Reborn Heiress Marries My Ex-Fiancé's Brother

Annette Adams gasped, her lungs seizing as if they were still filled with smoke. Her hands flew to her throat, clawing at skin that should have been charred, expecting the searing heat of a bullet, the crushing weight of a collapsing beam. But there was no fire. There was no blood.

There was only the scent of expensive lilies and the cool, conditioned air of the Bolton Manor guest wing.

Her chest heaved, a frantic, ragged rhythm that echoed in the silent room. She scrambled backward, her heels catching on the plush Persian rug, until her back hit the vanity table. The mirror rattled. Her eyes, wide and terrified, locked onto the reflection staring back at her.

Smooth skin. No scars. No soot. Her hair was styled in perfect, glossy waves, not singed at the ends.

She looked down at her hands. They were trembling, but they were whole. The diamond engagement ring on her left hand caught the light-a mocking sparkle that made her stomach lurch.

She grabbed the calendar sitting on the vanity. October 14th.

The date was printed in elegant black font, but to Annette, it looked like a tombstone. It was the night of the engagement gala. The night her life had originally begun its descent into hell.

The memories hit her like a physical blow-the betrayal, the public humiliation, the years of misery that followed, and finally, the coup, the fire, the darkness.

She wasn't dead. She was back.

A wave of nausea rolled through her gut. She gripped the edge of the mahogany table, her knuckles turning white, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. The panic began to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that settled in the center of her chest like a stone.

She turned her head. Hanging on the back of the door was the dress-the emerald green silk gown she had worn that night. The night she was supposed to be the happiest woman in D.C.

Annette stood up. Her legs felt heavy, but steady. She walked to the dress, running a finger down the cool fabric. Last time, she had put this on with stars in her eyes, believing Hank Bolton was her soulmate. Last time, she had run down the hall to show him, only to find him…

She closed her eyes. The script was playing out in her head. Right now, Hank wasn't waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He was in the Blue Room. With Elena.

Annette opened her eyes. The fear was gone. In its place was a simmering, poisonous rage that felt almost comforting.

She moved to the mirror. She picked up a tube of dark red lipstick. Her hand didn't shake this time. She applied it with precision, watching her lips turn the color of dried blood. It looked like war paint.

"Not this time," she whispered, her voice raspy but firm.

She stepped out into the hallway. The muffled sound of a string quartet drifted up from the