Audrey Hanson POV:

Hope was a dangerous, frantic thing. It pounded in my chest like a trapped bird beating against its cage. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. A chance to rewind the tape, to erase the last twenty-four hours of my life that had somehow stretched into five years of hell.

I couldn't just get my life back. I could get their lives back. Mom. Dad. The thought was a searing light in the darkness.

My first move was instinctual. I looked around the sterile guest room-a room I had once envisioned as a nursery-and found a hiding place. I carefully slid the precious ticket inside the lining of my purse, stitching it closed with a loose thread from my sweater. It was flimsy, but it was all I had.

Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of Clayton' s cold face and Kisha' s triumphant, pregnant belly burned behind my eyelids. I saw them together in our house, sleeping in our bed. The thought was a physical pain, a hot poker twisting in my gut.

Hours later, a parched thirst drove me from the room. I crept downstairs, the house silent and dark. The layout was the same, a phantom limb of my old life, but every detail was wrong. In the kitchen, I reached for a glass from the cupboard where we used to keep them, but my hand met an empty shelf.

I remembered how Clayton always used to leave a glass of water on my nightstand, ever since I told him I often woke up thirsty. A small, thoughtless gesture of love that now felt like a relic from an ancient civilization. The man who did that was gone.

"Can't sleep?"

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. Clayton stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light of the hallway. He was holding a glass of milk.

He walked past me to the refrigerator without a word, his presence sucking the air out of the room. He didn't look at me. It was as if I were a piece of furniture, an inconvenient obstacle in his path.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I had to say something. I couldn't stand this cold indifference.

"I... I was thirsty," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, his back still to me. "Kisha has trouble sleeping without warm milk. The pregnancy makes her restless."

Each word was a small, precise cut. He wasn't getting milk for himself. He was tending to his pregnant wife. His new life. A life that had no space for me.

The words I wanted to say-Do you hate me this much? Don't you remember us?-died in my throat. What was the point? He had already erased me.

I turned to leave, to retreat back to my cage.

"Audrey."

His voice stopped me. I turned back, a sliver of foolish hope flickering within me.

He didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed on my hand, which was resting on the counter. "The house key," he said, his voice flat. "I need it back."

I looked down. The key to our brownstone was still on my ring. It was a custom design, a small, intricate 'A' and 'C' intertwined. He had given it to me the day we closed on the house. 'A key to our future,' he had said, his eyes shining with love.

My hand instinctively closed around it. "Why?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Kisha feels uncomfortable with you having access to the house," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. "She wants to be the only one with a key."

He was going to give her my key. Our key.

The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it stole my breath. This man, this cold stranger, was systematically dismantling every piece of the life we had built, every symbol of the love I thought we shared, and handing the pieces to her.

My fingers were numb. I slid the key off the ring. The metal was cold against my palm. I held it out to him.

He took it without his fingers brushing mine, his gaze still averted.

"Thank you," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

I turned and fled, not waiting for a dismissal. I ran back to the guest room and closed the door, leaning against it as if to hold back the tide of my own misery.

He loved her.

The thought wasn't a question anymore. It was a fact, as solid and unchangeable as my parents' deaths. He loved her enough to erase me. He loved her enough to give her my home, my future, my key.

I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself. My hand went to my stomach, flat and empty. A new wave of grief, sharp and distinct, washed over me.

In the brief, happy hours before the TMZ article, I had taken a pregnancy test. It was positive. I was carrying Clayton' s child. I had been planning to tell him that night, over a celebratory dinner. I had imagined his face, the shock giving way to elation.

Instead, I had seen a picture of him with another woman. And in my grief and anger, I had run. I had run right into this nightmare.

Now, another woman was carrying his child. A child he clearly wanted, a child he cherished. And mine? Our baby was a secret, a ghost from a past he refused to acknowledge.

I didn't sleep at all.

The next morning, I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. Her eyes were hollow, rimmed with red. Her face was pale and drawn. I splashed cold water on my face, willing myself to hold it together. Just six more days.

