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I died on the delivery table, my husband's mistress wearing my push gift, while he held her hand in the next room and told the doctors to "save the baby, not the wife."
This time, I woke up three months before my due date — alive, pregnant, and remembering everything.
My name is Vivienne Ashford. My husband is Dominic Crane, CEO of Crane Industries, the man Forbes called "the king of Wall Street." And the woman who stole him is Serena Blake, his executive assistant, who told him the baby in my belly wasn't his.
It was. The paternity test proved it. But Dominic never saw the results. Because Serena intercepted them. And I bled out alone on a surgical table while he popped champagne with her in the VIP maternity suite he'd booked — for her fake pregnancy.
I remember the fluorescent lights above me flickering. I remember the nurses screaming for more blood. I remember the exact moment my heart stopped — and the last sound I heard was Dominic's laughter echoing through the wall.
Now I'm back.
Three months before the delivery. Three months before Serena's final move. Three months to get out, get safe, and make sure my baby and I survive.
I sat up in our penthouse bed, my hand flying to my swollen belly. The baby kicked — hard, alive, real. A sob tore out of me. In my last life, I never got to hold her. I never heard her cry. I died not knowing if she survived.
This time would be different.
I grabbed my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock it. I needed to call my lawyer, transfer my trust fund, book a flight —
The penthouse door opened.
Dominic walked in. Tall, devastatingly handsome, his charcoal suit perfectly tailored. The face I had loved since I was nineteen years old.
Behind him, her red-soled heels clicking on the marble, was Serena Blake.
She was wearing my necklace. The diamond pendant Dominic had custom-made for our first anniversary. The one engraved with V & D, Forever.
It was around her neck.
"Vivienne," Dominic said, not looking at me. He was looking at his phone. "Serena's going to be staying with us for a while. The renovation on her apartment flooded. I told her she could use the guest suite."
The guest suite. The room I had spent four months converting into a nursery. Hand-painted murals of stars and moons. A crib my mother had shipped from France before she died.
"That's the nursery," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He finally looked up. His eyes — those dark, magnetic eyes that used to look at me like I was the center of his universe — were flat. Bored.
"We'll move the baby stuff," he said. "It's just furniture."
Serena tilted her head, her glossy lips curving into a sympathetic pout. "Oh, Viv, don't worry. I'll be so careful with the little one's things. I adore babies."
She placed her hand on her own flat stomach and glanced at Dominic with a look so intimate it made my skin crawl.
In my first life, I would have swallowed my tears and agreed. I would have told myself Dominic was just being generous. That Serena was just a colleague. That the necklace was probably a mistake.
I was such a fool.
But I remembered. I remembered everything. The intercepted paternity test. The forged medical records claiming I was mentally unstable. The way Serena whispered to every nurse on the maternity ward that I was "delusional" and "dangerous," until not a single person came when I screamed for help.
I remembered dying.
And now, this man — who remembered our vows, our love, our baby — was standing in front of me with the woman who murdered me, asking me to give up my child's nursery.
This wasn't ignorance. This wasn't manipulation by a scheming woman.
This was a choice.
"No," I said.
Dominic's head snapped toward me. His jaw tightened. In five years of marriage, I had never said no to him.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no. She's not staying in my baby's nursery. She's not staying in this apartment. And she's not wearing my necklace."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Serena's eyes widened, then narrowed. She looked at Dominic, waiting.
He set his phone down on the counter. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Vivienne," he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that used to make me tremble. "You're being hormonal. Go lie down."
"I'm being clear," I said, standing up. My belly made me clumsy, but I held my ground. "Get her out of my home."
Dominic crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed my wrist — not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to control. He leaned down, his mouth next to my ear.
"You will not embarrass me in front of a guest," he whispered. "Sit. Down."
Behind him, Serena watched with those cold, calculating eyes. And she smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a grin. A smile of absolute, predatory satisfaction.
She had won. Again. In this life, just like the last.
Dominic released my wrist and turned back to Serena, his expression softening instantly. "I'm sorry about that. Pregnancy hormones. You know how it is."
"Of course," Serena cooed. "Poor thing. She must be so overwhelmed."
They walked toward the nursery together. I heard the door open. I heard Serena's delighted gasp — "Oh, Dominic, this room is gorgeous. The light is perfect."
