Wife Reclaims Her Life

I woke with a blade at my throat.

Not a real blade—not this time. But the phantom sensation burned across my neck as if the executioner's sword had just fallen, as if Philip's cold voice still echoed in my ears: "The Ward family dies with you."

I gasped, hands flying to my throat, fingers scrabbling against unmarred skin. My heart hammered against my ribs. The silk sheets beneath me were damp with sweat, but I was alive. Whole. Breathing.

I forced my eyes open. Pale morning light filtered through curtains I recognized—heavy brocade in deep burgundy, the ones Philip's steward had selected without consulting me. The ceiling above showed familiar water stains in the corner, the ones the household staff always promised to repair but never did because Philip never noticed and I no longer mattered enough to complain.

This room. This bed. This life.

I sat up slowly, my body trembling not from fear but from the terrible, impossible realization settling into my bones. I knew this morning. I knew this date. It was the day I discovered the estate on the East Side, the day I learned about Milana Bradley, the day I made the first mistake that would lead to the destruction of everything I loved.

The day I became the jealous, hysterical wife Philip needed me to be.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood on shaking limbs. The floor felt solid beneath my feet—too solid for a dream, too real for a dying woman's final fantasy. I walked to the mirror, each step deliberate, and stared at my reflection.

The face looking back at me was younger. No lines of grief carved around my mouth. No hollow shadows beneath my eyes from watching my family burn. My skin still held the flush of health, not the gray pallor of a woman awaiting execution in a cold cell.

I raised one hand and touched my cheek, watching my reflection do the same. The action felt surreal, as if I were watching someone else's life through a window.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp and familiar.

"My lady?" Joelle's voice carried the practiced gentleness she always used in the mornings, as if afraid to startle me. "I've brought your washing water."

Joelle. My loyal maid. In my past life, she had tried to warn me about Philip's plans, tried to convince me to flee before it was too late. I had refused, too proud, too convinced that my position as his wife meant something. I'd watched soldiers drag her away, watched them silence her because she knew too much, because she had remained loyal to the wrong mistress.

"Enter," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

The door opened and Joelle stepped inside, carrying a porcelain basin. She was younger too, her face unlined by the horror that would come. She moved with the easy efficiency of someone who believed the world made sense, who trusted that doing her