She Died. He Returned.

Thunder jolted me awake.

My heart hammered against my ribs, cold sweat beading on my forehead. Rain pelted the windows—that same relentless rhythm I'd heard in my final moments. The storm that had witnessed my death.

"No way..." I reached for the bedside lamp with trembling hands.

Warm light flooded my childhood bedroom. The same mirror, the same desk, the same calendar marking March 15, 2022. My eighteenth birthday.

Seven days before everything went wrong.

I was back.

A laugh bubbled up from my throat—sharp, bitter. The memories hit like a freight train, each one crystal clear and suffocating.

Blake's perfect smile, his voice like honey: "River, I love you." All lies. He'd only used me to get to other girls.

That night when I confronted him, his mask had finally slipped. "Did you honestly think someone like me could love someone as pathetic as you?" Each word had been a blade to the heart.

He'd thrown me out into the storm. Left me wandering the streets until that drunk found me. The pain, the shame, the helplessness—and then nothing.

"Blake," I whispered, my nails biting into my palms. "You have no idea what's coming."

By morning, the rain had stopped. I stood before my mirror, studying the plain girl staring back. Mousy brown hair, unremarkable features, the kind of face that disappeared in a crowd. No wonder Blake had been disgusted.

But this time, I wouldn't be that naive girl.

I grabbed scissors from my desk drawer. Dark hair fell in chunks around my feet until a stranger looked back at me—sharper, harder, unrecognizable.

The chest binder I ordered online arrived the next day. It was uncomfortable as hell, but it worked. Baggy clothes completed the transformation. The mirror now showed a scrawny teenage boy.

"River Chen is gone," I told my reflection, practicing a lower register. "Meet River—just another charity case looking for a break."

I'd remembered something from the news. Henry Ashworth, Blake's grandfather, had a soft spot for sob stories. He regularly took in disadvantaged kids, gave them opportunities. And Blake lived right there in the family mansion.

Perfect.

That evening, I stood before the Ashworth estate's imposing gates. The mansion loomed against the darkening sky like something out of a gothic novel. I pressed the intercom button.

"Hi, I'm River," I said when the butler answered, pitching my voice young and desperate. "I need to speak with Mr. Henry. Please—I don't have anywhere else to go."

Henry Ashworth appeared within minutes. Even in his seventies, he carried himself with authority, though his eyes were kind. I'd glimpsed him a few times in my previous life, but we'd never actually met.

"What's the matter, son?" He crouched to my eye level.

I'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Orphaned at birth, aged out of the system, desperate for education but broke—every detail designed to tug at his heartstrings.

"You don't need to worry anymore," Henry said, his hand warm on my shoulder. "The Ashworth family takes care of our own. You'll have everything you need here."

Hook, line, and sinker.

Henry led me into a living room that screamed old money—crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs, furniture that probably cost more than most people's cars. And there, lounging on a leather sofa like he owned the world, was my target.

Blake Ashworth.

Still devastatingly handsome. Golden hair that caught the light just right, those piercing blue eyes that had once made my heart skip. At twenty, he was everything I'd once thought I wanted.

Now he just made me sick.

"Blake, come meet your new brother," Henry called out warmly.

Blake glanced up from his magazine, those blue eyes sweeping over me with barely concealed contempt. His expression shifted to polite interest so smoothly I almost admired the performance.

"Another stray, Grandpa?" he murmured as he approached, his voice too low for Henry to catch. "How generous of you."

The casual cruelty in his tone was exactly what I remembered. In my past life, I'd been too blinded by infatuation to see it.

"River, right?" Blake extended his hand with that practiced smile. "Welcome to the family."

His touch sent a jolt through me—not attraction this time, but pure rage. These hands had once traced my face with fake tenderness. These same hands had shoved me into the storm.

"Thank you," I managed, keeping my voice steady.

Footsteps on marble announced another arrival. I turned to see Quinn, another of Henry's charity projects. Quiet, bookish Quinn who'd always faded into the background.

But when our eyes met, something strange happened. Quinn's face went white, her dark eyes wide with what looked like... recognition?

"This is Quinn," Henry said. "She's been with us for two years now."

Quinn didn't respond immediately, just stared at me like she'd seen a ghost. There was guilt in her expression, and something else I couldn't identify.

"Let me help with your bag," she said suddenly, reaching for my worn backpack.

Her voice was soft, almost protective. It threw me completely off balance. In my previous life, Quinn and I had barely exchanged ten words. Why was she looking at me like we shared some terrible secret?

"Thanks," I said carefully.

Quinn nodded, still studying me with that unnerving intensity. Like she could see straight through my disguise to the vengeance burning underneath.

Whatever. I was inside now. That was all that mattered.

"You must be exhausted," Henry said kindly. "Quinn, show River to the blue guest room. We'll discuss school arrangements tomorrow."

As I followed Quinn toward the grand staircase, I caught Blake's reflection in the hallway mirror. The mask had slipped again, revealing the cold calculation underneath. This was who he really was—who he'd always been.

This time, I'd make sure he felt every ounce of the pain he'd caused me.

But Quinn's reaction suggested this game might be more complicated than I'd planned. No matter. I'd waited too long for this chance to let anything stop me now.