I crept downstairs like a thief. Clayton and Kisha were already at the breakfast table. The table where Clayton and I were supposed to have our first breakfast as husband and wife. He was cutting her pancakes into small, bite-sized pieces, just like he used to do for me.

The sight was a punch to the gut.

"Audrey! Good morning!" Kisha chirped, her smile bright and sickeningly sweet. "Come, join us. Maria made your favorite, blueberry waffles."

I froze. How did she know that?

Clayton looked up, his expression unreadable. "Kisha has been very thorough in trying to make you feel welcome," he said, his voice laced with an edge of warning. "She went through all my old things to learn about you."

He hadn't told her. She had searched for information on her rival. The thought was chilling.

I took a seat at the far end of the table, feeling like an unwanted guest at my own funeral. Maria, the maid, placed a plate of waffles in front of me with a thud.

Kisha took a bite of pancake from Clayton's fork, leaning against him affectionately. "Clay, darling, my back is aching again this morning."

"I'll draw you a bath after breakfast," he murmured, his voice softening into a tone of pure adoration I hadn't heard in five years. "And I'll give you a massage."

"You're the best," she sighed, nestling closer to him. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

I stared down at my plate, the waffles turning to ash in my mouth. It was the casual, effortless intimacy that hurt the most. The quiet moments, the unspoken understanding. It was all the things that had once been mine.

He was performing his love for her right in front of me, a deliberate, cruel spectacle designed to show me exactly what I had lost. And it was working. My heart was splintering into a thousand tiny pieces.

I pushed my chair back, the scraping sound loud in the tense silence. "Excuse me."

I had to get out of there.

"Audrey." Clayton's voice was sharp, stopping me again.

I didn't turn around.

"I've arranged for a car to take you to the cemetery," he said, his tone flat and business-like. "The driver will be here in an hour."

My shoulders sagged with a strange mix of gratitude and despair. He was giving me this, a chance to see them. But it wasn't an act of kindness. It was a transaction. A way to manage the problem I had become.

He was giving me the address to my parents' graves.

---

Audrey Hanson POV:

My eyes flickered, but I didn't dare turn around. I didn't want him to see the pathetic gratitude that I was sure was written all over my face.

"Don't misunderstand," Clayton's cold voice cut through the air, as if he'd read my mind. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for them. It's the least they deserve after..." He trailed off, but the unspoken words hung in the air: after their daughter abandoned them.

"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice a dry rasp. I fled the room before the tears could fall.

Back in the sterile guest room, I stared at my reflection. The clothes I'd been wearing for two days were crumpled and stained. I had nothing else. Nothing appropriate to wear to my own parents' funeral, five years late. The thought sent a fresh wave of shame through me.

A sharp knock on the door made me jump. Before I could answer, the door swung open.

It was Kisha. She glided in, followed by the maid, Maria, who was carrying a selection of black dresses. Kisha's smile was perfectly painted, but her eyes were cold, assessing.

"I thought you might need something to wear," she said, her voice dripping with faux concern. "I had Maria pull a few things from my closet. We're about the same size, aren't we?"

She gestured for Maria to hang the dresses on the wardrobe door. They were beautiful, expensive, and utterly alien.

"Clayton spoils me," Kisha sighed, running a hand over a silk sheath dress. "He insists I have the best of everything. He says taking care of me is his greatest pleasure now."

Every word was a carefully aimed dart. She was showing me her power, her place in his life. She was the one he spoiled now, the one he took care of. I was just a ghost in borrowed clothes.

"He's a different man since he met me," she continued, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "More grounded. He says I saved him from the darkness after you left."

I looked at the black dresses, their starkness a mirror of the void in my chest. I couldn't wear her clothes. It felt like another layer of surrender, another piece of myself I would be giving up to her.

"Thank you," I said, my voice tight. "But I'll wear my own things."

Her smile faltered for a second. "Suit yourself," she said, her tone suddenly sharp. She turned and swept out of the room, Maria trailing behind her.

I chose my own dark jeans and the crumpled sweater I arrived in. It was inappropriate, but it was mine.

The driver waiting for me was a familiar face. Frank. He had been Clayton's driver for years, a kind, quiet man who had always treated me with warmth.

