The crystal chandeliers above shimmered like stars, but all I could taste was blood.
The laughter and music from the grand ballroom blurred into a distant hum. People in glittering gowns and tailored suits twirled on the marble floor, celebrating the Winters–Cross anniversary gala—a party I had planned for months.
My party.
My anniversary.
My deathbed.
I clutched my stomach, the metallic tang in my mouth thickening as I staggered toward the balcony. The silk of my champagne-colored gown dragged against the floor, soaking in crimson that should have never been there.
"Help…" My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
No one heard. No one cared.
The door to the balcony swung open with the push of my trembling hand. Cold night air bit into my skin, but it couldn't compare to the icy betrayal in my chest.
Behind me, I heard a voice dripping with satisfaction.
"You should have learned, sister. Love makes fools of women like you."
I turned, my vision swimming, and saw her—Celeste Winters, my beloved step-sister. Her red gown matched the blood pooling around my heels.
In her delicate hands was a half-empty champagne flute. She swirled it lazily. "Poison works better than a knife. Less messy."
My knees buckled. "Why…?"
She smiled sweetly, as if we were exchanging secrets at a tea party. "Because everything you have should have been mine. Damien… the Winters fortune… the spotlight. But you were too blind to see he never loved you."
At the mention of his name, my chest twisted painfully. Damien Cross—my husband. The man I'd worshipped, defended, and loved with everything I had.
"Where is he?" I rasped. "Damien… will—"
"Damien?" Celeste laughed, cruel and musical. "Oh, he knows. He just doesn't care. In fact, he told me to 'handle things' while he entertained important guests. Poor Elara. Always the ornamental wife, never the partner."
The pain was blinding now, but not as sharp as the truth.
He wouldn't come.
He wouldn't save me.
And as I sank to the cold marble, the glittering city lights spinning above me, I realized… this was how I would die—abandoned, betrayed, and utterly powerless.
Celeste crouched, her perfume choking me more than the blood in my throat. "Don't worry, dear sister. I'll take good care of Damien in your absence."
The world dimmed. My last thought wasn't of love—it was of hate.
If I could live again… I would burn them all.
When I opened my eyes, the scent of blood was gone.
So was the balcony.
And the pain.
I was lying in a canopy bed I hadn't seen in years, sunlight spilling through lace curtains.
A tremor ran through me as I sat up. My hands—no ring. My body—uninjured.
The ornate calendar on the wall read: April 2nd, 2001.
Two years before my death.