Isla's POV:

I woke up with a jolt, gasping for air like I'd been drowning. My eyes flew open, and bright lights burned into my vision, white ceiling, beeping machines, and the sharp smell of disinfectant in the air.

I was in a hospital.

My hands flew to my head, expecting to feel the sticky warmth of blood, and the sharp sting of shattered glass embedded in my skull, but there was nothing. No wounds, and no pain. How was that possible?

I sat up too quickly, and the room spun around me. My heart was beating fast against my ribs so hard I thought it might break through. I looked down at my hands, turning them over slowly. They were clean. No blood, and no scratches from fighting with Sienna.

What was happening?

I threw off the thin hospital blanket and swung my legs over the side of the bed. An IV was attached to my arm, and I ripped it out without thinking, ignoring the sharp sting that followed.

"Mrs. Hartley!" A nurse's voice called from somewhere behind me. "Mrs. Hartley, you need to stay in bed!"

I didn't listen. Well, couldn't. I needed to see, and to know what exactly was going on.

I stumbled toward the small bathroom attached to the room, my legs shaky from fright and. The nurse called after me again, but I ignored her, pushing open the bathroom door and flipping on the light.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I got in, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. My face stared back at me. It was whole, and unmarked, with no bruises and no cuts. My dark hair fell around my shoulders, clean and neat, not matted with blood. I turned my head slowly, checking the back of my skull with trembling fingers.

Nothing. No wound. No scar. Nothing.

But I died. I knew I died. I felt the glass shatter beneath me. I felt the cold creeping through my body. I felt myself slipping away. So how was I standing here?

"Mrs. Hartley, please!" The nurse appeared in the doorway, her face creased with concern. "You need to get back in bed. You sprained your ankle, and had a concussion. The doctor wants to monitor you."

Sprained my ankle? The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Concussion?

Wait a minute. I ran my fingers through my hair, biting my lower lips, thinking.

I knew those words. I'd heard them before. My mind raced, scrambling to make sense of it. When had I sprained my ankle? When had I been in the hospital for something so minor?

And then it hit me....a year ago.

Over a year ago, I'd fallen down the stairs at home. Margot had left her shopping bags on the steps, and I'd tripped over them in the dark. I'd spent one night in the hospital for observation because I'd hit my head on the railing. That was March. March fifteenth.

No. No, that couldn't be right.

I pushed past the nurse, stumbling back into the hospital room. My eyes scanned frantically until I found what I was looking for-a small calendar on the wall near the door.

March 15th. The year stared back at me, clear and undeniable.

How the hell is today March fifteenth? This should be April 12th. I'm sure of it.

My knees went weak, and I grabbed the edge of the bed to steady myself.

"Mrs. Hartley, what's wrong?" The nurse moved toward me, her hands outstretched. "Please, let me help you back into bed."

I spun around and grabbed her by the sleeve of her scrubs, my fingers clutching the fabric desperately. Her eyes widened in surprise. I signed frantically, my hands shaking. *What date is it? What is today's date?*

She blinked, clearly not understanding sign language.

I shook her slightly, my grip tightening, and signed again, slower this time, more deliberate. *The date. Tell me the date.*

"M-March fifteenth," she stammered, looking confused and a little frightened. "It's March fifteenth. Are you okay? Do you need me to call the doctor?"

*What year* I signed again.

"2025" She responded, looking confused.

2025? No way!. I let go of her and stepped back, shaking my head.

This couldn't be real. This didn't make sense. People didn't just go back in time. That wasn't how the world worked. That wasn't possible. But the calendar didn't lie. The nurse didn't lie. My unmarked face in the mirror didn't lie.

Somehow, impossibly, I was alive, and I was a year in the past.

I sank down onto the edge of the hospital bed, my mind reeling. If this was real-if I really had gone back-then Sienna and Declan hadn't betrayed me yet. Not publicly, anyway. The affair had probably already started, but I hadn't caught them. I hadn't died.