His eyes widened in shock when he saw me. "Miss Hanson? Audrey? Is that really you?"

"It's me, Frank," I said, a weak smile touching my lips.

"We all... we all thought you were..." He stopped, his face full of confusion and pity.

I couldn't tell him the truth. The words would sound like madness. "It's a long story," I said, my voice weary.

The drive was quiet for a while, then Frank spoke, his voice low. "He changed after you left, miss. A lot. Sacked all the old staff, anyone who knew you. Said he didn't want any reminders."

My heart clenched. He had systematically erased every trace of me.

"And then, about six months later, he married her," Frank continued, his eyes on the rearview mirror. "Mrs. Young... Kisha. He treats her like she's made of glass. Better than he ever... well, he's very good to her."

He stopped, realizing he had said too much. But the damage was done. The last sliver of doubt I had was extinguished. It wasn't a rebound. It wasn't for show. He loved her. More than he had ever loved me.

The TMZ photo flashed in my mind. The way he was looking at her. It hadn't been a one-time mistake. It had been the beginning. He had been falling for her even then, while he was still engaged to me. The betrayal was deeper, older than I had even imagined.

The cemetery was quiet and green. I found their graves side-by-side under a large oak tree. Robert Hanson. Beloved Husband and Father. Mary Hanson. Beloved Wife and Mother.

I sank to my knees, the grief I had been holding back finally overwhelming me. I laid my head on the cool stone of my mother's grave and wept, my body shaking with silent, ragged sobs. I didn't know how long I stayed there, lost in a sea of guilt and sorrow.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered to them, my voice breaking. "I'll fix this. I promise. I'll come back. I'll stop it from ever happening."

When I returned to the brownstone, the house was quiet. I was emotionally and physically drained. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and wait for the seven days to pass.

Kisha met me in the hallway. She was holding a steaming mug. "You look exhausted," she said, her sympathetic mask back in place. "I had the kitchen make you some calming herbal tea. It will help you rest."

She held it out to me. I hesitated. I didn't trust her.

Her smile tightened. "Oh, Audrey," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You don't have to pretend with me. I know you're pregnant."

My head snapped up. How? How could she possibly know? My blood ran cold.

"I saw the prenatal vitamins in your purse when Maria was checking it," she said, her eyes glinting with a cruel triumph. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."

The mug in her hand suddenly seemed sinister. The scent of the tea made my stomach churn. I felt a wave of nausea, so strong I had to brace myself against the wall.

I pushed past her and ran to the nearest bathroom, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. The retching was violent, leaving me weak and trembling.

When I finally emerged, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, Kisha was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, the sympathetic act completely gone.

"You really think you can come back here with another man's child and win him back?" she sneered, her voice dripping with venom.

"It's not another man's child," I said, my voice shaking with a mixture of weakness and fury.

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Do you take us for fools?"

Suddenly, the door at the end of the hall opened. Clayton stood there, his face a thundercloud. He must have heard the commotion.

Kisha's expression changed in an instant. Her face crumpled, her eyes filling with tears. She turned to him, her voice a wounded whisper. "Clay... I... I didn't want to tell you like this. But Audrey... she's pregnant."

Clayton's gaze snapped to me. His eyes, already cold, turned to ice. He strode towards me, his jaw tight with a barely controlled rage.

"You're pregnant?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

---

Audrey Hanson POV:

I just stared at him, stunned by the sheer venom in his voice. This wasn't the reaction of a man who might suspect the child was his. This was the reaction of a man who felt utterly, completely betrayed.

"I asked you a question," he growled, grabbing my wrist. His grip was like steel. "Are you pregnant?"

"Yes," I whispered, the word barely audible.

His face twisted into a mask of pure disgust. "You have some nerve, Audrey. You run off for five years, God knows with who, and then you show up on my doorstep, pregnant, expecting what? That I'll take you back? That I'll raise another man's bastard?"

The word 'bastard' struck me like a physical blow. Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I would not give him the satisfaction.

