The ceiling above her was the color of dust faded white, cracked along the edges like old porcelain. A slow, rhythmic sound tugged her back into consciousness. Drip. Drip. Drip. Rain, perhaps, slipping through the half-closed window and tapping on the marble floor. Her head throbbed, a dull reminder of the fall that had ended one life and begun another.
For a moment, she lay still, listening. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender too clean for a battlefield, too soft for a warrior. The sheets beneath her hands were silk, smooth but foreign. This wasn't her command tent, nor the cold ground of Norvale's fields. This was… home. Or rather, someone else's version of it.
When she finally opened her eyes, sunlight sliced through the curtains, painting pale gold stripes across the room. The walls were adorned with delicate paintings flowers, birds, too many smiles. All of it felt wrong, like a stage set built for a girl who no longer existed.
Emily pushed herself up, ignoring the weakness in her limbs. Her reflection stared back from the vanity mirror a familiar face, yet softer, more fragile. Same sharp jawline. Same dark eyes. But the fire behind them had changed. It wasn't the naive glow of a girl begging for love. It was the calm, contained blaze of someone who had already burned once and survived.
She tested her fingers, flexed them, then her arms. The body responded slower than hers used to, but there was strength hiding beneath the surface. A warrior's instincts never die; they just wait for the right moment to wake.
A knock came at the door. Light, hesitant.
"Miss Emily, are you awake?" The voice belonged to a maid young, nervous. "Madam said you're not to strain yourself. Doctor said you hit your head quite badly."
"Tell Madam I'm fine," Emily said, her tone softer than she intended. The maid froze, then hurried off. Her voice carried the authority of someone the maid didn't expect to have it.
As soon as the footsteps faded, Emily slipped out of bed. Her legs trembled at first, but she steadied herself by the edge of the table. Every motion reminded her this wasn't her body but it was hers now, and she would shape it into something unstoppable.
She wandered to the window. Outside, the Smith estate gleamed like a gilded prison gardens trimmed to perfection, servants moving like clockwork, each step rehearsed under the watchful eyes of wealth. It wasn't a home. It was a showpiece for people desperate to appear powerful.
A soft sound drifted from below voices in the drawing room. Emily leaned closer, letting the curtain conceal her.
"…she's awake?" That was her stepmother's voice sweet, honeyed, and sharp beneath the surface. "Good. Make sure she doesn't go anywhere near Timothy's people. I don't want her embarrassing us again."
Emily's chest tightened. So they were already talking about the marriage. Even in this body, even after death, fate refused to give her peace.
Then another voice joined Grace's, one Emily recognized even before her pulse quickened.
"Don't worry, Mother," said Stephanie. "She can barely stand. No one would want her anyway."
Stephanie. The serpent with perfect curls and a smile that could slice skin. Her so-called sister. The one who had pushed her no, the other her to her death.
They both laughed. The sound of it made something cold settle in Emily's bones.
She moved from the window, silent as breath, and began to explore the room. Every drawer, every hidden corner searching not for keepsakes but for truths. The original Emily's life was scattered here: an unfinished sketch of a boy's face, a crumpled letter addressed to "Benjamin," and a diary with pages torn out.
Emily skimmed what was left. Fragments of heartbreak. Pleas for her father's affection. Descriptions of Stephanie's cruelty softened with denial. The kind of pain that leaves a girl hollow long before she dies.
No more. Not this time.
She found a small, locked chest beneath the bed and picked it open with a hairpin. Inside were medical reports, legal papers, and a note signed by her father. Marriage Contract—Timothy Blackwood.
So it was true. They were selling her off like livestock, feeding her to a man the world called a monster.
Emily smiled faintly.
Monsters, she could handle. Betrayers she would burn.
She stood before the mirror again. "They think I'm broken," she whispered to the reflection. "Let them."
For a heartbeat, she thought she saw the faintest shadow of her old self armor-clad, blood-soaked, alive with purpose standing behind her. Then it was gone, swallowed by the morning light.
From somewhere below, the front door slammed. Laughter echoed. Stephanie's, unmistakably. The rhythm of Emily's heartbeat steadied, each thud a vow.
The faint smell of rain drifted through the open window. She drew in a deep breath, steady and deliberate. Her new life had begun.
She had barely settled by the window when the door clicked open again. Stephanie glided in, her heels soft on the polished floor. She carried that same careless smile, the one that always made Emily want to reach for a sword and smile back with blood on her hands.
"Oh, you're awake," Stephanie said, voice sweet, honeyed. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through the entire morning. Father would be furious."
Emily studied her carefully, letting her eyes linger on the slight curl of Stephanie's lip, the way her hands rested casually at her sides. Every inch of her screamed confidence, entitlement. Someone who believed the world was theirs for the taking.
"You've been busy while I was asleep," Emily said, voice steady. "Planning more ways to humiliate me, I imagine?"
Stephanie's smile faltered, just slightly, before she recovered. "Humiliate? Emily, you exaggerate. I merely point out… realities. Father only wants what's best for the family."
Emily laughed softly, a sound that felt foreign in this delicate body. "Best for the family? You mean best for yourself. You've been stealing from me my life, my love, even my standing. And you've been doing it with a smile on your face."
Stephanie's eyes flickered annoyance, surprise, a hint of fear buried deep. But she masked it. "Careful," she said, tilting her head. "My mother might not like it if you speak that way."
"Then perhaps she should spend less time pretending to care," Emily murmured, moving closer, letting the weight of her gaze press against Stephanie's carefully constructed arrogance.
Stephanie stepped back. Her confidence wobbled for a heartbeat just long enough for Emily to see it. "You're… different," she said, voice tight. "I don't know what happened while you were asleep, but… you're not the same Emily Smith I knew."
"Good," Emily said softly. "Because the Emily you knew? She was weak. That Emily doesn't exist anymore."
Stephanie's lips pressed into a thin line. "We'll see about that."
She turned and walked toward the door, clicking her heels like a countdown. "Don't get too comfortable. Father will be home soon, and you'll answer for everything."
The door shut. Silence.
Emily leaned against the wall, letting out a slow breath. That was the spark she needed—a tiny flicker of fear in someone who thought they were untouchable. The game had begun.
Her heart felt stuffy, but she knew the emotions she was feeling weren't hers. They belonged to the Emily who died quietly without anyone noticing.
Emily rubbed her chest. "I'll help you get revenge that's the least I can do for you."
Her heart stopped aching after that, as if the dead Emily had agreed with her and accepted her promise.