And the baby. My hand moved instinctively to my stomach.

I wasn't pregnant yet. I could prevent it. I could make sure I was never alone with Declan during that family gathering. I could protect myself.

But more than that, I could make them pay.

The memories flooded back, sharp and vivid. Sienna's mocking smile. Declan's cold indifference. The way she'd crumpled the pregnancy results in her fist. The way she'd shoved me. The sound of glass shattering. Her hand petting my hair as I died.

*You could have just let it go.*

My jaw tightened. My hands curled into fists on my lap.

Pain shot through my head, sudden and sharp. I pressed my palm against my temple, wincing. The memories were too much, too heavy, and were crashing over me like waves, each one pulling me under. Declan's voice echoed in my mind. *I've been enduring you for years.* Sienna's laughter. *He's always loved me.* The cold spreading through my body as I bled out on the floor.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the pain, through the rage building in my chest. They thought I was weak. They thought I was nothing.

They had no idea what was coming.

The door to the hospital room opened. I looked up, my vision still slightly blurred from the headache.

Declan walked in, holding a bouquet of flowers.

Isla's POV:

Declan walked in, holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a smile that would have fooled anyone who didn't know better. The roses were pink ones, the cheap kind they sold at the hospital gift shop downstairs.

I took a step back instinctively, my body responding before my mind could catch up. Fear shot through me in my veins. The last time I'd seen that face, he'd been standing over my dying body, watching as Sienna dragged him out of the room, watching as I bled out on our bedroom floor.

"Isla?" His smile faltered slightly, concern creasing his brow. "Are you okay? You look pale."

I forced myself to breathe, to think. He doesn't know. He can't know. This is a year ago. I haven't caught them yet. I'm not dead yet. I had to pretend. I had to play the part of the meek, silent girlfriend he expected me to be.

I nodded slowly, pressing my hand against my chest to steady my racing heart.

"You scared me," Declan said, moving further into the room. His voice was gentle, and concerned even, the kind of voice he used in public, when people were watching. "The hospital called me this morning. They said you fell down the stairs last night and hit your head? "

I nodded again, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.

It was coming back to me now, the original incident. Margot had left her shopping bags on the stairs, deliberately, I'd always suspected. I'd been coming down in the dark to get water, and I'd tripped. I'd tumbled down half the staircase, landing hard on my ankle and hitting my head on the railing. Declan hadn't been home. He'd been "working late." With Sienna, probably.

"Here," he said, setting the flowers down on the bedside table. They looked wilted already, sad and pathetic. "I thought these might cheer you up."

I stared at them, remembering all the times he'd brought me flowers over the years, after arguments, after long business trips, after nights when he'd come home smelling like someone else's perfume. Guilt flowers, every single time.

"Let me help you get your things together," Declan said, moving toward the small closet where my clothes were hanging. "The doctor already signed your discharge papers. He said it was just a sprained ankle and a mild concussion. Nothing serious."

Nothing serious. I watched him pull my coat from the hanger, I watched him gather my shoes and purse with practiced efficiency. He'd always been good at this-at playing the attentive boyfriend when it suited him.

My hands clenched at my sides. A year ago, or rather, in my original timeline, I would have been grateful. I would have signed "thank you" and smiled at him, relieved that he'd taken time out of his busy schedule to pick me up. But now I knew better. Now I knew exactly what he thought of me. Tedious, boring, a placeholder, and a means to an end.

"The nurse said you ripped out your IV," Declan continued, glancing at the small bandage on my arm. "What was that about? Did something happen?"

I shook my head quickly, forcing myself to look confused and a little embarrassed, like I'd panicked for no reason. He studied my face for a moment, then seemed to accept it.

"Well, let's get you home," he said, holding out my coat. "I'm sure you'll feel better once you're in your own bed."

Home. The word made my stomach turn. That house wasn't home. It had never been home. It was a prison, filled with people who hated me, who were plotting against me even now. But I took the coat from him anyway. I slipped it on, letting him help me with the zipper like I was a child who couldn't manage on her own.

