Chapter 2
634words
Her phone rang relentlessly, Damian Sterling's name flashing on screen.
She connected through Bluetooth.
"Lydia, are you insane? Don't you dare touch Ella." He roared, his voice thick with protective fury.
"The more you say that," she chuckled, feeling the engine vibrate beneath her, "the more tempted I am."
She hung up and blocked his number.
That was six months ago. Damian, the rising star of New York finance and her nominal fiancé, had ended up in bed with their company's new intern, Ella Vance.
When she caught them, Ella had tearfully declared that the unloved one was the real intruder.
In that moment, in that hotel room reeking of betrayal and perfume, she'd fled. What followed was a blur of blinding headlights, screeching tires, and shattering glass.
She remained unconscious in the hospital for three days.
During those three days, the same nightmare haunted her. In the dream, on her wedding day, she was locked in an abandoned warehouse, violated by faceless men while Damian watched from the shadows, coldly observing like someone admiring a rebellious artwork being destroyed.
The dream felt so real that upon waking, the pink scar on her wrist from the accident seemed like a death mark—a prophecy.
The doctor called it post-traumatic stress.
But she knew it wasn't just a dream. It was her fate.
From that day, she began counting down. Four months. She had only four months left to live.
Logically, if she wanted to live, she should find a way to change Damian's mind.
She wanted to live, but not miserably.
She might as well drag them down to hell with her before the end.
"Congratulations to you both." She raised her champagne glass and clinked it lightly against Damian's.
At the Met's charity dinner, light from crystal chandeliers fell like diamond rain. Ella, in a pitiful white gown, cowered behind Damian. Lydia, in a flamboyant Versace red velvet dress, radiated confidence—every inch the villain crashing the party.
Damian hesitated to drink the wine she offered.
She smiled, switched the glasses, and drained hers in one gulp.
"Drink up, Damian, and we'll call it even. Here's to a hundred years of happy marriage."
Seeing her drink, he relaxed and raised his glass, guilt flashing in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lydia, but you know how it is—the heart wants what it wants."
"It's fine."
She watched him drink the wine.
Like hers, his wine was drugged.
Ella was hateful, but the one who betrayed her trust deserved worse.
Soon, Damian would put on quite a show for New York's elite. The thought sent thrilling satisfaction through her body.
Clinging to consciousness, she staggered from the ballroom. Death visions flooded in—the musty warehouse, heavy breathing, tearing pain... She needed an anchor, something real to prove she was still alive.
She fumbled for her phone, consciousness hazy, scrolling until she found a contact with just a name—Caleb Miller.
The call connected as she handed her keys to the doorman and stumbled toward the elevator.
"My car broke down..." she mumbled, her voice like crushed glass. "I'm... broken too..."
She couldn't remember what else she said, only that she gave the hotel name and room number.
She'd just shocked herself awake with cold bathwater and hadn't dried her hair when the doorbell rang.
Wrapped in a bathrobe, she opened the door.
The man at the door stood six feet tall in a simple black T-shirt, baseball cap pulled low over his face.
Caleb Miller.
When he saw her wet hair and bathrobe, his entire body froze.
"...Lydia, where's your car?"
She didn't answer.
She hooked her arms around his neck, kissed him, and kicked the door shut behind them.
