It was raining.
Softly at first, then violently like even the sky was mourning her.
The coffin was black, just like the hearts of those who stood above it. Her stepmother was crying. Crocodile tears. Her sister clutched her fiancé's arm her own fiancé.
He didn't even flinch.
He just stood there, in a black suit, cold eyes focused on the hole where her body would be dumped.
"Goodbye, Arielle," he whispered, lips brushing the rim of the wine glass he poisoned.
The last thing she remembered was that kiss. Bittersweet. Poisoned.
Her soul drifted. Empty. Silent.
Until—
Thump.
Her eyes flew open.
She gasped air flooding her lungs like she'd been drowning for years. The scent of perfume, the silky sheets, the sound of heels clicking in the hallway—
She sat up, heart racing.
She was in her old bedroom.
A calendar on the wall blinked back at her: March 15th. Two years before her death.
Her engagement hadn't happened yet.
The betrayal hadn't happened yet.
Her revenge had just begun
The mirror didn't lie.
Her reflection stared back alive, whole, untouched.
Arielle slowly raised her fingers, grazing her cheeks, lips, the hollow of her neck. The skin was warm. Her heart was beating. She was really here. Two years before they killed her.
The woman in the mirror looked like her… but wasn't her anymore.
No, that Arielle was dead buried six feet under in a coffin her father didn't even pay for. This Arielle?
She was reborn with fire in her bones and a knife in her smile.
Her eyes narrowed. "I came back for a reason."
The knock at the door was sharp, polite, and fake.
"Arielle, dear, are you awake?" A soft voice called through. "Breakfast is ready. Don't make us wait."
It was her stepmother, Viola. The same woman who had smiled sweetly while drugging her into submission. The same woman who pretended to raise her like a daughter while handing her over to the wolves.
You drugged me on my engagement night, Arielle thought darkly. Let's see if you can keep pretending now.
She walked to the door, not bothering to fix her hair. Let them see the real her. The messy, dangerous her.
Viola blinked when she opened the door.
"Oh my, you look pale. Did you have another bad dream?"
Arielle tilted her head slightly. "I dreamt I died."
The smile on Viola's lips froze for a second—just a second—but it was enough.
"Don't be silly, sweetheart." Viola recovered quickly, her voice laced with fake concern. "You've been under a lot of stress lately. That charity gala is coming up, and—"
"I'm not going."
Viola blinked. "What?"
"I'm not going," Arielle repeated, walking past her with slow, elegant steps. "That place is full of hypocrites and liars. Why would I waste my time?"
The woman's smile cracked again.
Arielle descended the grand staircase, not stopping for anyone. Her younger sister, Camille, was already seated at the dining table, dressed in soft pink, her curls bouncing around her shoulders like she was in a shampoo commercial.
Camille looked up and froze.
"Sister, what happened to your face?" she asked with a mock-concerned pout. "You look so... intense."
Arielle didn't even blink. "It's called waking up."
She poured herself a glass of orange juice, took a sip, and locked eyes with Camille over the rim.
"You might want to do it too, Camille. Or you'll keep dreaming that you're the prettiest one here."
Camille's hand clenched around her spoon.
Arielle smiled.
It was too easy.
They think I'm still weak. They think I'm the same girl who cried when Father yelled, who begged when her fiancé cheated, who blamed herself when they all turned their backs.
That girl was dead.
Now, it was her turn to make them suffer.
---
Three Days Later
The rumors were already spreading in high society.
Arielle Monroe, once the docile eldest daughter of the Monroe family, had changed.
She had withdrawn from her engagements, ignored family obligations, and even fired her personal stylist. The media tried to spin it as "emotional trauma," but those who saw her said the same thing:
"She's different. Cold. Calm. Dangerous."
Lucien Blackwood read the article in silence, the edge of his thumb brushing along the newspaper line where her name was printed.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Arielle Monroe.
They'd met once. A gala. She had been polite, proper, eyes downcast like a trained doll.
But now… now she was rejecting invitations, snapping at nobles, and apparently refusing to marry the man she was arranged to be with.... Ethan Lancaster.
Lucien knew Ethan well. The man was a coward in a nice suit. Good at smiling. Better at lying.
If Arielle had escaped that engagement, maybe she wasn't as useless as everyone thought.
He folded the newspaper.
"Call her," he said to his assistant.
"Sir?"
"Set up a meeting. I want to speak to her."
"But... you never attend social meetings, and the Monroes—"
"I'm not interested in the Monroes," Lucien interrupted coolly. "I'm interested in her."
---
That Evening
Arielle stood in front of her father's office door.
She had learned to pick her battles. And this one? This one needed to happen now.
When she walked in, her father barely looked up from his desk.
"What is it now?" he asked, tone irritated. "Another tantrum?"
"No. Just a decision."
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
"I'm calling off the engagement."
Her father looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. "You can't do that. Ethan's family—"
"Doesn't matter," she said. "He cheated. And I saw it."
That part wasn't a lie. She had seen it two years from now. In her previous life.
He had kissed Camille the night before the wedding.
Her father stood, slamming his palm against the desk. "You're being irrational! Do you want to destroy everything your mother built? This family is already—"
"Falling apart?" Arielle tilted her head. "It's been falling for years. You were just too blind to notice."
His mouth opened to shout.
But she threw something on the desk before he could an envelope.
"What's this?"
"A contract."
He opened it, confused then angry.
"A marriage agreement? With Lucien Blackwood? Are you insane?! That man is dangerous he's your family's enemy!"
"No," Arielle corrected, her voice ice. "He's my weapon."
Then she smiled. Slowly. Coldly.
"If I'm going to burn this family to the ground... I'll need the devil on my side."