Chapter 1
I had a satisfying marriage. At least, that was what I had been made to believe.
My husband had been sleeping with my best friend for three years. On our anniversary, he handed me divorce papers instead of a gift.
My best friend wore the diamond necklace I had been begging him for. She touched her belly, smiled, and said the baby was his. My mother-in-law slapped me and told me I should have been grateful they had kept me around as long as they did.
Every friend I had told me I was overreacting, that I should sign quietly and leave with dignity.
I signed.
Then I died—my blood pressure crashing after my mother-in-law shoved me down the steps outside and left me bleeding.
When I opened my eyes again, it was the morning of my wedding anniversary. The divorce papers had not been served yet.
Except that was not where my life truly began to split in two.
The anniversary morning dissolved like smoke, and the next thing I knew, I was lying flat on cool grass with the taste of iron in my mouth and a pounding ache at the back of my head. For a second, I thought I was still dying.
Then a voice crackled through the cell phone clutched in my hand.
“Sweetheart? Where are you? Did your blood sugar drop again? Stay where you are. Dad’s coming.”
I froze.
My father had been dead for years.
My breath caught so hard it hurt. I sat up too fast, dizziness rushing over me in a wave, and stared down at myself.
Pleated skirt. School blazer. Bare knees.
My old senior-year uniform from Crestview Academy.
No.
No way.
Then I heard it—shouting from the alley beside the practice field. A sickening thud. Another. Laughter.
“Get on your knees and beg, freak.”
“Bastard kid thinks he belongs at Crestview.”
The sound struck something buried so deep inside me that I did not even think before I moved. I ran.
There were four boys in the alley, all expensive sneakers and cruel eyes, circling a tall, painfully thin teenager pinned against the brick wall. He was already bruised, his lip split, his uniform shirt half untucked.
But it was his eyes that stopped me cold.
Dark. Sharp. Wild.
Ethan Shaw.
In my first life, he had died before graduation. That was the version everyone believed—an isolated, troubled illegitimate son from a wealthy family, another tragic boy who had slipped through the cracks. Months after his death, I had received an anonymous envelope. Inside was a bank card and a slip of paper with one number written on it.
130924.
I had never known what it meant.
But the card had been in Ethan’s name, and the money on it had been all the savings he had ever had.
All of it left to me.
Back then, I had stood too far away. I had heard the scuffle, seen him on the ground, and run because I was afraid of trouble.
This time, I did not run.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted, charging into the alley.
All four boys turned. One of them looked me up and down and grinned. “Well, look who came to play hero.”
He reached toward me like he was going to touch my arm, maybe my face. Before I could recoil, Ethan moved.
It was like someone had flipped a switch inside him.
He exploded.
He shoved himself off the wall and lunged between us with a ferocity that startled everyone, including me. His voice came out rough and furious.
“Don’t touch her.”
The alley erupted. Punches. Grunts. Shoes scraping concrete. Ethan took two hits, then gave one back, and suddenly it was not a beatdown anymore—it was a fight.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I sucked in a breath and yelled at the top of my lungs, “I’m Claire Bennett! My dad owns Bennett Holdings! If any of you touch me or him again, I swear my father will bury your families in lawsuits before dinner!”
That did it.
Their faces changed instantly. They actually looked at me this time, really looked, and recognition flashed.
“Wait—Claire Bennett?”
“Man, let’s go.”
“Shaw, you got lucky.”
They scattered fast, leaving the alley in a mess of dust, blood, and wounded pride.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then Ethan straightened with visible effort, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and said in a low voice, “You shouldn’t have come.”
I had not planned to cry. I really had not.
But I was back. My father was alive. I was seventeen again. And Ethan Shaw, who had once died alone and still somehow thought to leave me everything he owned, was standing right in front of me, breathing.
My eyes stung.
He frowned at me, almost annoyed. “Are you seriously crying?”
I laughed through it, angry and shaky and relieved all at once. “I just saved you. You could at least pretend to be grateful.”
Ten minutes later, my father came barreling across the lawn, red-faced and out of breath, our driver, Mr. Ruiz, huffing behind him. Dad grabbed my shoulders, scanned me from head to toe, then finally noticed Ethan standing there looking like he had gone twelve rounds with a hurricane.
His eyes narrowed. “Claire, what happened?”
I answered before Ethan could. “Some guys were messing with me. He stepped in.”
Ethan’s head snapped toward me.
In my first life, I had never claimed him. Never protected him. I had let distance finish what cruelty started.
Not this time.
Dad’s expression softened instantly. He turned to Ethan with a seriousness that would have made most board members sit straighter. “Then you’re coming home with us.”
Both Ethan and my father looked surprised, though for very different reasons.
Dad had offered before, years ago, to bring Ethan into our home after his mother died. I had thrown a fit back then. I had said I did not want some strange, gloomy boy attached to us. I had said enough to humiliate him right to his face.
Now I looked Ethan in the eye and said, “You’re not going back there.”
His gaze flickered. Suspicion. Confusion. Something warmer that he hid too fast.
I did not look away.