Reborn My Husbands Obsession

The sensation of falling was not like flying. It was heavy. Violent.

Wind screamed against her eardrums, tearing at her hair, but it couldn't drown out the sound of the fire roaring above them. The heat from the burning ducal manor still clung to her skin, a phantom scorch mark.

Andria looked down at her hand. She was gripping Blossom's wrist. Blossom's eyes were wide, reflecting the flames, but there was no fear in them anymore. Only a twisted sort of triumph.

Above them, on the crumbling balcony, Duke Cato Sears turned his back. He held Bianca in his arms, shielding her face from the smoke, walking away from the edge. Walking away from them.

Andria laughed. The sound was ripped from her throat by the wind, a jagged, ugly thing.

Then came the impact.

Darkness didn't fade in. It slammed shut like a heavy iron door.

Andria sat up.

Her lungs heaved, sucking in air that tasted of lavender and air conditioning, not smoke and burning flesh.

Her hands flew to her throat. Smooth skin. No blood. No crushed vertebrae.

She scrambled backward, her spine hitting the padded headboard with a dull thud. The pain was sharp, grounding. Real.

She looked around. Sunlight filtered through the cream-colored curtains. The silk sheets beneath her sweating palms were cool and pristine. This wasn't the cold, damp dungeon of the Sears estate. This was her bedroom. Her old bedroom in the Dawson manor.

She grabbed the iPhone from the nightstand. Her fingers were shaking so violently she almost dropped it. She tapped the screen. The light blinded her for a second.

June 14, 20xx.

The air left her lungs in a rush.

Three days. She was back three days before the engagement ball. Three days before her life was sold to a man who would eventually watch her die without blinking.

A laugh bubbled up in her chest, bordering on hysteria. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Tears pricked her eyes-not of sadness, but of sheer, overwhelming relief mixed with a hatred so potent it tasted like bile.

She threw off the covers and ran to the bathroom. She turned the faucet on full blast and splashed freezing water onto her face. Once. Twice.

She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink until her knuckles turned bone-white. She stared at the girl in the mirror. She looked young. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide and haunted. But the weakness that had defined Andria Dawson for twenty years was gone.

In its place was something cold. Something sharp.

Knock. Knock.

The sound was soft, tentative.

"Andria? Are you awake?"

Andria's stomach lurched. She knew that voice. It was sweet, like syrup masking the taste of poison.

Blossom.

Andria closed her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. She forced her heart rate to slow down. She loosened her grip on the sink. When she opened her eyes again, the sharpness was gone, buried under a layer of practiced fear.

She walked to the door and opened it.