I heard the sound of my daughter's crib being dragged across the floor.
I stood alone in the living room of my own home, my wrist throbbing, my dead mother's nursery being dismantled by the woman who would kill me in three months.
In my first life, this was the moment I broke.
In my second life, this was the moment I started to fight.
Chapter 2
I didn't sleep that night.
I sat in the dark of our bedroom — his bedroom now, because he hadn't slept beside me in weeks — and made a list on the back of a receipt. My hands were steady. My mind was a blade.
What I know:
1. Serena will fake a pregnancy in six weeks.
2. She will intercept the paternity test proving my baby is Dominic's.
3. She will forge documents declaring me mentally unfit.
4. Dominic will sign the order to prioritize "the surrogate's baby" over my life.
5. I will die on the table. Alone.
What I need:
1. My trust fund — $4.2 million, currently frozen by Dominic's lawyers under the prenup.
2. A new identity.
3. A doctor I can trust.
4. To get out before Serena makes her move.
At dawn, I heard them.
Laughter. Coming from the nursery — no, Serena's room now. Her tinkling, musical laugh, followed by Dominic's low chuckle.
I pressed my hand against my belly. The baby was quiet. Sleeping. She didn't know that her father had already decided she was worthless — because Serena had told him the baby wasn't his.
I got dressed and went downstairs. The housekeeper, Mrs. Park, was setting the breakfast table. She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.
"Mrs. Crane," she whispered, glancing toward the stairs. "Miss Blake asked me to pack up the nursery items. She wants them moved to the storage unit."
"The storage unit?" My voice was ice.
"She said the crib was 'depressing' and the murals were 'tacky.'" Mrs. Park's lip trembled. "I painted those murals myself, ma'am. You and I, together. It took us three weekends."
I remembered. Mrs. Park had been with me since the wedding. She was the closest thing I had to a mother in this city.
"Don't move anything," I said. "I'll handle it."
I walked to the nursery door and knocked. No answer. I opened it.
The room was unrecognizable. Serena had already rearranged everything. My mother's antique crib was shoved into the corner, draped with a sheet like a piece of discarded furniture. The hand-painted stars on the walls were half-covered by Serena's designer luggage — seven matching cases, Louis Vuitton, probably bought with Dominic's black card.
The mobile I had assembled — tiny silver stars and moons that played Clair de Lune — was on the floor. Cracked.
I picked it up, my fingers tracing the bent metal arm.
"Oh, you're up early!"
Serena appeared in the doorway in a silk robe, her hair perfectly tousled, a cup of coffee in her hand. She looked at the mobile in my hands and sighed.
"I'm so sorry about that. It fell when I was unpacking. These old things are so fragile."
"It didn't fall," I said quietly. "It was hanging from the ceiling."
She blinked, then shrugged. "Well, accidents happen. Especially in a room this cluttered. You really should declutter before the baby comes, Viv. All this stuff — it's not healthy."
I set the mobile down on the dresser. "When are you leaving?"
Her smile didn't waver. "Leaving? Dominic said I could stay as long as I need. Didn't he tell you?"
"He told me your apartment flooded."
"It did."
"I called your building manager this morning," I said. "There was no flood."
For a fraction of a second — so brief I would have missed it in my first life — her mask slipped. A flash of something cold and reptilian behind those doe eyes.
Then it was back. The sweet, concerned smile.
"Oh, Viv. Pregnancy brain is so real, isn't it? You must have called the wrong building." She reached out and patted my arm. "Don't stress yourself. It's bad for the baby."
She walked past me, her perfume — my perfume, the custom blend Dominic had made for me — trailing behind her like a poison cloud.
I stood in the ruins of my nursery and felt the familiar despair rising, the same hopelessness that had drowned me in my first life.
No. Not this time.
I took out my phone and called the one person Dominic couldn't control.
"Aunt Margaux," I said when she answered. "I need a lawyer. The best one you know. And I need them today."
Silence on the other end. Then, my aunt's voice, sharp as a scalpel: "What has that bastard done now?"
"Everything," I said. "And I'm going to make him pay for all of it."
That afternoon, I met the lawyer at a café three blocks from the penthouse. Her name was Diana Voss — mid-forties, steel-gray bob, a reputation for dismantling billionaires in divorce court.
