Chapter 1: Death, Betrayal, and a Second Chance

Ever hear of the other woman beating up the wife?

It’s the kind of story folks whisper about in diners and beauty salons—the sort that makes you shake your head. Makes you wonder how people can be so cruel. Some stories, though, you live through yourself, and no amount of warning prepares you for the hurt.

Eight months pregnant, Autumn Brooks showed up at my door. She demanded I file for divorce and walk away with nothing.

She didn’t come quietly, either. She barged in, belly first, eyes wild—I swear, she looked ready to fight—and spat out her demands like she’d rehearsed them in front of a mirror. The nerve of her—standing in my hallway, acting like she owned my life. Who did she think she was? I was so stunned I could barely speak.

I called her out, called her shameless, but she beat me so badly I landed in the hospital.

She didn’t care that I was the wife, or that I was pregnant with Ethan’s baby. She lashed out—fists, words, everything. I remember the cold linoleum under my cheek, the metallic taste of blood, and the way her rage seemed to fill the room. When it was over, I was broken, inside and out.

The doctor asked: save the mother or the baby? Ethan Wallace hesitated for a moment. “Save the baby.”

I heard it through the fog, like a bad radio station. My husband’s voice, flat and distant. It didn’t even sound real. That split-second pause before he made his choice. It was enough to freeze me to the core, even as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

In the end, both mother and child died. Just like that.

It was supposed to be a choice. But life doesn’t care about rules. We both slipped away, quiet as a sigh, while the hospital lights buzzed overhead.

I was eighteen again, with 136 days left until the SATs.

I blinked, heart pounding. No way. This can’t be real. As the world snapped into sharp focus, the air smelled like spring—like hope and fresh-cut grass—and my old high school bedroom looked exactly as it did before everything went wrong. My hands shook as I counted the days, disbelief warring with a wild, desperate hope.

After I died, I saw Ethan Wallace shed a few tears.

He sat in the hospital hallway, shoulders hunched, face buried in his hands. The kind of tears you cry when you realize you’ve lost something. Something you never really valued until it’s gone. I watched from somewhere far away, numb.

Autumn held him, beaming in the sunlight. “Honey, you still have me, and our baby.”

She glowed, the picture of comfort and triumph. Her voice was syrupy sweet. Like she’d already won.

Ethan smiled in relief, his hand gently resting on Autumn’s belly. “Little one, you better behave for your mom, okay?”

He spoke to her belly like it was the only thing that mattered now. The tenderness in his touch made me sick.

I saw my parents rush to the hospital, wailing with grief. “Savannah, our poor girl.”

They clung to each other, broken. Their cries echoed down the sterile hallway, the kind of sound you never forget.

I saw my in-laws grabbing at the doctor, yelling, “Give us back our grandchild!”

They were wild with grief, blaming anyone but themselves. The doctor’s face was pale, helpless in the face of their anger.

Ethan pulled his parents aside, put his arm around Autumn’s waist, and said happily, “Mom, Dad, enough. Autumn’s been pregnant for over three months.”

He spoke like he was making an announcement at a family barbecue, not standing in the aftermath of tragedy. His hand lingered on Autumn’s waist, possessive and proud.

His parents stared in shock for a few seconds, then looked at Autumn’s belly in disbelief, before breaking into huge grins. “This place is unlucky, you two should go home. Two lives lost—make the hospital pay!”

Their grief vanished in a heartbeat. All I saw were dollar signs in their eyes.

Later, the hospital paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars. Three months after that, my in-laws used the money to throw Ethan and Autumn a lavish wedding.

They spared no expense—flowers, catering, the works. All paid for by blood money. I watched from the shadows, a ghost at my own funeral, as they toasted to their new beginning.

When my parents heard, they stormed over to the Wallace house and cursed them for being heartless.

My folks weren’t the type to start trouble, but this was too much. They shouted from the front lawn, voices raw with pain, demanding justice nobody could give.

The Wallaces dragged my parents aside, rough and unkind.

They shoved them off the porch, slammed the door in their faces. Neighbors peeked through their curtains, but nobody came outside.

I watched all of this, filled with rage and hatred, yet utterly powerless.

It burned, watching them move on like I’d never existed. The anger was a living thing. It clawed at my insides.

As my mind collapsed and darkness swallowed my consciousness—

I felt myself falling, weightless, lost in a sea of grief and fury. Then, out of nowhere, a voice: “Want revenge?”

It was like someone lighting a match in a pitch-black room. I clung to that spark, desperate.

“Yes.”

My answer was a whisper, but it carried all the force of my broken heart.