I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday—the day my life shattered beyond repair. I was on my knees, my body wracked with sobs, my lungs burning from the sheer force of my despair. Every ounce of dignity I had clung to had vanished. My shoulders, once held high with pride, had slumped under the weight of humiliation. My pride had poured to the floor, leaving me a hollow shell, completely at the mercy of the world. I no longer cared who saw me, no longer cared who judged me. I was nothing.
My mother's gaze rested on me, a mixture of pity and helplessness in her eyes. My father, unyielding and cold as ever, approached me and bent to my level. "This is your responsibility," he said, his voice like ice. "No one will pity you, so pick yourself up and prepare for your wedding. Stop embarrassing yourself." His words crushed what little hope I had left.
"Mom! Mom! Please, help me! Talk to Dad! I can marry anyone but him! Please, Mom!" I begged, my voice desperate, trembling with fear and anguish. "He's ruthless… evil… you all know it!" I cried, my pleas falling into the pit of their silence. No one dared to defy my father's orders.
Tears streamed down my face as I walked down the aisle, my father gripping my hands as though holding me upright against the world. "Smile," he commanded. "I can't present you to your husband with that face. You look as though you're being forced. Smile, and spare yourself the pity of everyone watching." He moved slowly, allowing me a few moments to compose the façade of happiness.
Our family was no stranger to power and influence. My father, a ruthless and highly successful business tycoon, had always viewed his daughters as tools for his empire. Sherry, my eldest sister, had married the most successful man in England. Bianca, our second sister, was wed to the president's son. Their lives were gilded with comfort and respect, their husbands kind and considerate.
And then there was me. I was the sacrificial lamb. I was to be pushed into a marriage I did not want, to a man whose name alone whispered fear: Christopher Walken. He was the adopted son of Mr. Walken, who once rescued him from the streets. Yet if anyone had known the darkness buried in Christopher's heart, they would have left him to rot where he belonged. He had risen to power by spilling blood—Mr. Walken's included—and had left a trail of bodies and devastation in his wake. Even the city's police, even the most influential and powerful figures, dared not challenge him. He was the embodiment of cruelty and fear.
I had prayed, begged silently in the dead of night, for him to be different. Maybe the rumors were lies. Perhaps he wasn't as evil as everyone claimed. But I was wrong. He was worse than anyone had described. Every whispered story, every fearful glance, every warning I had ever heard about him was true, and then some.
From the moment of our marriage, he made it clear. This wasn't a union of love, nor even of convenience. I was a possession, a vessel for his anger and cruelty. I was a punching bag for a man who thrived on fear. My father, desperate to secure power and influence through Christopher, had sacrificed me willingly. I was the final pawn in his empire of ambition.
Life with Christopher was a living nightmare. I was treated worse than servants, worse than the animals in the estate. Women were brought into our home, and I was commanded to serve them. Even the maids despised me, shirking their duties and dumping their responsibilities on me. I was pitiful, naive, and utterly powerless. I couldn't stand up for myself. Fear paralyzed me, and my own weakness led me to the edge of despair, to the very precipice of death.
And then it came—my death.
The downfall of my father's empire began when the authorities discovered evidence of his illicit dealings. Investigations threatened to strip him of everything he had built. Desperation clawed at him, and he needed my help. My eldest sister had abandoned him long ago, and the president's son had no interest in intervening. The last card my father had to play was me—his youngest, most fragile daughter.
"Please, honey," my mother said, tears glistening in her eyes, "you need to talk to Christopher. You have to help your father."
I fidgeted with the hem of my dress, my voice barely a whisper. "Mom… you know I can't. I can't tell him about Dad's situation. I can't. He'll kill me if I speak out of turn."
"Then let him kill you!" my mother's voice rose with desperation. "Take the risk! We will cherish you forever for it! You may die anyway, so if you die, die to save your family!"
Her words pierced me, like poisoned darts sinking into my chest. And like a fool, I nodded. I agreed, clinging to the faint hope that my sacrifice would be remembered, that my life—even if ended—would have meaning.
I sat in the living room, wrestling with my fear, questioning whether I could summon the courage to confront him. Then, the sound of doors shutting echoed through the house. My heart pounded, and I braced for the inevitable.
He entered without so much as a glance in my direction. My tiny heart trembled as he climbed the stairs, his presence dominating the space. On the third step, I finally found the courage to call after him.
"Um… excuse me… could you spare a minute of your time? I promise I won't waste it." My voice trembled, my body shaking as I spoke.
In an instant, his massive hands wrapped around my throat. One hand, and I was suspended in the air, struggling for breath. Even in that moment of fear, I did not beg to live.
"Please… save my family… save my father's company… you're the only one who can help him," I gasped, my words choked with air and desperation.
I prayed silently to myself: Please, stay conscious. Please, stay awake. You have to stay strong.
He chuckled, a cold, cruel sound, and began moving. I had no idea where he was taking me. My body was weak, my vision blurred.
"It's all your fault," he whispered, his breath icy against my skin. "See you in hell."
And with that, he let go. I gasped, tasting air like it had been denied to me forever. Relief washed over me for a brief, fleeting moment. I thought my suffering had ended.
Then the world tilted. My body fell through the air. I opened my eyes to see him standing above me, smiling with a twisted satisfaction as I plummeted from the third floor. Pain erupted as my body hit the ground. A tear traced a path down my cheek, burned with anger, fear, and resentment.
In that moment, a wish formed in the deepest recesses of my heart. A wish born of pain, of injustice, of a life stolen too soon.
"I wish I could be reincarnated… I wish I could go back in time, to the day of our marriage… and make you feel what I felt. Make you pay in the same way you made me suffer."
And then, I let go. I surrendered to the darkness that had been calling me, the darkness that promised revenge, justice, and a chance to rewrite my fate.