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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.

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