Returned to Right the Wrong

"You should be grateful." Those were the last words I heard before everything went dark. The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and lies. Fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on my relatives' faces as they gathered around my deathbed. To anyone passing by, we must have looked like a Victorian picture of a family stricken with sorrow: devoted relatives mourning their dying daughter and sister. But I knew the truth. "The insurance money will finally pay for Sophia's medical school." A whisper crept from my mother's mouth to my father's ear. She thought I couldn't hear her, but the morphine hadn't dulled my senses enough yet. "At least Emma's death will serve some purpose." My chest tightened. I couldn't tell if it was the poison in my veins or the despair that had settled into my bones like something permanent—a verdict passed on a crime I never committed. I wanted to scream. To yell that I knew what they had done. I had noticed Sophia slipping something into my coffee three days ago. Soon after, I felt my body shutting down organ by organ as the poison did its work. But I couldn't speak anymore. Every word got stuck somewhere between thought and mouth. I could barely breathe. Sophia leaned in close, her perfectly made-up face hovering over mine. To anyone watching, it looked like a tender farewell. For just a moment, something flickered in her eyes. Something that might have been hesitation, or guilt, or the ghost of the sister she could have been. Then it was gone. "Thanks for the life insurance, little sister. Ryan and I are going to have the most wonderful honeymoon with your money." She smiled, sweet as sugar. "I know how much you wanted to travel. Don't worry—we'll take thousands of photos." Ryan. My ex-boyfriend. The man I had loved since college, who left me for my sister the moment she showed the tiniest sliver of interest in him. He stood at the foot of my bed now, something restless in his face—not guilt, never that—just the low discomfort of a man who doesn't like what he's seeing but won't let himself look away. "At least you're finally being useful," my mother added, patting my hand as if I were a pet. "After all we've done for you, the least you can do is die quietly." Die quietly. That's what I'd done my whole life, hadn't I? Lived quietly while they took and took and took. I dropped out of college to work at the family café when they said they needed help. I gave up my dreams of becoming a writer. I gave up my scholarship. I gave up everything. And when they needed someone to blame for embezzling company funds, someone to marry off to Ethan Cross to smooth over a bad business deal, I let them use me for that too. Three years. Three years as Ethan Cross's wife in name only. Three years living in his mansion, dining alone, sleeping in a bedroom he never once entered. Cold. Distant. A carved statue with a heart of stone. But none of that mattered anymore. My vision blurred. The machines beeped frantically. I heard a nurse rush in. I heard my mother's rehearsed sobs. Then—through all the noise—something else. The door slammed open. Heavy footsteps. Running. "Emma!" That voice. I knew that voice. Through my fading vision I saw him. Ethan Cross, my husband of three years, standing in the doorway. His suit was torn and bloodstained. His hands—God, his hands were covered in blood. Our eyes met for just a second. I saw something in his gaze I had never seen before—something in him already broken past the point of repair. "Emma, hold on. Please hold on. I'm here now. I'm—" But it was too late. The world tilted. Darkness came in like a tide. My last thought was strange: I had never seen Ethan Cross show any emotion before. Not once in three years. Why now? Why at this precise moment? Why was he crying? The machines went flatline. Darkness swallowed me whole. And then— Light. Blinding, sudden light. I gasped, sitting bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs. My hands flew to my chest expecting the hospital gown, the IV lines, the crushing weight in my lungs. Instead: soft cotton. My old college T-shirt. "What—?" I blinked. Slowly the blur resolved into my room. Not the sterile hospital room. Not the guest bedroom at the Cross mansion. My childhood bedroom. My old apartment. The walls were still painted that awful shade of yellow I never got around to repainting. My desk was cluttered with the exact mess I remembered. The small c***k in the corner of the window was still there. With trembling hands, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. March 15, 2021. No. No, that wasn't possible. I had died in March 2024. Killed by my own family, with my cold husband as the last thing I saw. But the date on my phone insisted otherwise. And the face staring back at me from the dark screen was younger. Twenty-five. No stress lines. No shadows from sleepless nights. I staggered to the bathroom and looked at my reflection. Twenty-five. Definitely. My hands gripped the sink so tightly my knuckles turned white. This wasn't possible. People didn't wake up three years in the past. That's not how the world worked. But I remembered everything. The embezzlement scandal hitting tomorrow. The forced marriage to Ethan Cross. Three years of isolation. The poison and the death. All of it. Clear as glass. A sob caught in my throat. I swallowed it. I had spent enough years crying. If this was real—if I'd somehow been given a second chance—I wasn't going to waste it on tears. I looked at my reflection. Really looked. "Tomorrow they will try to frame me for stealing from the company. Tomorrow my father will try to force me into a marriage as compensation. Tomorrow my hell is supposed to begin." My reflection stared back, gaze hard and steady. "But not this time." This time, I would fight.