I had to be smart about this. I had to play along until I figured out my next move.

Declan gathered the rest of my things-the flowers, my purse, the paperwork from the hospital-and gestured toward the door. "Come on," he said. "I parked right out front."

I followed him out of the room, moving slowly because of my supposedly sprained ankle. The nurse from earlier saw us leaving and waved, looking relieved that I was finally cooperating. If only she knew.

The walk through the hospital corridors felt surreal. Everything looked the same as I remembered, but different somehow, brighter, and more vivid, like I was seeing it all for the first time. Because I was, in a way. This was my second chance.

We passed by the emergency room entrance, and I caught a glimpse of a man and a little girl near the reception desk. The man was tall, and dressed in a dark coat, and the girl was clutching a stuffed rabbit. My breath caught. It was him. The man from before. The one who'd caught me when I stumbled. Except that hadn't happened yet. Or had it? My head spun trying to make sense of the timeline.

Somehow, our eyes caught, and his brow furrowed.

Does he remember me? No. That can't be possible.

"Isla?" Declan's voice pulled me back. "What are you looking at?"

I tore my eyes away from the man and shook my head. Nothing. It was nothing.

Declan led me outside to the parking lot, where his sleek black car was waiting. He opened the passenger door for me, another performance of the dutiful husband, and I climbed in carefully. The leather seats were cold against my legs. The car smelled like his cologne, expensive and suffocating.

He got in the driver's side and started the engine, adjusting the rearview mirror before pulling out of the parking space.

"I called your father," Declan said as we merged into traffic. "I told him you had a little accident but you're fine. He said he'd stop by later this week to check on you."

My father was the man who'd arranged this marriage in the first place, the man who'd never once asked if I was happy. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past.

"Margot feels terrible about the bags on the stairs," Declan continued, his tone casual. "She didn't realize you'd be up so late. She said she'll be more careful next time."

Liar. Margot didn't feel terrible about anything. She'd probably left those bags there on purpose, hoping I'd trip, hoping I'd get hurt. Maybe even hoping I'd break my neck.

"Anyway," Declan said, turning onto our street, "the important thing is that you're okay. It was just a fall. Just a sprained ankle and a little bump on the head. Could have been much worse."

Could have been worse. I almost laughed. In a year, it would be worse. So much worse. But not this time. This time, I knew what was coming. This time, I had the advantage.

Declan pulled into our driveway and turned off the engine. "Home sweet home," he said, that fake smile back on his face.

I looked up at the house-the large, elegant prison that had swallowed so much of my life. This time would be different. This time, I wouldn't be the victim.

Declan got out and came around to open my door, offering his hand to help me out. I took it, letting him support my weight as I stepped onto the driveway.

The front door opened before we even reached it, and there, standing in the doorway with a fake and practiced smile plastered across her face, was Sienna.

Isla's POV:

Sienna stood in the doorway, her blonde was hair perfectly styled, her smile so sweet it could rot teeth.

"Oh, Isla!" she exclaimed, rushing forward with exaggerated concern. "I was so worried when I heard what happened. Are you okay?"

She reached out to touch my arm, but I flinched back instinctively.

Her smile flickered for just a fraction of a second before she recovered.

"You poor thing," she cooed. "You must be in so much pain."

Behind her, Margot appeared, my stepmother's sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe like I was a piece of an item she was inspecting for defects.

"Well, at least you didn't break anything important," Margot said, her tone clipped. "We can't have you limping down the aisle at the wedding. What would people think?"

The wedding?

Right. In this timeline, I was still engaged to Declan. The wedding was supposed to be in three months.

Three months that would never happen. Not this time.

"Come in, come in," Margot said, stepping aside. "Don't just stand there on the doorstep like strangers."

Declan's hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me inside. I forced myself not to recoil from his touch, even though every fiber of my being wanted to.

I had to be smart. I had to wait for the right moment.

As we stepped into the foyer, I watched Declan and Sienna. I really watched them this time around.

