Faithu Bisci Mia

The last thing I remembered from my previous life was the sound of a heart monitor flatlining. I had donated my bone marrow, my kidney, and finally, my liver—all for my husband's precious mistress. Colton Drake didn't even come to my funeral. His secretary sent flowers. White lilies. I was allergic to lilies. He never bothered to learn that in ten years of marriage. So when I opened my eyes and saw the familiar ceiling of the Drake Estate master bedroom, I screamed. Then I looked at my hands. Smooth. No IV scars. No surgical marks. I stumbled to the mirror and saw my twenty-five-year-old face staring back at me. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. The date read: June 14th. June 14th. The day before I signed the post-nuptial agreement that stripped me of everything—my shares, my inheritance, my dignity. My blood went cold, then hot. In my previous life, Colton had handed me that agreement with a gentle smile and said, "It's just a formality, sweetheart. You trust me, don't you?" And I, the stupid, lovesick fool, signed it. Three months later, he brought his mistress, Vanessa Leigh, into our home. One year later, I was diagnosed with a match for Vanessa's failing kidneys. Two years later, I was dead on an operating table, donating my last usable organ while Colton held Vanessa's hand in the next room. The bedroom door opened. Colton walked in, adjusting his cufflinks—tall, sharp-jawed, devastatingly handsome. The face I once loved more than my own life. Now it made my stomach turn. He smiled warmly. "Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?" That smile. I knew it now. It was the smile of a man who had already been sleeping with another woman for two years. "You look pale," he said, stepping closer. "Are you nervous about tomorrow? I told you, the agreement is just—" "A formality," I finished. "Yes. You mentioned that." He looked slightly surprised that I cut him off. In our entire marriage, I had never interrupted him. "I'm not signing it," I said. The warmth drained from his face so fast it was almost funny. "What?" "I said no." I held his gaze without flinching. "And while we're at it, I want a divorce." The silence that followed was deafening. Colton's jaw tightened. For the briefest moment, something dark flickered behind his eyes—something I had been too blind to see before. Then he laughed softly. "You're joking." "Do I look like I'm joking?" He studied me, and I watched his mask slip back into place—the concerned husband, the patient partner. "Sweetheart, did something happen? Did someone say something to you?" In my past life, this tone would have melted me. I would have apologized for overreacting. I would have kissed his cheek and told him I was being silly. Instead, I smiled. "Colton, I want the divorce filed by Friday. I'll be taking the 30% of Drake Group shares that my father left me. Non-negotiable." His eyes went ice cold. "Those shares are managed under my name." "Managed. Not owned. Check the original transfer documents." He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. Good. Because the woman he married—the one who would crawl through glass for his approval—she died on that operating table. And whoever came back was done being his fool.