Reborn Wife's Sweet Revenge

I gasped awake, my heart hammering against my ribs as consciousness slammed into me like a physical force. The silk sheets beneath me felt cool and familiar—too familiar. My trembling fingers traced the delicate Art Deco pattern embroidered on the duvet cover, the one I'd personally selected seven years ago when we first moved into the penthouse.

This couldn't be real.

My gaze darted around the room, taking in the cream-colored walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, and the ornate mahogany furniture that had been in my family for generations. Most prominently, my father's portrait hung on the far wall, his stern yet loving eyes seeming to follow me.

"Daddy," I whispered, my voice cracking. The last time I'd seen this room, this portrait, was before...

Then I heard it—a light, feminine giggle floating from the master bathroom, followed by the steady hiss of the shower. The sound cut through me like a blade of ice, instantly crystallizing my scattered thoughts.

Lily Chen. Marcus. The betrayal. The gaslighting. The asylum.

I knew exactly when—and where—I was. This was the moment. The precise instant before my world had collapsed in my previous life. The day I'd walked in on my husband and his mistress, setting off the chain of events that had led to my destruction.

But this time, I wasn't the same naive, trusting Victoria Blackwood.

With eerie calm, I slid from the bed, my bare feet silent against the plush carpet. My body moved with purpose, driven by a cold clarity I'd never experienced before. I reached for my phone on the nightstand—the latest model, another detail that placed me exactly in time.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, steam billowing out in wispy tendrils. Through the gap, I could see them reflected in the fogged mirror—Marcus's tall frame pressed against Lily's petite body under the shower spray, his hands tangled in her long dark hair. They were so absorbed in each other they hadn't heard me wake.

I raised my phone, framed the shot perfectly, and took several crystal-clear photos. The camera's artificial shutter sound was barely audible over the running water and their continued murmurs and laughter.

My fingers moved across the screen with mechanical precision as I opened the Blackwood Industries Slack channel—the company-wide communication platform where over three hundred employees, from executive board members to entry-level assistants, would see my post instantly.

"Caught my husband, CFO Marcus Sterling, with his assistant Lily Chen in our marital bed. Please note that contrary to what some might tell you later, she does, in fact, exist." I added the photos and hit send before I could second-guess myself.

One heartbeat. Two. Three.

Then my phone exploded with notifications. Shocked emoji reactions flooded in. Private messages from HR representatives, expressing horror and support. Comments from executives I'd known since childhood, offering immediate assistance.

From the bathroom came a sharp, electronic ping—Marcus's own phone alerting him to the company-wide message.

"What the hell?" I heard him mutter, followed by Lily's confused question.

The shower abruptly shut off. Wet footsteps slapped against marble tile. Marcus burst through the bathroom door, a towel hastily wrapped around his waist, water still streaming down his chiseled chest. His handsome face contorted with shock when he saw me standing calmly by the bed, phone in hand.

"Victoria," he gasped, his eyes wild as he glanced down at his own phone clutched in his white-knuckled grip. "What have you done?"

Behind him, Lily appeared in the doorway, her naked body barely covered by a hand towel, her expression transforming from confusion to horror as understanding dawned.

"You weren't supposed to be home," she whispered, as if that explained everything.

Marcus lunged toward me, grabbing for my phone. "Delete it! Delete it now!"

I stepped back, watching his desperate attempt to contain what couldn't be contained. Too late. The truth was already racing through fiber optic cables, spreading across the entire company. The carefully constructed illusion—the one that had broken me before—was shattering in real time.

And this time, I was the one holding the hammer.