A sharp, piercing scream shattered the dark abyss.

Jenna's eyes snapped open. Her chest heaved violently as she sucked in massive, greedy gulps of air.

Her hands flew to her throat, expecting to feel the hard plastic of the ventilator tube. Instead, her fingers brushed against her own warm, firm skin.

Her blurred vision slowly snapped into focus. She wasn't staring at the stained ceiling tiles of the hospital. She was looking up at a massive crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling.

A heavy plastic toy car flew through the air. It slammed into the wooden nightstand right next to her head with a loud, cracking thud.

Jenna flinched, her body jerking away from the noise. She turned her head. A five-year-old boy stood on the plush Persian rug. He was stomping his feet in a fit of rage.

He wore a tailored, British-style children's suit. His face was an exact, miniature replica of Arthur.

On the velvet sofa across the room, five-year-old Clio was rolling around, screaming at the top of her lungs. She was demanding a specific brand of Italian gelato.

Jenna's brain short-circuited. Her hands gripped the silk bedsheets so tightly her knuckles turned white. She thought she was in hell, trapped in a twisted hallucination.

Little Arthur saw that the woman on the bed wasn't moving. He marched over, lifted his custom leather shoe, and kicked the side of the mahogany bed frame hard.

"Get up right now!" Arthur ordered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Go to the kitchen and make my pancakes!"

The arrogant, demanding tone hit Jenna like a physical blow. It perfectly overlapped with the voice of the adult Arthur who had just unplugged her life support.

Jenna's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Post-traumatic stress ripped through her nervous system. Her entire body began to shake uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered.

She threw off the silk covers and scrambled backward. She tumbled off the edge of the mattress, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. She sprinted toward the master bathroom.

"You look like a stupid clown!" Arthur laughed loudly behind her.

Jenna slammed the heavy bathroom door shut and threw the deadbolt lock. The solid wood muffled the chaotic noise from the bedroom.

She gripped the edges of the marble sink. Her chest rose and fell in jagged, uneven breaths. She slowly lifted her head and stared into the massive, gold-plated mirror above the vanity.

The face staring back at her was young. The skin was full of collagen, devoid of the deep stress lines and the sickly, gray pallor of death.

She raised a trembling hand. Her fingertips touched the cold glass, tracing the reflection of her own cheek. The physical sensation was undeniably real.

She slammed her hand down on the faucet handle. Freezing cold water blasted from the tap. She cupped her hands, gathered the icy water, and splashed it violently onto her face.

The biting cold shocked her system. It stripped away the lingering fog of the nightmare. This was real.

She turned her head and looked at the marble nightstand built into the bathroom vanity—a small, elegant shelf where she often left things during her old morning routine. An early-model smartphone rested there, abandoned by her past self. She snatched it up and pressed the home button. The glowing screen clearly displayed the date and the year. It was exactly fifteen years ago.

She had been reborn. She was back to the year the twins were only five, the year the seeds of her ultimate destruction were just beginning to sprout.

Loud, aggressive banging vibrated against the bathroom door. Little Arthur was kicking the wood, screaming foul words that no five-year-old should even know.

Jenna closed her eyes. The physical agony of suffocating to death, the sight of Arthur's cold smile, flashed behind her eyelids. Her stomach twisted into a tight, hard knot.

When she opened her eyes again, the confusion and terror were entirely gone. They were replaced by a layer of frost so thick it could freeze blood.

She grabbed a thick cotton towel and wiped the water from her face. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and absolute.

She turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. She reached out and wrapped her hand around the cold metal doorknob. The old phone remained in her other hand—she tucked it into her waistband absently, needing both hands free for what was coming.

Outside, little Arthur was holding a heavy, expensive glass perfume bottle high above his head, ready to smash it against the wood.

Jenna twisted the lock and yanked the door open. She stood tall, looking down at the son who held the bottle. Her eyes were dead, staring at him as if he were already a corpse.

Little Arthur froze. The heavy perfume bottle hovered in the air. The sheer, freezing intensity in his mother's eyes made his breath hitch.

