Chapter 1

Ethan Carter was dying. His breath rasped, a dry, shallow sound in the sterile room. I, Elara Hayes, his wife of nearly twenty-five years, sat by his bedside. A dutiful wife. Always. He fumbled for my hand, his skin cold. "Elara," he whispered, his voice a ghost. "Brittany... her portrait... by my grave." Brittany. My stepsister. Dead for years in this timeline, but forever his only true love. Not me. Never me. I nodded, my face smooth, betraying nothing of the hollow ache inside. For decades, I had lived a lie for our children, for society, for his political ambitions. Governor Carter, they called him. My life had been a performance. A small, bitter smile touched my lips. He wouldn't see it. His eyes were already glazing over. "I wish..." I found myself thinking, a dangerous, forbidden thought, "I wish I could do it all differently." Then, darkness. A blinding headache. I gasped, sitting bolt upright. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows. Organ music swelled. I was in a wedding dress. White. Suffocating. My wedding day. To Ethan. Twenty-five years ago. No. It couldn't be. Panic seized me. I looked around. The church was packed. My father, Mr. Hayes, looked stern in the front pew. My stepmother, Brenda, next to him, a smug little smile on her face. And Ethan, younger, handsome, stood at the altar, fidgeting. Then, his phone buzzed. Loudly. He answered it, his face paling. "Brittany? What? Are you okay?" He didn't even look at me. He turned to the shocked crowd. "I... I have to go. Brittany needs me." And he ran. Out of the church. Leaving me at the altar. Humiliated. Again. But this time, something was different. No tears. No despair. A wild, giddy sense of freedom surged through me. This was it. My second chance.