Their eyes met across the entryway, just for a second. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. A look that lasted a heartbeat too long. A small smile that curved at the corner of Sienna's lips. The way Declan's gaze lingered on her before he looked away.

How had I never seen it before?

I'd been so stupidly in love back then. So desperate to make this marriage work, to be the perfect wife, to earn his affection. I'd been blind to what was right in front of me.

But now I saw everything.

The way they moved around each other like they shared a secret. The way Sienna's hand brushed against Declan's arm as she walked past, casual but deliberate. The way he didn't pull away.

It made me sick.

"Isla, don't just stand there," Margot's sharp voice cut through my thoughts. "Go make us some coffee. We have things to discuss."

I turned to look at her, my jaw tightening.

In my old life, I would have immediately obeyed. I would have shuffled off to the kitchen without question, grateful to be useful, desperate to avoid conflict.

But the woman who died on that glass table, the woman who'd been shoved and mocked and left to bleed out, she was done being obedient.

Still, I wasn't ready to show my hand yet. Not completely.

I nodded slowly and made my way toward the kitchen, feeling their eyes on my back.

As I prepared the coffee, my hands moved mechanically, my muscle memory taking over while my mind raced.

I could hear their voices drifting from the dining room. Margot was talking about seating arrangements for the wedding. Sienna was laughing about something, that tinkling, false sound that used to make me feel inadequate.

And Declan's deeper voice, agreeing with whatever Margot said, playing the role of the perfect son-in-law.

I poured the coffee into the expensive china cups Margot insisted on using, the ones I wasn't supposed to touch but was expected to serve with.

When I returned to the dining room with the tray, they were all seated around the table. My father had arrived too, sitting at the head of the table like a king surveying his kingdom.

He barely glanced at me as I set down the coffee.

"Careful with those," Margot snapped as I placed a cup in front of her. "Those are irreplaceable."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep them from signing something I'd regret.

"Sit down, Isla," my father said, gesturing to the empty chair at the far end of the table. The seat furthest from him.

I sat, my ankle throbbing slightly from standing too long, though the pain was nothing compared to the rage burning furiously in my chest.

"Now that we're all here," Margot began, stirring sugar into her coffee with deliberate precision, "we need to finalize the wedding details. The venue has requested final numbers by the end of the week."

"The flowers need to be ordered," Sienna added, her eyes bright with fake enthusiasm. "And we still haven't decided on the centerpieces."

"The Andrea's are expecting a formal announcement in the business section of the Times," my father said, not looking at me. "This merger is important, Isla. Don't do anything to jeopardize it."

Merger. That's all I was to him. A bargaining chip in a business deal.

"I've already spoken to the photographer," Declan said smoothly. "Everything is arranged."

They talked about me like I wasn't even there. About my wedding like it was a corporate transaction they were managing. Not one person asked how I felt. Not one person asked if I was happy.

They never had.

I watched them, these people who were supposed to be my family, planning out my future without my input.

If only my mother was still alive.

Margot took a sip of her coffee and made a face. "Isla, this is too bitter. Make another pot."

Something inside me snapped.

I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound that made everyone stop talking.

All eyes turned to me.

My hands moved, signing clearly and deliberately, my movements sharp and precise.

*I'm not getting married to him.*

Silence fell over the table. Everyone looked so shocked, that their eyes went wide.

My father's face darkened. "What did she say?"

Sienna's eyes widened, her mouth falling open in shock.

"Is she serious?" Margot set down her cup furiously.

Declan leaned back in his chair, his expression became unreadable, but I could see the tension in his jaw.

I kept my hands raised, my heart pounding in my chest.

*I'm not getting married to Declan.*

My father stood up, his chair slamming backward. His face had gone red, the vein in his temple throbbing the way it always did when he was angry.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice booming through the dining room. "Have you lost your mind?"

I stood my ground, my hands steady even though I was shaking inside.

*No.*

That was all I signed. One simple word.

No.