Bridget followed the dirt road back to the house. She pushed open the front door and walked straight across the living room to the cast-iron fireplace in the corner.

She pulled the two thick stacks of pink envelopes from her coat pocket. She didn't look at the words. She tossed them directly onto the glowing embers.

She grabbed the heavy iron poker. She stabbed at the charred wood, exposing the red-hot core. Flames immediately licked upward, catching the edges of the paper and turning the humiliation into black smoke.

The curtain leading to the kitchen was pushed aside. Corda walked out, carrying a plastic basin full of wet laundry. She stopped dead when she saw the fire.

Corda dropped the basin onto a chair. She rushed over to the fireplace, staring at the curling, burning letters. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.

Her voice trembled as she looked at Bridget, asking if it was really over. If she got them all.

Bridget set the iron poker down. She turned to face her mother. She looked at the deep wrinkles around Corda's eyes and gave a firm, single nod.

Bridget reached out and took Corda's rough hand. She led her to the worn sofa and pulled her down to sit. She decided to test the waters with the truth.

Bridget took a slow breath. She chose her words carefully. She told Corda that when she was under the water, something broke. She said she felt like a completely different person now.

She tried to hint that the old Bridget was dead and gone.

Corda's face twisted in agony. She gripped Bridget's hand with bone-crushing force.

Tears spilled down Corda's cheeks. She threw her arms around Bridget, pulling her into a tight, desperate hug. She sobbed, blaming herself for letting her daughter suffer so much trauma.

Bridget froze. Corda had completely misunderstood. The older woman thought the personality shift was a psychological defense mechanism-a trauma response to almost dying.

Bridget rested her chin on Corda's shoulder. The smell of cheap lye soap filled her nose. The weight of the mother's love was heavy and real.

Her analytical brain ran the simulation. Telling a poor, uneducated woman in 1978 that a soul from the future possessed her daughter would result in a trip to the psychiatric ward.

Bridget closed her eyes. She silently said her final goodbye to the girl who drowned. She accepted the misunderstanding. It was the perfect cover.

She wrapped her arms around Corda. She patted her back gently, whispering that she was fine, and that she would protect this family from now on.

Corda sniffled and pulled back. She wiped her face with her apron. She forced a smile and told Bridget to go sit on the porch and get some fresh air while she started dinner.

Bridget stood up. She walked to the front door and pushed the screen open.

The sun was setting, painting the sky a bruised orange. The cool evening breeze felt incredible against her flushed skin.

She leaned her forearms against the wooden railing. She closed her eyes, letting the quiet of the country wash over her.

The rhythmic crunch of heavy boots on gravel broke the silence.

Bridget opened her eyes. She looked toward the road. A tall man wearing a dark canvas jacket was walking past the house.

His dark hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were dark, deep, and completely closed off to the world.

The fragmented memories snapped together. This was the volunteer who pulled her out of the lake. Drake Potts.

Drake felt the weight of her stare. He stopped walking. He turned his head and looked directly at her standing on the porch.

Their eyes locked. Bridget's heart gave a violent, uncontrollable thump against her ribs.

This wasn't the original Bridget's pathetic pining. This was a purely biological reaction-a mature woman's primal appreciation for a physically dominant, exceptionally built male.

Bridget straightened her spine. She didn't look away. She stared right back at him, her gaze bold, appreciative, and slightly predatory.

Drake saw the intensity in her eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw. A flash of deep annoyance crossed his face.

He broke eye contact immediately. He grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulled it up against the wind, and quickened his pace, fully intending to pretend she didn't exist.

Before Bridget could open her mouth to call out to him, the screen door behind her banged open.

Corda stepped onto the porch, holding a plate of sliced bread. Her eyes instantly locked onto the tall figure on the road.

She shoved the plate onto a small table and yelled, "Mr. Potts!" She practically ran down the wooden steps.

Drake froze in his tracks. He slowly turned around. He pasted on a polite, tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of someone trained in high-society manners but currently miserable.

Corda reached him and grabbed his forearm. She shook it vigorously, her voice loud with gratitude, thanking him again for pulling her baby out of the water.

Drake subtly flexed his arm, smoothly pulling it out of her grip. His voice was flat and devoid of emotion. He said it was nothing, just instinct, and she didn't need to thank him.

He took a half-step backward, physically angling his body to escape down the road.

But Corda was relentless. She stepped into his path. She aggressively insisted that he come inside and eat dinner with them as a proper thank you.

Drake's brow furrowed. He glanced over Corda's shoulder, looking at Bridget on the porch, desperately searching for an excuse to leave.