But his hesitation only lasted a second. He was used to ruling this house. He puffed out his chest and screamed.

"Make my breakfast or I will smash this on the rug!"

Jenna didn't flinch. She didn't drop to her knees to coax him like she used to. Her hand shot out like a striking snake. She clamped her fingers around his raised wrist with a crushing grip.

Arthur's eyes went wide. He had never been physically stopped before.

He immediately let out an ear-piercing shriek. He thrashed his body, trying to pull away. When that failed, he lifted his leather shoe and kicked Jenna hard in the shin.

The sharp pain radiated up her leg.

That sudden jolt of physical pain acted like a spark in a powder keg. It instantly ignited the towering hatred she felt when the adult Arthur had pulled her ventilator plug. Her last shred of restraint snapped.

Her free hand snatched the perfume bottle from his grip. She slammed it down onto the marble nightstand. The heavy glass hit the stone with a deafening thud.

Arthur shrieked at the noise. "You stupid, cheap woman!" he spat.

Jenna's eyes narrowed. She grabbed him by the collar of his tailored suit, dragged him forward, and forced him face-down over her knee. She raised her hand high and brought it down hard on his backside.

A sharp, explosive smack echoed through the massive bedroom. The air in the room instantly froze.

On the sofa, Clio stopped rolling. She scrambled backward, pressing her small body into the corner of the cushions, letting out a terrified whimper.

Arthur lay over Jenna's knee, completely stunned for three full seconds. Then, he erupted into a hysterical, throat-tearing wail.

The bedroom door, which had been left ajar, pushed open. Maria, the head nanny, rushed in with a panicked look on her face.

When Maria saw the usually submissive, timid Mrs. Knight actually striking the young master, she gasped loudly and slapped both hands over her mouth.

Jenna released her grip. She shoved the red-faced, sobbing Arthur toward the nanny.

"Get out," Jenna said. The words were quiet, but they cut through the crying like a razor blade.

The murderous aura radiating from Jenna made Maria shudder. The nanny didn't dare ask a single question. She scooped Arthur up, grabbed Clio by the hand, and practically ran out of the room.

The bedroom fell into a dead silence. Jenna looked down at her own palm. It was stinging and red. She took a deep, slow breath, forcing her heart rate to steady.

She walked out of the bathroom and back into the main bedroom. She crossed the room to the bedside nightstand—a different one, in the bedroom itself—where the lamp glowed softly. Her latest model smartphone, the one she used for daily communication, lay right beside it. She picked it up and pulled up the number burned into her memory—her husband, Alonzo Knight. She pressed call.

It rang three times before the line connected. Alonzo's deep, cold, and heavily irritated voice came through the speaker.

"What kind of tantrum are you throwing this early in the morning?" Alonzo demanded.

In the background, barely muffled by the phone's microphone, Jenna heard the soft, breathy laugh of a woman.

That laugh pierced her eardrum. It was Audra. In her past life, Jenna had been stupid enough to believe they were just business partners.

Jenna felt no anger. Her voice was as flat and still as a stagnant pool of water. She spoke directly into the receiver.

"We are getting a divorce."

The line went completely silent for a moment. Then, Alonzo let out a short, mocking scoff.

"Did you forget to take your antidepressants again?" Alonzo sneered. "Don't use these cheap, pathetic tactics to get my attention, Jenna. It's embarrassing."

Jenna didn't bother defending herself. She didn't raise her voice.

"My lawyer will contact you," she stated coldly.

Before Alonzo could say another word, Jenna pulled the phone away from her ear and pressed the red button. The call died.

She tossed the phone onto the unmade bed. She turned her back to it and walked straight toward the massive walk-in closet.

She bypassed the rows of designer dresses. She walked to the very back, crouched down, and pulled out an old, scuffed black suitcase from the bottom shelf. She dragged it out and threw it heavily onto the hardwood floor.

Jenna unzipped the black suitcase. She opened the closet drawers and completely ignored the velvet boxes filled with diamonds and the silk designer gowns.

She grabbed a few pairs of faded jeans and plain cotton shirts she had bought before she married Alonzo. She threw them into the suitcase. She dug into a hidden compartment in her jewelry box and pulled out her passport and birth certificate, tossing them on top of the clothes.

