The morning air in Silvergrove buzzed with subtle energy—one that Clara once mistook for normalcy. But not anymore. Every sunrise was now a reminder: she'd died once, and fate had been cruel—or merciful—enough to give her a second chance.
She sat on the cushioned swing in the backyard garden, her favorite spot as a girl. The swing creaked softly with each gentle sway, her fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee, untouched. Her mind, however, wasn't on the floral blooms or the warm sun. It was on Rhea.
Rhea Monroe. Best friend turned traitor. The woman who had smiled at her wedding, toasted her pregnancy, and then slept with her husband behind her back.
Back then, Clara had been too blind. Too trusting. Too naive.
But not this time.
She wouldn't wait for betrayal to cut her open again—she'd walk into the lion's den with honeyed words and sharpened claws.
Clara smiled to herself bitterly. "Keep your enemies closer," they said.
So she would.
By mid-morning, she picked up her phone and dialed the number she had long memorized but hadn't yet called since waking up five years earlier. It rang once, twice.
"Clara?" Rhea's voice chirped, filled with fake surprise and sugary excitement. "Oh my God, it's been forever!"
Clara grinned. And thus begins the performance.
"Too long, Rhee. I've been swamped with everything… I just realized we haven't caught up in ages."
Rhea laughed on the other end. "Girl, tell me about it! Damien's been going on and on about how you're always ditching us lately."
Of course he had. Clara's fingers gripped the phone tighter. In the past, she had genuinely felt guilty when Rhea said things like that. Now, she only catalogued the manipulation.
"I know, I feel awful," Clara lied smoothly. "Hey, want to grab brunch tomorrow? Just us girls. Like old times."
"You're joking, right?" Rhea squealed. "YES. Tell me where and when!"
Clara gave her a time and a place—a charming little rooftop café with a perfect view of the skyline. Public, open, with good acoustics for eavesdropping if needed.
They ended the call with giggles and promises. Clara stared at the blank phone screen afterward, her expression unreadable.
This was war. And war required smiling.
The next day, Clara arrived early.
She dressed carefully—understated yet elegant. A soft lavender blouse, fitted cream trousers, and the dainty gold necklace her mother once gave her. She looked like a woman in love, calm and carefree.
But her eyes were sharp.
Rhea arrived fifteen minutes late, as always, in a loud red dress that hugged her curves. Her arms flew open dramatically.
"Claaaraaaa!"
They hugged. Clara let it linger.
"You look radiant," Rhea said as they sat. "I mean, glowing. Something good happening?"
"Let's just say… I'm waking up," Clara replied.
They ordered mimosas and croissants, eggs Benedict and tiny soufflés. The sunlight bounced off their glasses as they sipped and laughed.
Clara let Rhea talk about herself—about her latest internship, her breakup with "some loser," and the new man she had her eye on.
"Honestly, I'm over good boys. I want passion now. Excitement," Rhea declared dramatically, stirring her drink.
Clara arched a brow. "Even if it means going after someone else's man?"
Rhea blinked, caught off-guard.
Clara laughed quickly to soften the moment. "Kidding! God, you should've seen your face."
Rhea chuckled, a bit too loudly. "Right? As if I'd do that."
Clara tilted her head. "You'd be surprised what people do when they think they won't get caught."
Their eyes met. Just for a second, something unspoken passed between them. Rhea looked away first.
Gotcha.
Over the next few weeks, Clara wove herself back into Rhea's life. She showed up at her apartment with wine and gossip. They went shopping and hosted mini spa nights. On the surface, it was the revival of a once-unbreakable friendship.
But every interaction was strategy.
She studied Rhea's expressions, the way she avoided certain questions, the fake concern when she asked about Clara and Damien.
In this version of the timeline, Clara and Damien were only engaged—not married. But Clara knew Rhea had already begun eyeing him. The subtle touches. The flirtatious smiles she thought Clara didn't see.
One night, Rhea held up a silver dress in a boutique and asked, "Do you think this would drive a man crazy?"
Clara hummed. "Depends on the man. Someone like Damien, for example—he'd probably fall at your feet."
Rhea's eyes sparkled. "Really? I thought you'd say he's more into the innocent type."
Clara sipped her coffee. "I used to think so too."
Another trap laid. Another reaction noted.
She even invited Rhea to her home, claiming she needed help planning their engagement dinner.
And sure enough, Rhea came dressed like she was the bride-to-be.
She fluttered around the living room, tossing ideas while stealing glances at Damien, who had no clue what was going on.
Clara observed from the kitchen. The way Rhea's hand brushed Damien's shoulder a second too long. The way her laughter got louder when he spoke.
Once, Clara would've thought she was imagining it. But now she saw it for what it was—predation. Plain and simple.
She wasn't just gathering proof for her own revenge. She was studying the game board, preparing to burn it.
One evening, Clara paid a visit to someone she'd ignored in her past life—Evan Hart, Damien's co-founder and best man.
Evan was loyal but deeply observant. In her past life, he had hinted at Rhea's intentions more than once, but Clara had brushed it off as jealousy.
Now, she saw him for what he was: an ally who didn't know he was needed.
She met him at a café under the pretense of getting help with a surprise for Damien.
"I've just… had this nagging feeling," she said softly as they sipped coffee. "Something's off. With Rhea."
Evan leaned back, arms crossed. "You're asking the wrong questions, Clara. The real question is—why do you still keep her around?"
Clara looked away. "Because this time, I need to know the whole truth. Every bit of it."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's ominous."
She smiled. "So, will you help me watch her?"
Evan didn't answer at first. But then he gave a slow nod.
"I always knew she was trouble. Let's see what dirt we can dig."
Clara's plan wasn't just emotional. It was surgical.
With Evan's help, she traced Rhea's movements—her late-night visits, the number of times she "accidentally" ran into Damien near his office, the bar receipts.
All of it, catalogued.
She also left bait—confidential business plans casually left open on her desk when Rhea was around, or wedding ideas she knew Damien had dismissed, just to see what Rhea would "advise."
Rhea never disappointed.
One evening, Clara walked into her study to find Rhea snooping through her drawer.
Rhea spun around, eyes wide. "Oh! I was looking for a pen."
Clara smiled gently. "Of course. Next time, just ask."
Later that night, she installed a voice-activated recorder in the study drawer.
The final straw came two weeks later.
Evan sent her a photo: Rhea, wearing a trench coat, stepping into a hotel Damien often visited for meetings.
Clara felt the chill in her bones. The same hotel she remembered confronting Rhea in—five years too late.
This time, she wouldn't wait.
She printed the picture. Kept it in a box. Alongside voice recordings, receipts, and phone screenshots.
And one day, when Rhea gushed about her plans to throw Clara the "most unforgettable bridal shower," Clara nodded, feigning delight.
"Oh, I bet it'll be unforgettable."
To be continued…