"Your prenup is aggressive," Diana said, flipping through the documents I'd brought. "But it's not airtight. There's a fidelity clause — if you can prove infidelity, the prenup is void, and you're entitled to fifty percent of marital assets."
"I can prove it," I said.
"You'll need evidence. Hard evidence. Photos, messages, financial records showing gifts or payments to Miss Blake."
I thought of the necklace. My necklace. Around Serena's throat.
"I'll get it," I said.
Diana looked at me over her glasses. "Mrs. Crane, I have to ask. Are you safe? In that apartment, with him?"
I thought of his hand on my wrist. The flat, bored look in his eyes.
"For now," I said. "But I won't be for long."
"Then we move fast," Diana said, snapping the folder shut. "I'll have the papers drafted by Friday. But Vivienne — once you file, there's no going back. He will come after you with everything he has."
"I know," I said. "I've already died once because I didn't fight back. I'm not making that mistake again."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't ask.
When I got home, the penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.
I walked to the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.
Through the crack, I saw them.
Dominic, sitting on the edge of our bed. Serena, standing between his knees, her fingers in his hair. His hands on her waist.
They weren't kissing. It was worse than kissing. It was intimate. Comfortable. Like they had done this a thousand times.
"She's getting suspicious," Serena murmured. "She called my building."
Dominic sighed. "I'll handle Vivienne."
"You always say that. But she's still here, Dominic. In our home."
Our home.
"After the baby's born," he said, his voice low. "We'll deal with it after the baby."
"And if the baby's yours?" Serena asked, her voice carefully neutral.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "It's not. You showed me the test."
"The test I arranged," she said. And then she laughed — a soft, private laugh that made my blood freeze.
She had just admitted it. Out loud. To his face.
And he didn't react. He just pulled her closer.
I stepped back from the door, my heart pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it.
He knew. He knew the test was fake. He knew Serena had arranged it. And he didn't care.
My baby — his baby — and he had chosen to believe a lie because the truth was inconvenient.
I pressed my back against the hallway wall and slid down to the floor, my hands cradling my belly.
In my first life, this revelation would have shattered me.
In my second life, it was ammunition.
Chapter 3
I spent the next week gathering evidence like a woman possessed.
Every receipt Dominic left in his suit pockets. Every late-night text notification that lit up his phone while he slept. Every charge on the black card — the jewelry, the hotel suites, the "business dinners" at restaurants with two-month waitlists.
I photographed everything. I stored copies in three separate cloud accounts, each under a different alias Diana had set up.
But Serena was watching me too.
She had a sixth sense for threats, a predator's instinct. She started following me around the penthouse, appearing in doorways, materializing in rooms I thought were empty.
"What are you doing on your phone, Viv?" she'd ask, her voice dripping with sweetness. "You're always on that thing. It can't be good for the baby."
"Reading," I'd say. "Pregnancy books."
"Mmm." She'd lean over my shoulder, trying to see my screen. "You should really put that down and rest. Dominic worries about you."
Dominic didn't worry about me. Dominic hadn't spoken to me directly in four days. He communicated through Serena now, as if she were his translator and I were a foreign inconvenience.
"Vivienne needs to eat more vegetables." "Vivienne should take her vitamins." "Vivienne looks pale — should we call the doctor?"
Always through Serena. Always with that possessive we.
On Thursday, I came home from a secret appointment with Diana to find the penthouse transformed. Serena had redecorated the living room. My mother's oil paintings — three landscapes she had painted during her years in Provence, the only pieces I had left of her — were gone. Replaced by enormous, soulless abstract prints in chrome frames.
"Where are my mother's paintings?" I asked Mrs. Park, my voice dangerously calm.
Mrs. Park couldn't meet my eyes. "Miss Blake said they were... dated. She had them moved to the storage unit with the nursery things."
I went to the storage unit. It was in the basement of the building, a climate-controlled room Dominic used for his wine collection.
The nursery items were there — the crib, the mobile, the boxes of baby clothes I had spent months collecting. All shoved into a corner, covered in dust sheets.
But my mother's paintings weren't there.
I called the building concierge. He checked the security footage.
"Mrs. Crane, the paintings were picked up this morning by a disposal service. Miss Blake arranged it. She said they were... being donated."
