A Healer's Second Chance At Life

My husband told me his true love, Francesca, was dying. As a master healer, I was the only one who could save her. For months, he drained my life force in daily rituals, leaving me a hollow shell of myself.

Then he demanded the ultimate sacrifice: a forbidden ceremony that would transfer my entire life force to her. It was a death sentence.

"It means Francesca lives," he said, his eyes empty of the love he once had for me.

He shattered the wooden bird he carved for our anniversary, forced me to sign divorce papers, and promised to remarry me after I died for his fantasy.

Finally, he tied me to an altar and set it on fire.

As I burned, my four-year-old daughter screamed the truth-that Francesca was faking her illness. But Kane pushed her away, choosing his lie over our lives. He watched me die.

But when I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day he first told me Francesca was sick. This time, the only life I'll be saving is my own.

Chapter 1

My body was a battlefield, each day a new skirmish I was losing. For months, it had been the same. Every morning, the cold, sterile air of the mansion's healing chamber would prickle my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth I once radiated. Kane insisted on these "energy transfers," draining my very essence to fuel his desperate fantasy. I felt like a dry sponge, squeezed relentlessly, my once vibrant aura now a faint flicker. My head throbbed constantly, a dull ache that never truly disappeared.

Today, though, was worse. My vision blurred as I tried to focus on the intricate patterns of the crystal array before me. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, making me gasp. My legs buckled, and I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the altar. The room spun. The familiar metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I knew what this meant. My body was screaming, a silent, desperate plea for rest.

Kane, perched on a plush armchair across the room, looked up from his tablet. His brow furrowed, a flicker of something that almost looked like concern crossing his face.

"Elaina?" His voice, usually a command, held a fraction of softness. "Are you alright? You look pale."

He rose, his tall frame looming over me. He reached out a hand, a gesture I hadn't felt in weeks. For a fleeting second, a foolish, desperate hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, he would see me, truly see me, and call it off. Maybe he would remember the woman he married, not just the healer he owned.

He pulled me upright, his grip firm. His eyes, however, weren't on mine. They were fixed on the glowing crystals, then darted to the timer on the wall. The ritual wasn't finished.

"Francesca needs this, Elaina," he said, his voice hardening, the brief illusion of care dissolving like mist. "Her condition… it's deteriorating rapidly.