The scent of lilies was suffocating. It was thick, sweet, and cloying, hanging in the air of the private viewing room like a heavy curtain.

Delina's spirit hovered in the corner, looking down at the closed casket. It was draped in white roses. A mockery. Florene knew Delina hated roses.

Guests in black designer suits shuffled in and out, whispering. They spoke of "tragedy" and "fortune" in the same breath, their eyes darting around to see who else was there.

Kassidy stood near the entrance. She dabbed at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief, accepting condolences with the grace of a practiced actress.

"She was my best friend," Kassidy sniffled to an elderly aunt.

Delina wanted to scream. She wanted to knock over the flower arrangements. But she was impotent, a ghost in her own tragedy.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the room banged open. The sound echoed like a gunshot, silencing the whispers instantly.

Hiram strode in.

He was flanked by four bodyguards who moved with military precision. The air temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He wore a black suit that looked like armor, his silver mask reflecting the dim lights.

He didn't look at the casket. He walked straight toward Kassidy.

Kassidy's performance faltered. She offered a rehearsed tremble, reaching out a hand as if to comfort the grieving widower. "Hiram, I-"

Hiram caught her wrist.

He didn't hold it; he crushed it. Kassidy gasped, her knees buckling under the pressure.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. The silver mask was cold against her skin.

"I know about the driver, Kassidy," he whispered.

The color drained from Kassidy's face so fast she looked like the corpse in the room. Her eyes darted around, looking for help, for her mother, for anyone.

"I... I don't know what you mean," she stammered.

Hiram shoved her back. He looked at his hand as if he had touched something rotting.

"Get out," he said. It wasn't a shout. It was a command spoken with the absolute authority of a king. "Clear the room."

His bodyguards moved instantly. They ushered the terrified guests and a protesting Florene out the doors. Florene tried to shout something about "rights," but a glare from Hiram silenced her.

The heavy doors boomed shut. The lock clicked.

Hiram was alone with the casket.

The silence was heavy. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and Hiram's ragged breathing.

He approached the casket slowly. His fingers trembled as they traced the polished wood.

Delina floated closer, her heart breaking for him.

He rested his forehead against the lid. "I'm sorry, Angel," he choked out.

<b>Angel. So that was her name. The name Delina had only ever heard him whisper in fevered, restless sleep, when nightmares haunted him. It confirmed everything she had ever feared-she was just a substitute for someone else, a placeholder for a ghost he truly loved.</b>

He reached up with both hands. He unbuckled the leather straps behind his head.

The silver mask clattered to the floor.

Delina gasped. In three years of marriage, she had never seen what lay beneath.

Scars ran from his jaw to his temple, deep, jagged lines of pink and white tissue. They distorted his left eye slightly, pulling the skin taut. But they weren't ugly. They were lines of pain he had borne alone.

Tears streamed down his exposed, ruined face. They dripped onto the wood of the casket.

"<b>This was my fault,</b>" he whispered to the wood. "<b>I brought you into my world. I thought… if I just kept you at arm's length, the darkness wouldn't touch you. But it found you anyway.</b>"

He sobbed, a harsh, broken sound. "I've loved you since the day you gave me that bandage in the garden. You didn't remember me. But I remembered you."

Delina's spirit was overwhelmed. The weight of his hidden devotion crushed her. He was the boy from the orphanage. The one she had helped when she was six.

"I'm here!" she screamed, diving toward him. "Hiram, I'm here!"

She tried to wrap her arms around his shaking shoulders. But as she made contact, a blinding white light erupted from the casket.

It wasn't a gentle light. It was a supernova. It enveloped the room, swallowing Hiram, the lilies, and the pain.

A sensation of falling backward seized her. She was being pulled away from him, sucked into a vortex of pure energy.

Delina gasped, her lungs filling with air so violently it felt like she had been drowning.

She bolted upright in bed, clutching her chest. She expected to feel the cold plastic of a steering wheel or the wet mud of the crash site.

Instead, her fingers gripped high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Sunlight streamed through heavy velvet curtains she didn't recognize immediately. The room was silent, smelling of lavender and expensive fabric softener.

She turned her head and froze.

A heavy arm was draped over her waist. She traced the arm up to a broad, muscular shoulder. On the nightstand, gleaming in a stray beam of sun, sat a silver mask.

Hiram was sleeping next to her.

He was alive. He was whole. He was breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against her back.

Panic surged. Was this the afterlife? Hell? A cruel dream before the final darkness?

Reflexively, she kicked out. Her foot connected hard with his shin.

Hiram grunted. He woke instantly, his body tensing into a combat stance before his eyes were even fully open. He sat up, his gaze cold and alert, scanning the room for threats.

His hand shot out, grabbing the mask from the table. He secured it over his face in one fluid motion before turning to look at her.

