not receptive.

"Are you sure?" Amanda's voice lowered. She stepped closer; Elaina could see the shadow of her movement in the sliver of light from the hallway. "Is... is she asleep? Is everything okay? Did she try anything?"

"She's asleep," Cordero said shortly. "Go to bed, Amanda."

"Can I just come in for a second? I left my-"

"No."

The word was sharp. Final.

Elaina's eyebrows shot up. In her memory, she thought he had let her in. She thought they had laughed together. But he hadn't.

"It's my wedding night, Amanda," Cordero said, his voice dripping with irony. "Regardless of how I feel about it, having another woman in the room isn't appropriate. Goodnight."

He closed the door. He didn't slam it, but he closed it firmly right in her face.

Elaina heard a muffled gasp from the other side, then silence.

Cordero leaned his forehead against the wood of the door for a second. He let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn't look like a man in love with his mistress. He looked like a man trapped in a cage, being poked by everyone around him.

He turned and walked back toward the sofa. As he passed the bed, he paused. He looked down at Elaina.

She kept her eyes shut, breathing evenly.

"Unbelievable," he muttered to himself. "Sleeps like the dead while my life falls apart."

He threw himself back onto the sofa, punching the pillow into shape.

Elaina opened her eyes in the darkness.

He had sent Amanda away. He had defended the sanctity of the marriage, even if he hated the wife.

It was a small piece of information, but it was vital. Cordero wasn't Amanda's puppet yet. He was honorable, in his own twisted, cold way.

Elaina stared at the ceiling. Her mind began to race, connecting dots she had missed the first time. Amanda wasn't just attacking her; she was actively trying to isolate Cordero, painting herself as the only safe harbor.

She wants to be the savior, Elaina thought. So I have to stop being the villain.

She needed to change the narrative. And it had to start immediately.

She closed her eyes, forcing her body to relax. Tomorrow was going to be a war. She needed rest.

Sunlight sliced through the heavy velvet curtains, hitting Elaina right in the eyes. She woke up instantly, no grogginess, just a sharp, clear alertness.

She sat up. The sofa was empty. The pillow was on the floor. Cordero was gone.

Good.

Elaina threw off the covers and marched into the massive walk-in closet. She flipped the light switch.

It was a horror show.

Rack after rack of neon colors, animal prints, sequins, and feathers. In her past life, Amanda had "helped" her shop, telling her that the Boone family loved bold, artistic statements. She had told Elaina that Cordero liked women who dressed "exotically" to match her Latina heritage.

Elaina had looked like a clown. A caricature.

She grabbed a handful of hangers holding a leopard print jumpsuit with rhinestones. She ripped it off the rack and threw it on the floor.

Then a neon pink tulle skirt.

A gold lamé blouse.

She moved with a frantic, focused energy, stripping the closet bare of the atrocities. By the time she was done, a mountain of expensive, tacky fabric lay in the center of the room.

She went to the back corner, where she had hidden her old clothes-the ones from before she tried to be "Mrs. Boone."

She found a pair of straight-leg vintage Levi's and a crisp, white button-down shirt. She put them on. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows.

She went to the bathroom. She washed her face, scrubbing away the residue of the heavy night creams Amanda had insisted she use. Her skin was glowing and youthful. She didn't need layers of foundation.

She pulled her thick, dark hair back into a high, severe ponytail, exposing the elegant line of her neck.

She looked in the mirror. She didn't look like a rich man's toy anymore. She looked like Elaina Velasquez. Dangerous. Clean. Sharp.

A knock at the door. A maid peeked in, holding a feather duster.

"Oh!" The maid jumped when she saw the pile of clothes. Then she looked at Elaina, her eyes widening. She clearly didn't recognize the woman standing there. "Ma'am?"

"Take all of this," Elaina said, gesturing to the pile. Her voice was cool and authoritative. "Donate it. I don't care. Just get it out of my sight."

"Y-yes, Mrs. Boone." The maid scrambled to comply.

Elaina walked out of the room. She descended the grand staircase, her hand gliding over the mahogany banister. The portraits of Boone ancestors seemed to glare at her, but she stared right back.

She reached the dining room.

Cordero was sitting at the head of the table, a newspaper spread out, a cup of coffee in hand.

Amanda was there too. Of course she was. She was sitting to Cordero's right, leaning in close, laughing at something on her phone. She was wearing a floral sundress that looked innocent and sweet.

Elaina's heels clicked on the marble floor. Click. Click. Click.

Cordero looked up.

His eyes widened. He froze. The coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. He stared at her, his gaze traveling from the white shirt to the jeans to the ponytail. He looked confused, as if he was trying to reconcile this image with the woman he married yesterday.

Amanda turned, a smile plastered on her face. "Elaina! Good morn-"

The smile died. She blinked. She looked at Elaina's outfit, then at her face. The lack of makeup. The confidence.

Elaina didn't say a word. She walked past Amanda. She walked past the empty seat on the side where she usually sat.

She walked to the foot of the table-the seat opposite Cordero. The Matriarch's seat.

She pulled the heavy chair out. The sound scraped against the floor, echoing.

She sat down. She crossed her legs. She laced her fingers together on the table.

"Good morning," Elaina said. Her voice was calm, devoid of the desperate, high-pitched tone she used to have.

The silence in the room was absolute.

Cordero slowly lowered his cup. He was staring at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. It wasn't hatred anymore. It was shock.

Amanda shifted in her seat. She looked unsettled. "Elaina, you look... different. Are you feeling okay? That outfit is very... casual for breakfast at the Manor."

"It's clean," Elaina said, holding Amanda's gaze. "I decided I was done wearing costumes."

Amanda flinched as if she'd been slapped.

Elaina turned her head to the butler standing by the sideboard. "Black coffee. No sugar."

The butler, a man named Henderson who had always ignored her, snapped to attention. "Yes, Madam. Immediately."

Elaina looked back at Cordero. He was still watching her. His dark eyes were narrowed, calculating. He was seeing her for the first time.