Bridget leaned against the wooden post. She didn't help him. She held his gaze, a faint, amused smirk playing on her lips. She looked at him like a cat watching a mouse in a trap.

The blatant, unapologetic stare made Drake's stomach tighten with irritation. He misread her confidence as the same obsessive, clingy behavior that drove her into the lake in the first place.

Realizing Corda wasn't going to take no for an answer without causing a scene, Drake clenched his jaw. He gave a stiff, defeated nod.

Corda beamed. She ushered him up the steps. Bridget turned sideways to let him pass. As he brushed by her, the crisp, expensive scent of cedarwood soap hit her senses.

They moved into the cramped dining room. A pot of cheap beef stew and hard crusty bread sat on the table.

Drake was forced into the chair directly across from Bridget. His broad shoulders made the tiny room feel suffocatingly small.

Corda piled his bowl high with meat. Then, she made an excuse about needing a different serving spoon and practically ran into the kitchen, leaving them alone.

From the kitchen, the loud slam of a metal pot hitting the stove echoed. Brenda, the sister-in-law, was intentionally making noise, muttering curses about feeding outsiders.

Drake's eyes flicked toward the kitchen door. He instantly read the toxic financial tension in the house.

Bridget picked up her spoon. She decided to poke the bear. She used a smooth, adult tone, asking him if he was enjoying his community service at the camp.

Drake didn't look up from his bowl. He cut a piece of bread with aggressive force. He gave a single, dismissive grunt. "Fine."

Bridget raised an eyebrow. She wasn't offended. She found his icy walls incredibly interesting.

She rested her chin in her hand. She openly studied the sharp lines of his face and the long, elegant fingers gripping the cheap silverware.

Drake felt her eyes burning into him. He dropped his knife with a clatter. He looked up, his eyes blazing with cold warning. He told her to stop looking at him and to drop whatever delusions she was building in her head.

Bridget blinked, surprised by the venom. She realized he still thought she was a pathetic, love-crazed teenager.

She opened her mouth to put him in his place.

Suddenly, a violent chill ripped through her bones.

The smirk vanished from Bridget's face. She grabbed the edge of the wooden table. Her knuckles turned bone-white.

The freezing temperature of the lake water, combined with the massive adrenaline crash from fighting Julieta and Kurtis, finally caught up with her damaged body.

Drake watched her face drain of all color. He scowled, thinking she was faking an illness to get his attention. His eyes filled with disgust.

Bridget's vision violently tilted. The room spun. She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn't faking, but her vocal cords paralyzed.

A massive wave of darkness swallowed her brain. Her grip on the table failed. She pitched forward, falling face-first toward the hard wood.

In the split second before she lost consciousness, she saw the disgust on Drake's face shatter into pure panic. Drake's reflexes were inhumanly fast. He kicked his chair back violently, his large frame vaulting around the corner of the cramped table in a blur. Just a fraction of a second before her forehead could smash into the hard wood, his strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her safely into his solid chest.

Drake's forearm muscles corded like thick steel cables.

He absorbed the dead weight of Bridget's collapsing body instantly. His large hand clamped securely around her waist, his other arm bracing her shoulders, stopping her downward momentum just an inch before her skull could shatter against the edge of the hard wood table.

The impact of her falling against him forced a sharp exhale from his chest.

He looked down. The disgust that had been on his face a second ago was entirely wiped out, replaced by a tight, dark knot of panic. Her skin was radiating heat. The fever burned right through the thin fabric of her shirt, searing against his palms. Her face was flushed a deep, unnatural red, her head lolling back against his bicep.

A piercing scream ripped through the house.

Corda burst through the kitchen curtain, holding a serving spoon. She saw Bridget unconscious in Drake's arms. The spoon slipped from her fingers. It hit the floor, followed immediately by the ceramic plate she had been holding, which shattered into dozens of sharp white pieces across the linoleum.

Drake didn't hesitate. He didn't offer comforting words. He moved with the brutal efficiency of a soldier under fire.

He scooped Bridget up completely, lifting her into his chest. He carried her out of the cramped dining room and dropped her onto the worn corduroy sofa in the living room. He didn't set her down gently. He deposited her like a heavy sack of cargo, his movements sharp and entirely devoid of tenderness.

The second her back hit the cushions, Drake straightened up. He immediately took two large steps backward.

His jaw clenched so hard the bone looked ready to snap. He put absolute, rigid distance between himself and the sick girl, acting as if the air around her was infected.

Corda fell to her knees beside the sofa, her hands hovering over Bridget's burning forehead, sobbing hysterically.

"Alcohol," Drake barked.

His voice was a whip crack of pure ice in the chaotic room. Corda flinched, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes.