"Sober already?" he asked.

His voice dripped with icy sarcasm. It was the voice of the tyrant, the man she had lived with for three years. Not the broken man weeping over her casket.

Delina stared at him, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She scrambled out of bed, tangling in the sheets. She rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it with shaking fingers.

She splashed cold water on her face, gasping. She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

No blood. No scars. Her skin looked younger, less tired. Her eyes were wide with terror.

She grabbed her phone from the marble counter. Her fingers trembled so much she dropped it once before unlocking the screen.

September 14, 2023.

She slid to the floor, her back against the cool tiles. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, hysterical and jagged. Tears streamed down her face.

It was exactly one year before the crash. <b>A year seemed like a lifetime, but she knew better. The accident was the final move in a game that had been played for months. Florene had been laying the groundwork, manipulating finances, isolating her. The clock wasn't just ticking; it had already been running for a long time.</b> It was the morning after their first anniversary "dinner," the one where she had gotten drunk to numb the pain of his indifference and passed out in his bed.

She had triggered a Time Loop.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted her spiral.

"If you're going to vomit, do it quietly," Hiram said through the wood. His tone was bored, dismissive.

Delina pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.

She stood up. She looked at herself in the mirror again. The fear began to recede, replaced by a cold, hard determination.

She wasn't dead. She had a second chance.

She smoothed her silk pajamas. A new fire lit her eyes.

She unlocked the door and stepped out.

Hiram was standing by the wardrobe, buttoning a crisp white shirt. His back was to her, radiating distance and annoyance.

Delina looked at his broad back. She superimposed the image of the weeping man at the funeral over this cold statue.

I won't be the victim this time, she vowed silently. And I will find out who you really are beneath that mask.

Delina watched Hiram adjust his cufflinks. His movements were precise, mechanical. She fought the urge to walk over and help him, to touch the hands that had ripped a car door off its hinges for her.

She took a step forward. "Hiram, about last night..."

Hiram flinched slightly. He didn't turn around. "The contract stipulates no discussion of indiscretions."

Delina bit her lip. The "contract." <b>In her past life, she'd believed it was her idea, a shield she'd desperately erected to keep the monster at bay. Now, looking back with eyes that had seen him weep, she wondered if it hadn't been his cage all along-a set of rules he'd agreed to, to keep his own demons from touching her.</b>

She changed tactics. "I'm not drunk anymore. I want to have breakfast with you."

Hiram turned slowly. His eyes narrowed through the holes of the silver mask. He scanned her face, looking for the trap. Was she asking for money? Was this a ploy from her father?

"I have a meeting," he said flatly. He grabbed his suit jacket from the bed.

He walked past her, leaving a trail of scent-sandalwood and cold rain. It made her chest ache.

Delina reached out and caught his sleeve.

Hiram froze. He stared at her hand on the expensive fabric of his suit as if a spider had landed there.

"Have a safe trip," she whispered. There was genuine warmth in her voice, a softness he had never heard directed at him.

Hiram pulled his arm away abruptly, as if burned.

"Stop acting," he growls. The words were low, dangerous.

He stormed out of the room without looking back.

Delina sighed, letting her hand fall. Undoing three years of damage wouldn't happen in a day. But at least she had made him react.

She went to the closet. She pushed aside the pastel, modest dresses she usually wore-the ones Florene said made her look "sweet." She pulled out a sharp, tailored black jumpsuit she had bought on a whim and never worn.

She dressed, fixed her hair into a severe bun, and opened the bedroom door.

She stepped into the grand hallway. A maid was dusting a vase near the railing. The girl looked at Delina with thinly veiled contempt, likely mimicking the attitude of the head housekeeper.

Delina ignored her and headed for the stairs.

Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed her temples. It was blinding, white-hot. She stumbled, grabbing the railing to keep from falling. Her vision blurred for a second, the world tilting.

A strange whisper echoed in her mind. Not a sound, but a thought that wasn't hers.

Move.

The maid dropped her duster. She jumped, looking around startled. "Did you say something, Ma'am?"

Delina blinked, the pain receding as quickly as it had come. She hadn't spoken aloud. Had the maid heard her thought?

She shook it off. Stress. It had to be stress.

She continued down the stairs. At the bottom, in the foyer, stood Mrs. Creola Stone.

The housekeeper was on the phone, her back to the stairs, her voice hushed and conspiratorial.

Delina stopped. She recognized that posture. It was the posture of a spy.

Mrs. Stone turned, saw Delina, and quickly hung up the phone, sliding it into her apron pocket. She put on a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Good morning, Mrs. Tyson. Your mother called," Stone lied effortlessly. "She just wanted to check on you."

Delina stood on the bottom step, looking down at the woman who had reported her every move to Florene for three years.