Chapter 1

My wife, Sarah, was dead.

The police called it an accident. A slip in the bathtub. A tragic, simple end to a life.

But I knew better. The grief that was supposed to hit me felt distant, replaced by a cold, heavy dread in my gut. It was a feeling I couldn't name, a premonition that the real tragedy was just beginning.

I immediately called my daughter, Emily, and her husband, Mark.

"Emily, it's your mother." My voice was a dry rasp. "She's... she's gone."

Silence on the other end, then a sharp intake of breath.

"I need you to come home," I said, my voice flat. "There are things to handle."

They arrived the next day, their faces masks of performative sadness. Emily, the daughter I had raised as my own since she was five, gave me a brief, awkward hug. Mark just nodded at me, his eyes already scanning the house, the furniture, the paintings on the wall. He looked less like a grieving son-in-law and more like an appraiser.

We spent two days in a blur of funeral arrangements and paperwork. I moved through it like a ghost in my own home, the house I had bought for Sarah, the life I had built for her and her daughter. On the third day, the lawyer came.

We sat in my study, the air thick with the smell of old books and fresh grief. The lawyer, a man I' d never met, cleared his throat.

"I am here to execute the last will and testament of Sarah Miller," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

I nodded, expecting him to read that everything would pass to me, as we had always planned. I would, of course, ensure Emily was taken care of.

But that' s not what happened.

"To my beloved daughter, Emily Davis," the lawyer read, "I bequeath all my assets, including all properties held in my name, my stock portfolio, and the entirety of my life insurance policy."

I stopped breathing. The room tilted. That was everything. The house, the savings, the investments I had put in her name for tax purposes. Decades of my work. Gone.

Mark' s face twitched, a flicker of a smile quickly suppressed. Emily stared straight ahead, her expression unreadable.

"And what about me?" I managed to ask.

The lawyer looked down at the paper, almost apologetically. "There is no mention of you in the will, Mr. Miller."

My heart hammered against my ribs. It felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. Penniless. She had left me penniless.

But the final blow was yet to come.

The lawyer continued, "As for Mrs. Miller's final arrangements, she has stipulated a specific request." He paused. "She wishes to be buried in the Johnson family plot, next to her first husband, Robert Johnson."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Robert. Her ex-husband. The man who had abandoned her and a young Emily, only to reappear penniless from abroad years ago, a constant drain on our finances. A man I despised.

"Furthermore," the lawyer said, his voice softening slightly, "she included a personal letter."

He slid a pink envelope across the polished wood table. My hand trembled as I picked it up. Her familiar, looping handwriting stared back at me.

David,

If you' re reading this, then Robert and I have gone ahead with our plan. His debts were too much, the shame too great. We couldn' t see another way out. We decided to leave this world together, just like we always promised we would. I' m sorry for the pain this will cause, but some loves are meant to last forever. My only regret is that Emily will be sad for a little while. Please take care of her.

Sarah

A suicide pact.

It wasn't an accident. She had killed herself. With him. The man she supposedly divorced decades ago.

The world went white. The carefully constructed reality of my twenty-year marriage didn't just crack; it exploded into a million pieces. The love, the sacrifices, the life I thought we had built-all of it was a lie. A long, elaborate, cruel lie. I wasn't her partner; I was her bank. I wasn't Emily' s father; I was her ticket to a comfortable life.

"Get out."

I looked up. Emily was standing, her face a mask of cold fury.

"What did you say?" I whispered.

"I said, get out," she repeated, her voice louder now, colder. "This is my house now. My mother left it to me. You have no right to be here."

I stared at her, this girl I had taught to ride a bike, the girl whose college tuition I had paid, whose wedding I had funded. There was no trace of the child I loved in her eyes. Only a chilling, reptilian indifference.

The rage, hot and acidic, rose in my throat. My vision blurred. A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my chest. I opened my mouth to scream, to curse her, to curse the woman who had so completely destroyed me.

But all that came out was a spray of blood.

The world spun, and darkness swallowed me whole.

Then, a jolt.

My eyes snapped open. I wasn't on the floor of my study. I was in my bed. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. The familiar floral pattern of the wallpaper, the one Sarah had insisted on, filled my vision.

I sat up, my heart pounding. My chest didn't hurt. There was no taste of blood in my mouth. I looked at my hands. They looked... younger. Fewer lines, smoother skin.

A sound from the doorway made me turn.

Sarah stood there, a smile on her face. A vibrant, living, breathing Sarah.

"Happy anniversary, sleepyhead," she said, her voice warm and sweet, just as I remembered it. Or, just as I thought I remembered it. "Breakfast is almost ready. Emily' s coming over later for dinner to celebrate."

My breath hitched. Anniversary. I scrambled to look at the digital clock on the nightstand. The date glowed in red numbers.

October 12th, 2011.

I was back. Back in the fifth year of our marriage. Back before the worst of the betrayals, before they had bled me completely dry.

I looked at Sarah, at her loving smile, her concerned eyes. And for the first time, I saw the lie shimmering behind them. The illusion was shattered.

The game had just been reset. And this time, I knew all the rules.

That evening, our dining room was filled with the sounds of false cheer. The scent of roast chicken, Sarah' s specialty, hung in the air. Emily was there, chattering about her classes, her face bright and youthful. My mother-in-law, Linda, and Sarah' s brother, Tom, were also present, eating my food and drinking my wine as if it were their birthright.

Then, the doorbell rang.

Sarah' s face lit up in a way that I now recognized as panic mixed with affection.

"Oh, that must be Robert," she said, a little too brightly. "I invited him. I thought it would be nice for Emily to see her father on our anniversary."

She opened the door, and there he was. Robert Johnson. Looking older than his years, dressed in clothes that were just a little too worn, but with the same smug look in his eyes.

He stepped inside, and his gaze met mine across the room. He smiled, a lazy, confident smile. It was the smile of a man who knew he was sleeping with another man's wife, in that man's own house.

I looked from his face to Sarah' s, then to Emily' s, who was now beaming at her biological father. The happy family. The perfect, parasitic little unit.

My hand tightened around my wine glass.

"Robert," I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. "It's been a while. Still unemployed?"

The room went silent.