"Get rubbing alcohol," Drake ordered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Wipe down her arms and legs. Bring her core temperature down physically. Then call a doctor."

Corda scrambled to her feet, her hands shaking violently as she rushed toward the bathroom to find the medical supplies.

Drake didn't look at Bridget again. He turned his back on the sofa and strode toward the front door. His heavy boots hit the floorboards with finality.

Through the heavy fog of her fever, Bridget felt the sudden absence of heat. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood that had anchored her a moment ago was rapidly fading. Her body ached with an exhaustion so profound it felt like her bones were dissolving, yet her mind fought to cling to the one solid presence in the chaos. Her heavy eyelids fluttered. She tried to lift her hand to grab the sleeve of his jacket, but her fingers only caught the cold draft of air he left in his wake.

The heavy wooden front door slammed shut. The glass panes in the windows rattled violently from the force.

The sound was a bucket of ice water poured directly over Bridget's burning brain. He was gone.

The kitchen curtain was yanked aside. Brenda walked into the living room, holding a glass of water. She stopped and stared at Bridget lying on the sofa.

Brenda let out a loud, grating scoff.

"Perfect timing," Brenda sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "The princess decides to play sick right when it's time to clean up. More medical bills for us to pay."

Bridget forced her eyes open. Her vision swam, the edges of the room blurring together from the high temperature. But Brenda's sharp, bitter face came into perfect, terrifying focus.

Corda ran back into the room, clutching a brown plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. She heard Brenda's comment.

Corda's face turned purple with rage. Her entire body shook. "Shut your mouth, Brenda!" she screamed, her voice tearing at her throat.

Brenda rolled her eyes dramatically. She walked over to the chipped coffee table and slammed the glass of water down hard. The water sloshed over the rim, splashing directly onto the cuff of Bridget's sleeve.

The cold water soaked into the fabric, chilling Bridget's skin.

The twenty-first-century financial analyst inside Bridget's mind woke up. The sheer disrespect, the blatant hostility-it bypassed her physical weakness and ignited a cold, calculated fury in her chest.

She gripped the rough fabric of the sofa armrest. She pushed her weight onto her elbows, forcing her heavy, leaden body to sit up. Her muscles screamed in protest, her head spinning wildly.

Brenda saw her moving. She took a quick step forward. Under the guise of helping, Brenda placed her hand heavily on Bridget's shoulder and shoved her back down against the cushions.

Brenda leaned in close. Her breath smelled of stale coffee.

"If you think you're going to lay around and leech off my husband's paycheck," Brenda hissed in a low, vicious whisper, "I will throw your pathetic ass out on the street myself."

Bridget stopped fighting the pressure on her shoulder. She let her head rest against the sofa.

She tilted her chin up. Her eyes, bloodshot and burning with fever, locked onto Brenda's. There was zero fear in Bridget's stare. It was the dead, hollow look of an apex predator assessing a very stupid piece of prey.

"Do not," Bridget rasped, her voice a broken, gravelly whisper that cut through the room, "mistake my silence for weakness."

Brenda physically recoiled. The sheer malice in Bridget's eyes was so intense it felt like a physical blow. Brenda's grip on Bridget's shoulder loosened for a fraction of a second.

Corda shoved Brenda hard from the side.

"Get away from her!" Corda shrieked, placing her body like a shield between her daughter and her daughter-in-law.

A screaming match erupted. Brenda yelled about money, Corda yelled about family.

Bridget tuned out the noise. She lay perfectly still on the sofa, her brain running a rapid, ruthless audit of her current situation.

This house was a toxic asset. Brenda was an active liability. As long as Bridget and Corda lived under this roof, they would be subjected to this emotional and financial drain.

Corda uncapped the alcohol bottle. She poured it onto a rag and began frantically wiping Bridget's arms. The freezing liquid hitting her boiling skin made Bridget's entire body violently shudder.

But the shock of the cold cleared her mind completely.

Brenda cursed loudly, turned on her heel, and stomped back into the kitchen, intentionally ripping half the curtain off its rod as she passed.

Bridget reached out. Her hot fingers clamped down hard over Corda's shaking wrist, stopping the rag.

"Mom," Bridget said. Her voice was still a broken rasp, but every syllable carried the heavy, undeniable weight of iron. "We have to leave this house."

Corda froze. She stared at Bridget, her eyes wide, thinking the fever was making her daughter hallucinate.

Bridget turned her head. She looked out the window into the pitch-black night.

"We are leaving," Bridget repeated, her thumb pressing hard into Corda's pulse point.

She knew the absolute rule of corporate restructuring. To save the core business, you had to amputate the rotting limbs. It was time to cut Brenda out of their lives completely.