Isla's POV:

My husband, Declan, was on the bed, but he wasn't alone.

My stepsister, Sienna, was straddling him, her blonde hair cascading over her bare shoulders, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth on his.

His hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer like he couldn't get enough.

The pregnancy results slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.

They didn't notice me at first.

I stood there, frozen in the doorway, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing. My hand moved instinctively to my stomach, to the tiny life growing inside me that I'd been so excited to tell him about.

This couldn't be real.

This couldn't be happening.

Declan's eyes flicked up and met mine.

He didn't scramble. He didn't push her off. He didn't even look guilty. He just stared at me, like I was the one intruding.

Sienna turned her head slowly, following his gaze. When she saw me standing there, a smile spread across her face. That wasn't the look of embarrassment, not shame. Amusement.

"Oh," she said with false sweetness. "You're home early, Isla."

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped their hands around my lungs and squeezed.

The baby. I was carrying his baby, and he was here with her.

Declan shifted Sienna off his lap with an irritated sigh, like I'd interrupted something inconvenient. He didn't bother fixing his unbuttoned shirt. He didn't bother looking apologetic.

"Don't just stand there," he said coldly. "Close the door."

My hands shook at my sides.

Sienna laughed, soft and mocking. She stood up from the bed, adjusting her dress like this was nothing. Like I was nothing.

"What?" she said, tilting her head. "Did you really think he loved you? Did you think he actually wanted to touch you?"

The words hit me like physical blows.

"She can't even moan," Sienna continued, her smile widening. "She's mute and damaged. What kind of man wants a wife who can't even make a sound?" She looked back at Declan. "Tell her, darling. Tell her how much you've suffered."

Declan stood, buttoning his shirt with slow, deliberate movements.

"I've been enduring you for years, Isla," he said flatly. "Even before we got married. Do you know how tedious it is? How boring?"

My vision blurred from the sheer impossibility of what I was hearing.

My husband didn't even feel remorseful. Is this what has been going on behind my back?

"Why?" Sienna laughed again. "Why did he marry the barren mute?" She stepped closer to me, her eyes glittering. "Because I told him to, Isla. I told him to marry you, and wait for father to die, and then we get everything. The company. The properties. The inheritance. All of it."

My knees felt weak. I was on the verge of collapsing. I couldn't believe my ears and eyes. Could this be real? Or a dream?

"You were always just a placeholder," Declan said, his voice devoid of emotion. "A means to an end."

My hand moved to my pocket, fumbling for my phone. I needed proof. I needed evidence. I needed to show my father what they'd done, what they were planning.

The pregnancy results still lay on the floor between us, face-up. Sienna's eyes landed on them, and her expression changed instantly.

"What is that?" She bent down, snatching up the paper. Her eyes scanned it quickly, and her face twisted with rage. "You're pregnant?"

I tried to grab the paper back, but she jerked it away.

"You're trying to trap him!" she shrieked. "You think a baby will make him love you? You think this changes anything?"

She crumpled the paper in her fist.

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands, pointing it at them. I needed to record this. I needed someone to know the truth.

Sienna's eyes narrowed the moment she saw the phone.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I held it up higher, my finger hovering over the record button.

Declan's expression darkened. "Put the phone down, Isla."

I shook my head. Not this time. I wasn't backing down. Not when I had a child to protect.

Sienna moved fast, faster than I expected.

She lunged at me, her fingers clawing for the phone.

"Give it to me!" she hissed.

I jerked back, trying to keep it out of her reach, but she grabbed my wrist and yanked hard.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Just my hands moving frantically, desperately, trying to push her away.

"You stupid mute bitch," she snarled, her face contorted with fury. "You think anyone's going to believe you? You think anyone cares about you or that bastard baby?"

Declan didn't help. He just watched, with his arms crossed, like this was beneath him.

Sienna's nails dug into my skin as she twisted my arm. Pain shot up to my shoulder, but I held on tighter to the phone.

"Let go!" she screamed, as she shoved me hard, and I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the edge of the rug.

Everything slowed down, and my back hit the glass coffee table.

The sound of shattering glass filled the room.

Pain exploded across my skull, sharp and blinding. Warmth spread beneath my head, sticky and wet. I could smell the fain scent of blod. Too much blood. I tried to move, I tried to push myself up, but my body wouldn't respond.

Sienna stood over me, breathing hard, my phone now in her hand.

Declan finally moved. He stepped closer, looking down at me with wide eyes. For a moment, I thought I saw fear.

"Sienna," he said, his voice shaking. "What did you do?"

"What she deserved," Sienna said coldly. She crouched down beside me, and to my horror, she smiled.

Her hand reached out, gently petting my hair like I was a child.

"Oh, Isla," she whispered. "You could have just let it go. You could have pretended you didn't see anything. Then you would have still been alive."

My vision was fading. The room was getting darker. My hand moved weakly and slowly to my stomach. The baby. Our baby.

"Come on, Declan," Sienna said, standing up. She grabbed his arm. "Let's go. She's already gone."

"But.." Declan stared at me, frozen.

"It was an accident," Sienna said firmly, dragging him toward the door. "She fell. That's all. We'll find a way to cover it up. She's mute after all."

I watched them leave through blurring vision. The door closed, and I was alone now.

The cold was spreading through me now, starting in my fingers and toes and crawling inward toward my heart.

I'm sorry, I thought, my hand still resting on my stomach. I'm so sorry, little one.

The darkness swallowed me whole.

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.