Chapter 2 Morning of the wedding

I woke up with a scream tearing through my throat.

I sat bolt upright, my hands clawing at my chest, searching for the water, for the crushing weight of the ocean. My lungs heaved, sucking in air in ragged, desperate gasps.

"No!" I shrieked, flailing. "No, let me go!"

My hand hit something soft. A pillow.

I froze.

I wasn't in the ocean. I wasn't drowning. The air didn't smell like salt and diesel fuel; it smelled of fresh lavender and expensive linen.

I opened my eyes properly.

I was in a bedroom. Sunlight streamed through sheer white curtains, illuminating familiar French provincial furniture. My vanity table. My old armoire. The painting of the water lilies I had bought in Paris when I was twenty-two.

My hands were shaking violently. I held them up. They were dry. There were no wrinkles, no scars from the time I had cut myself cooking for Gavin’s thirty-fifth birthday. My wedding ring—the heavy platinum band I had worn for a decade—was gone.

I scrambled out of bed, my legs tangling in the silk sheets. I hit the floor hard, but I didn't care. I crawled toward the full-length mirror in the corner.

The woman staring back at me wasn't the tired, thirty-two-year-old woman who had died in the Atlantic.

She was twenty-two. Her skin was glowing with youth. Her eyes were bright, unshadowed by ten years of emotional abuse.

"What is happening?" I whispered. My voice sounded higher, younger.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. It was an old model. I pressed the home button.

September 14, 2021.

My blood turned to ice.

September 14th. The day of the wedding.

I dropped the phone. It bounced on the plush carpet.

I scrambled to the bathroom and retched into the toilet. My body was reacting to the phantom poison, the memory of drowning, the sheer psychological terror of time snapping backward. I heaved until there was nothing left, shaking, sweating, clutching the cold porcelain like a lifeline.

I was back.

I didn't know how. I didn't know why. But I was back.

"Isla?"

The bedroom door creaked open.

I froze. I knew that voice.

Chloe walked in. She was wearing a silk bridesmaid robe, holding two glasses of mimosa. She looked younger, too. Her hair was lighter, her face rounder, but the eyes were the same. Predatory.

"Are you okay?" Chloe asked, stepping into the bathroom. She frowned at me huddled on the floor. "Jesus, Isla. You look like hell. Don't tell me you have cold feet? Gavin is waiting. The guests are arriving."

She reached down to touch my shoulder.

I flinched so hard I nearly hit my head on the sink. "Don't touch me."

The command ripped out of me, so harsh and guttural that it almost surprised me. Almost.

Chloe pulled back, blinking. "Whoa. Okay. Bridezilla moment. I was just bringing you a drink to calm the nerves."

She held out the mimosa.

I stared at the orange liquid. Flashbacks hit me like a physical blow—the almond taste of the champagne on the yacht. The smile on her face as she pushed me.

I stood up. I was trembling, but not from fear anymore. From rage.

"I don't want it," I said. I stood up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I walked past her, out of the bathroom, and into the bedroom.

And then I saw it.

Hanging on the closet door was the dress. The custom Vera Wang. The dress I had walked down the aisle in. The dress I had worn when I signed my life away to a man who would murder me.

It looked like a shroud.

"It’s beautiful, isn't it?" Chloe said, following me. "Gavin really outdid himself picking it out."

"Gavin picked it out," I repeated. "Because he wanted me to look modest. Controlled."

"He wanted you to look like a wife," Chloe corrected. She checked her watch. "Come on. Hair and makeup are downstairs. We need to get you ready. You can't keep the future CEO of Vane Corp waiting."

Vane Corp. My family’s company. The company my father had built, which I was about to hand over to Gavin as a wedding gift because I was young, stupid, and in love.

I looked at Chloe. I looked at the dress.

A dark, cold calm settled over me. It was the silence after the storm.

"You're right," I said softly. "I shouldn't keep him waiting."

I walked over to the vanity table. I picked up the heavy sewing scissors I used for loose threads.

"Isla?" Chloe asked, her voice faltering. "What are you doing?"

I walked to the dress.

"I’m making an adjustment," I said.

I drove the scissors into the bodice of the gown. The sound of ripping silk was the most satisfying thing I had ever heard.

"Isla! Stop! Are you crazy?" Chloe screamed, rushing forward.

I whirled on her, pointing the scissors at her throat. She froze, eyes wide.

"I said," I lowered my voice, staring into the eyes of my murderer, "don't touch me."

I turned back to the dress and slashed it again. And again. Ribbons of white silk fell to the floor like dead skin.

I wasn't going to be the victim this time. I wasn't going to be the sacrifice.

I tossed the scissors onto the ruined heap of tulle and lace.

"Go tell Gavin," I said, turning to my terrified stepsister, "that the bride has decided to wear something else. Something... fitting for a funeral."