Hannah Cooper snapped her eyes open, her breath hitching in her throat. White walls, the faint scent of antiseptic, the rhythmic beep of a monitor—a hospital ward?

Am I dead? She instinctively clutched her chest, searching for the wound. The memory was agonizingly sharp: the cold bite of the steel, the searing pain, and the face of her husband, Charles Sawyer. The man the world called "the perfect gentleman" had looked down at her with a chilling, ruthless smile as he twisted the blade into her heart.

"I’ve never loved you, Hannah," his voice echoed in her mind, dripping with venom. "Sarah is fire in bed; you’re just a cold, stiff corpse. Do me a favor and die so I can finally be with her. I’ll even be grateful."

Ten years of devotion. Ten years of building his empire. And he had ended it all with a laugh, stealing her life and her family’s legacy as an "engagement gift" for his mistress.

Hannah’s heart throbbed, but not from a wound. She stumbled to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. She froze. The woman looking back wasn't the haggard, broken wife of thirty-two. This woman was radiant, her skin flawless, her eyes bright with youth.

I look... twenty-two?

She snatched her phone from the nightstand. The screen glowed: May 2022.

It was impossible. She ran into the hallway, nearly colliding with a nurse. "What is the date? What year is it?" she demanded, her voice trembling.

The staff looked at her with pitying eyes. "The concussion is fading, Miss Cooper. You’ll be discharged tomorrow."

As they left, her best friend, Susan Phillips, rushed in, tears of relief in her eyes. "Oh, thank God! You’re awake! Your parents just left to get some rest—they’ve been here for two days straight."

Hannah didn't hear her. She was vibrating with a singular, terrifying realization: She was back. God—or the universe—had given her a second chance. And this time, the "well-bred" Hannah Cooper was staying in her grave.

"Miss Cooper," a man in a dark suit interrupted. "My master will be here tomorrow to settle the matter. Please make time for him."

"Who is your master?" Hannah asked, her voice steadying.

"The man who hit your car," Susan whispered in her ear. "Oscar Wells."

Hannah’s eyes sharpened. Oscar Wells. The third son of the most powerful family in Northfield. A notorious playboy, a man of legendary debauchery, and the only man Charles Sawyer had ever been afraid of. In her past life, she had despised him. Now, he was a variable she intended to use.

But first, she had to prove this wasn't a fever dream.

As soon as Susan fell asleep on the nearby cot, Hannah picked up the phone. She dialed a number she hadn't called in a decade—a discreet private detective agency.

"I’ll pay thirty thousand," Hannah said into the receiver, her voice cold as ice. "I need photos of two people entering a suite at the Royal Apartments. I'll send you the names and the address."

If her memory was correct, Charles had been keeping Sandra Stein in that apartment long before their wedding.

The confirmation came at midnight. Her email pinged. She opened the attachment and felt a dark, hollow satisfaction. There they were: Charles and Sandra, locked in a passionate embrace outside the apartment door.

The timeline was identical. The betrayal was already in motion.

The next morning, the door to her ward opened, and Oscar Wells walked in.

He was devastatingly handsome, standing over six feet tall with the kind of effortless grace that only old money could buy. He looked at her with an arrogant, mocking tilt to his lips.

"Are you falling for me, Miss Cooper?" Oscar asked, his voice a magnetic, low-timbered drawl. "You’ve been staring for quite a while."

"Yes," Hannah said plainly.

Susan nearly fell out of her chair. "Hannah! Are you out of your mind? He’s a jerk! He’s a playboy! You’re engaged to Charles!"

Hannah ignored her, keeping her gaze locked on Oscar. She remembered a phone call from her previous life—a drunken prank she’d dismissed on the eve of her wedding. A voice asking: "Will you go with me if I take you away from the altar tomorrow?"

She looked at him now, seeing the man behind the reputation. "I’m getting married on the 18th of next month," Hannah said, her voice echoing in the quiet room. "Do you have the balls to come and take me away?"

The room went silent. Oscar’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a black VIP card, and slid it onto the table between them with two slender fingers. "Get a brain scan, Miss Cooper. I’ll pay."

Hannah didn't hesitate. She picked up the card—a symbol of his limitless wealth—and tucked it into her pocket.

"I’ll take this as the engagement gift," she said coolly. "If you show up at the wedding, I’m yours."

She turned and walked out, leaving a stunned Susan and a very intrigued Oscar Wells in her wake.

As she got into her car, Susan was still hysterical. "How could you say that? Charles is the perfect man! Everyone is jealous of you! Why would you cheat on him with a man like Oscar?"

Hannah gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. A cold, vengeful smile touched her lips.

"Cheat?" Hannah whispered, her eyes dark with a decade’s worth of hate. "To me, Charles Sawyer isn't a man. He’s an animal waiting for the slaughter."