"Donated where?"
He hesitated. "She didn't specify a charity, ma'am. The disposal company she used... they don't typically handle donations."
They were gone. Thrown away. Three irreplaceable pieces of my mother's art, destroyed because Serena found them "dated."
I stood in that cold storage room, surrounded by the discarded pieces of my daughter's nursery, and let myself feel the rage. I didn't fight it. I didn't swallow it. I let it burn through me like a cleansing fire.
Then I called Diana.
"I need to move faster," I said.
"What happened?"
"She destroyed my mother's paintings. The originals. They're gone."
Diana was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry, Vivienne. But paintings aren't grounds for —"
"I know. But I have something better." I took a breath. "I recorded a conversation. Between Dominic and Serena. She admitted — out loud — that she faked the paternity test. And he didn't deny it."
"You recorded it?"
"I've been leaving my phone recording in the bedroom every night since she moved in."
Silence. Then: "Send it to me. Now."
I sent the file. My hands were shaking, but my resolve was iron.
That evening, Dominic came home early. He was in a rare mood — almost cheerful. He poured himself a whiskey and sat down in the living room, in the chair that used to face my mother's painting of the lavender fields.
"The room looks better," he said, nodding at the new art. "Serena has excellent taste."
"She threw away my mother's paintings," I said from the kitchen doorway.
He didn't look up. "They were old, Vivienne. Everything in this apartment was old. It needed updating."
"They were originals. They were irreplaceable."
He took a sip of his whiskey. "Your mother painted as a hobby. They weren't valuable."
"They were valuable to me."
He finally looked at me, and the expression on his face — impatient, dismissive, faintly disgusted — was one I recognized. It was the same look he'd given me in my first life, in the weeks before I died. The look that said: You are a problem I'm tired of solving.
"Vivienne, I don't have the energy for this. Serena is trying to make this a nicer home for all of us. For the baby. You should be grateful."
"For the baby?" I laughed — a sharp, broken sound. "You don't even believe this baby is yours."
His jaw tightened. "Because she's not."
"She is. And you know she is. You know Serena faked that test."
The air in the room changed. It became charged, electric, dangerous.
He set his glass down. Slowly. "What did you just say?"
"I heard you, Dominic. I heard both of you. In our bedroom. She told you she arranged the test. And you just sat there."
His face went white. Then red. He stood up, his full height towering over me.
"You were spying on me?"
"I was protecting myself. And our daughter."
He moved toward me, and instinctively, I stepped back. My hip hit the kitchen counter. I had nowhere to go.
"You're delusional," he said, his voice a low snarl. "Serena warned me about this. She said the pregnancy was making you paranoid, unstable —"
"Serena is a liar and you're a coward," I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them.
His hand came up. I flinched, my arms wrapping around my belly.
He stopped. His hand hung in the air between us, trembling. Something flickered across his face — shame, maybe. Or just the calculation of a man who knew hitting a pregnant woman would look bad in court.
He lowered his hand. But his eyes were murderous.
"Get out of my sight," he whispered.
I didn't move.
"NOW!"
I walked past him, my chin high, my heart hammering. I made it to the hallway before my knees gave out. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, one hand on my belly.
The baby kicked. Hard. As if she knew.
I'm going to get us out, I told her silently. I promise.
From the living room, I heard Serena's voice, soft and soothing. "Dominic, darling, calm down. She's just trying to upset you. That's what unstable people do."
And then, the words that sealed my fate — or would have, if I hadn't already planned my escape.
"Maybe we should call Dr. Weston," Serena said. "Have her evaluated. For the baby's safety, of course."
Dr. Weston. The psychiatrist who, in my first life, had signed the papers declaring me mentally unfit. The papers that gave Dominic full medical authority over my pregnancy. The papers that allowed him to tell the doctors: save the baby, not the wife.
They were making their move. Ahead of schedule.
I had to run. Tonight.
I pulled out my phone and texted Diana: They're accelerating. I need the papers now. Tonight.
Her reply came in thirty seconds: Already done. Car will be at the service entrance at midnight. Don't bring anything you can't carry.
I looked down at my belly. Seven months pregnant. Alone. Running from a billionaire who owned half the city.
In my first life, this was where I surrendered.
In my second life, I texted back: I'll be there.
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