Chapter 1

My son wanted to marry the daughter of my ex-husband and the woman who destroyed my marriage. I refused to give him a single penny.

I died with my eyes wide open.

I was lying on a gurney, soaked in my own blood, being rushed toward the emergency room — when someone blocked the way.

It was Ethan. My son. He had Vivienne pressed against his chest, one hand shielding her eyes from the sight of me.

"Don't look," he murmured. "It's not good for the baby."

Behind him, Sebastian — my ex-husband — had his arm around Vivienne's mother, Melissa.

"What rotten luck," Sebastian muttered. "Running into someone half-dead."

The doctors were shouting. "Move! You're blocking the stretcher!"

They finally stepped aside. I looked up at Ethan as they wheeled me past. His eyes met mine for exactly one second. I watched something flinch in them — something that looked almost like disgust. Then he turned back to Vivienne and covered her eyes again.

I drew one last breath.

And died.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back.

Back to the day Ethan had brought Vivienne home.

I studied the woman's face. The line of her brow, the slight upturn of her eyes, the exact curve of her smile — all of it a mirror image of Melissa.

Then I looked at Ethan. He was watching me from the corner of his eye, shifting his weight, doing a poor job of hiding his guilt.

"Mum," he said, easing closer with that practiced, winning smile. "This is Vivienne. I've mentioned her to you before. We're — we're really in love."

He drew her close and looked at her the way people look at things they can't believe they're lucky enough to have.

Vivienne smiled at me. Polite. Rehearsed. "It's lovely to meet you, Ms. Whitmore." Her voice was soft, her expression open and warm — but her eyes were busy reading every flicker of my face.

I watched her, and felt my stomach turn.

Twenty years.

Twenty years ago, Sebastian had brought Melissa into our home. That woman had stood in my living room, chin up, and told me to get out. Sebastian had said nothing. He looked at me the way you look at something that's gotten in the way — an inconvenience. A problem to be removed.

I walked out of that house with three hundred pounds in my pocket and a five-year-old boy crying against my leg.

That boy had looked up at me with his tear-streaked face and said, Mum, you still have me. I'll look after you when I'm grown. I'll make lots of money and give you a good life. Don't cry, Mum.

He was five years old. He stopped playing with toys and started helping me carry the grocery bags.

We'd had twenty years together. Twenty years in which I built Whitmore Enterprises from nothing — from a market stall, to a rented shopfront, to a company that put him through the best schools and handed him a Managing Director's title while his friends were still paying their dues.

And now he stood in my living room with Melissa's daughter, asking me to bless their love.

"Mum?" Ethan leaned closer. "You look tired. Maybe I should take Vivienne to a hotel for tonight, and we can—"

"That won't be necessary," I said. "Sit down."

The tension left his shoulders in a rush.

He settled Vivienne onto the sofa, brought her a glass of water, and turned back to me with his warmest, most careful smile.

"Mum, she's wonderful, really. She's kind, she's thoughtful, she treats me well—"

Vivienne reached over and laid her hand on his arm. "Ms. Whitmore, I know how much you sacrificed raising Ethan on your own. I have the deepest admiration for you. I want to take care of him — and I want to be good to you, too."

She said it like she meant it. Brows slightly furrowed, eyes soft, voice earnest. Exactly the performance a well-coached daughter-in-law would give.

But I caught the flash of satisfaction in her eyes when she thought I wasn't looking.

And I saw the way Ethan looked at her — that careful, anxious deference, terrified of doing something wrong. It was Sebastian's expression. Sebastian, twenty years ago, tiptoeing around Melissa.

Something in my chest went hollow.

Twenty years. I'd given this boy everything I had. And he'd been seeing this woman behind my back — knowing who she was. Knowing.

"Do you know who her mother is?" I asked. My voice came out quiet. Even.

Ethan's colour changed. His lips moved without sound.

"Mum, Vivienne is a good person—"

"The woman who stood in my doorway," I said, "and told me to get out. The woman who called it love and told me my marriage had been dead long before she arrived. That woman — her daughter — and you want me to call her family."

Vivienne sat up straight.

"Ms. Whitmore, I'd appreciate it if you chose your words more carefully." Her voice had cooled. "I'm aware of the history between you and my parents. I know Sebastian was Ethan's father and had a previous relationship with you. I know all of it."

I looked at her.

"Then you know exactly why you shouldn't be here."

She met my eyes without flinching. "That's the past. That's your generation's conflict. It has nothing to do with Ethan and me. We're in love. We shouldn't have to pay for something that happened before we were old enough to choose."

The past.

In my last life, those words had snapped something inside me. I'd lunged at her. Struck her across the face. She'd walked out, and Ethan had knelt before me and knocked his forehead against the floor three times — Mum, I love her. Consider this me choosing her. Consider me a bad son. — and then run after her.

I'd spent the next months hurting myself trying to pull him back. Swallowing pills. Dragging a blade across my wrist. He'd come home each time, weeping, swearing he'd never see her again. I'd believed him.

Until I died on a stretcher and he didn't pick up the phone.