"You think this is all some scheme?" I shot back, my voice trembling with rage. "You think I got pregnant just to come back and ruin your perfect new life?"

"It's a little coincidental, don't you think?" he sneered. "You show up out of the blue, with this ridiculous time-travel story and a baby on the way. You're my wife's worst nightmare come to life. Let me be clear. I am married to Kisha. She is pregnant with my child. You will not harm her. You will not harm our baby. If you do, I swear to God, Audrey, I will make you regret the day you were born."

The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. He meant it. This man, who once promised to protect me from everything, was now the one I was most afraid of.

"It's your child, Clayton," I said, the words tearing from my raw throat. "This baby is yours."

The sound of shattering porcelain echoed in the hallway. Kisha stood by the wall, a broken mug at her feet, her hand covering her mouth in a perfect imitation of shock. Her eyes were wide and swimming with tears.

"Oh, Audrey," she whispered, her voice trembling. "How could you say something so cruel?"

Clayton's reaction was instantaneous. He dropped my wrist as if it were on fire and rushed to her side. "Kisha! Are you okay? Did the glass hit you? Are you hurt?"

He fussed over her, his voice thick with a panic and concern I hadn't heard from him since I'd arrived in this nightmare future. He checked her hands, her feet, his touch gentle and full of love.

"I'm fine, Clay," she sobbed into his chest. "I just... I can't believe she would lie like that. To try and hurt us."

He held her close, stroking her hair. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here. She won't hurt you." He turned his head, his eyes locking with mine over Kisha's shoulder. They were filled with a cold, murderous fury.

"Get out of my sight," he seethed. "Go to your room. And don't you dare come near my wife again."

Kisha looked up at him, her face a mask of tear-stained innocence. "Clay, don't be so hard on her," she whispered, loud enough for me to hear. "She's just confused and hurting. We have to be understanding."

He kissed her forehead, his expression softening into one of pure adoration. "You're too good, Kisha. But I won't let her upset you." He scooped her up into his arms, as if she were a fragile doll, and carried her down the hall towards their bedroom.

I stood there, frozen, as the sound of their door closing echoed in the silence. The laughter bubbling up in my throat was hysterical, tinged with madness. It was a joke. A sick, twisted joke. He believed her so completely, so blindly. He had looked at me as if I were a monster, a snake slithering into his perfect garden.

Maria, the maid, appeared with a dustpan and brush, clucking her tongue as she swept up the broken shards of the mug. She didn't look at me, but I could feel her disdain. I could hear the whispers of the other staff as I walked past them, their eyes following me with a mixture of pity and contempt.

"Can you believe her? Claiming the baby is Mr. Young's."

"Shameless. After what she did to him."

"She's probably just after his money."

The rest of the day was a blur of humiliation. At dinner, I sat alone at the long dining table. Clayton and Kisha ate in their room, "to avoid any further stress on the baby," as Maria informed me with a sneer. My food was brought to me by a different maid, who watched me eat every bite, as if she expected me to poison myself.

"Mr. Young's orders," she said, when I asked her to leave. "We can't be too careful."

I was a prisoner in my own home. A dangerous element to be contained and monitored.

Back in my room, I took out the plane ticket. The flimsy paper was my only solace. Six more days. I just had to survive for six more days.

"I'm leaving," I whispered to the empty room, to my baby, to the ghosts of my parents. "We're going home. And we are never, ever coming back."

That night, a sharp, cramping pain woke me from a fitful sleep. It started low in my belly, a dull ache that quickly intensified into a vicious, twisting agony. I curled into a ball, sweat beading on my forehead.

Panic seized me. The baby. Something was wrong with the baby.

I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaking. I had to get help. I had to find Clayton. Despite everything, he was the only one I could think of.

The pain was so intense I could barely walk. I crawled out of my room and down the hallway, my breath coming in ragged sobs. The house was dark and silent.

"Clayton," I gasped, my voice a weak croak. "Help me."

The pain was a white-hot fire, tearing me apart from the inside. I reached the living room and collapsed onto the floor, my vision blurring.

"Please," I cried out, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty house. "Somebody, please help me."

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