Just as she reached for the zipper to close the bag, the aggressive roar of a sports car engine tore through the quiet estate. The screech of tires braking hard echoed outside her window.

Jenna walked to the window. She pulled back the edge of the heavy velvet curtain. Alonzo's black Aston Martin was parked diagonally across the pristine driveway.

Downstairs, the massive front doors slammed open with a violent crash. Heavy, rapid footsteps pounded up the solid oak staircase. The sheer force of the steps radiated pure rage.

Jenna dropped the curtain. She walked briskly to the bedroom door and pressed the brass lock button on the knob. It clicked into place.

A second later, the brass handle twisted violently from the outside. The metal rattled hard against the frame.

Realizing the door was locked, Alonzo slammed his fist against the heavy wood.

"Open this door right now!" Alonzo roared.

Jenna stood on the inside of the room. She took a slow breath, letting the air fill her lungs. She reached out, twisted the lock, and yanked the door open.

Alonzo stormed into the room, bringing a wave of cold outside air with him. His custom-tailored suit jacket was unbuttoned, and his silk tie was pulled loose. His dark eyes were lethal.

His gaze immediately dropped to the floor. He saw the cheap black suitcase sitting on the expensive Persian rug. A highly mocking, cruel sneer twisted his lips.

He stepped directly into Jenna's personal space. His towering frame cast a dark shadow over her.

"What kind of sick game are you playing?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

Jenna took a half-step back, avoiding the smell of his expensive cologne. She looked him dead in the eye.

"I want a divorce. Immediately," she repeated.

Alonzo looked at her as if she had just told the funniest joke in the world. He reached out his hand, aiming to pinch her chin between his fingers like she was a disobedient pet.

Jenna turned her head in disgust. She brought her arm up and slapped his hand away. The smack of skin against skin was loud and sharp.

Alonzo's hand froze in mid-air. The color drained from his face, replaced by a dark, furious red. His submissive, fragile wife had never physically fought back before.

He slowly lowered his hand. He adjusted his suit cuff, a habitual gesture he used when asserting absolute dominance. He deployed his usual psychological warfare.

"Look at yourself," Alonzo said, his tone dripping with venom. "You have a high school diploma. You have zero work experience. Without the Knight family trust fund, you don't even have enough money to rent a rat-infested room in the slums. You are nothing without me."

Jenna stared at him. In her past life, those exact words used to crush her chest and make her feel utterly worthless. Now, they just made her stomach churn with nausea.

"I would rather sleep under a bridge than spend another second in this sickening house with you," Jenna fired back, her voice laced with pure disgust.

That sentence pierced straight through Alonzo's massive, fragile ego. The veins in his neck bulged. The anger in his eyes ignited into a violent fire.

He lunged forward and grabbed the handle of the black suitcase. He swung it with all his strength and hurled it across the room. The suitcase smashed into the far wall. The zipper busted open, and her cheap clothes scattered across the floor.

Jenna didn't scream. She didn't flinch. She just stood there, watching him lose his mind with the cold, detached eyes of a stranger.

That absolute, uncontrollable indifference sent a spike of unknown panic into Alonzo's chest. He convinced himself she had suffered a complete mental breakdown.

He pointed a long finger right at her face. "Until your brain starts working properly again, you are not taking a single step out of this room."

He turned on his heel and marched out of the bedroom.

Jenna realized what he was doing. She lunged toward the doorway, trying to slip out before he could close it.

Alonzo grabbed the edge of the heavy solid wood door and pulled it shut with brutal force. The edge of the wood barely missed crushing Jenna's fingers.

The heavy metal deadbolt clicked loudly from the outside.

Jenna grabbed the handle and twisted it with both hands. The door didn't budge an inch. She was locked inside her own bedroom.

From the hallway, she heard Alonzo's voice, low and cold, giving orders to Hector. His footsteps faded down the corridor. A moment later, there was a soft scraping sound near the baseboard—the telephone jack panel being opened from the hallway side, followed by a quiet, final snip.