Reborn in Crimson

The bitter, metallic taste of copper sat heavy on Vivian’s tongue, thick and suffocating. She lay completely paralyzed on the cold leather couch in the center of her rain-slicked penthouse living room, unable to twitch so much as a finger. Above her stood Julian Thorne, her husband of three years. He was casually swirling the remaining droplets of a vintage Cabernet inside an empty crystal glass, looking down at her with the cool, detached air of a man watching an insect drown in a cup of water. Beside him stood her half-sister, Chloe, draped in a sheer silk gown and wearing the heirloom diamond necklace that had belonged to Vivian’s late mother. "Why...?" Vivian managed to choke out, the word barely a rasping whisper. Blood welled at the corner of her lips, trickling down her chin. "Julian... why?" "Because you are in the way, my dear sister," Chloe purred, stepping forward to rest her chin comfortably on Julian’s shoulder. She ran a manicured fingernail along the sharp edge of the diamond pendant resting on her collarbone. "Father’s will left sixty percent of Vance Enterprises directly to you. Did you really think Julian and I were going to sit back and watch you play the noble corporate president while we lived on whatever scraps you decided to throw at us?" Julian didn't even have the decency to look guilty. He set the crystal glass down on the marble coffee table with a soft, final clink. "You were always far too naive, Vivian. You actually believed I loved you. You believed every sweet lie, every promise I made during our engagement, every fake smile. Did you really think your precious little brother, Leo, just happened to get caught with forged company documents last month?" Vivian’s breath hitched violently. Her chest felt as though a heavy iron safe had been dropped onto her ribs. Leo... "I framed him myself," Julian admitted smoothly, leaning down so his face was only inches from hers. His eyes, once so warm and comforting, were as cold as polished obsidian. "I planted those offshore transfer files on his laptop. I tipped off the federal auditors. Right now, your innocent, foolish little brother is sitting in a maximum-security holding cell, crying for his big sister. He’ll be rotting in prison for the next fifteen years while Chloe and I take control of every single asset attached to the Vance name." A memory flashed behind Vivian's burning eyes—the sight of her gentle, eighteen-year-old brother being led away in handcuffs, screaming that he was innocent, begging her to help him while she had naively trusted Julian to handle the legal defense. Julian hadn't defended him; he had sealed his fate. "Once your heart stops—which should be in about three minutes, thanks to the digitalis extract Chloe mixed into your wine—your death will be ruled a sudden heart failure caused by the stress of Leo’s trial," Julian continued, straightening his tailored suit jacket. "And as your grieving, heartbroken husband, every share, every account, and every property passes directly to me." "Rest in peace, Vivian," Chloe giggled softly, pressing a kiss to Julian’s cheek. "You kept the seat warm for me, but I'll take it from here." Rage surged through Vivian’s dying veins, a torrent of white-hot fire, but her body was a locked cage. Her heart stuttered violently in her chest, skipping beats, slowing down to an agonizingly sluggish crawl. Black spots bloomed across her vision, expanding until the room dissolved into absolute dark. She wanted to scream, to rip their throats out with her bare hands, but the poison claimed her final breath. If there is a God... if there is a next life... she swore into the endless void, her soul screaming in agonizing fury. I will pull you both down into the deepest pit of hell. I will make you pay in blood. "Miss Vivian! Please, wake up! You’re going to be terribly late!" Vivian gasped, her eyes flying open as air smashed back into her lungs with the force of a freight train. She bolted upright, clutching frantically at her throat, expecting the burning agony of poison, the metallic tang of blood, the cold leather couch. But instead of cold leather, her hands met soft, high-thread-count silk sheets. Instead of the dim, rain-soaked penthouse, blinding morning sunlight poured through massive floor-to-ceiling French doors, illuminating a sprawling, opulent bedroom lined with plush cream carpets and custom mahogany wardrobes. She wasn't dead. She wasn't in her penthouse. Standing beside the canopy bed was a white-haired man dressed in an immaculate black suit, holding a silver tray with a steaming porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea. "Uncle... Thomas?" Vivian’s voice trembled, raw and fractured. She stared at the old man in disbelief. Uncle Thomas—the loyal head butler who had served her mother for decades. The same Uncle Thomas who had been falsely accused of theft and fired by her stepmother two years into Vivian's marriage, ending up destitute on the streets. But here he stood, looking healthy, robust, and at least ten years younger, his face filled with warm, paternal concern. "Are you feeling alright, Miss Vivian?" Thomas asked, placing the tray on the mahogany nightstand. "You were tossing and turning as if you were having a dreadful nightmare. I brought your favorite tea. The stylists from the boutique are already waiting downstairs, and Madam Victoria is beginning to lose her patience. You know how your stepmother gets when the schedule slips." Vivian slowly brought her hands up to her face. Her skin was soft, smooth, completely unblemished, devoid of the pale, hollow look and IV needle scars that had defined her final bedridden months. She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the soft carpet, and rushed toward the full-length vanity mirror in the corner of the room. The woman staring back at her in the glass wasn't a broken, dying victim. She was twenty-two years old, her skin glowing with youth, her long dark hair falling in silky waves over her shoulders. Frantically, her fingers swept across the nightstand, snatching up her gold smartphone. She tapped the screen awake. Wednesday, August 11, 2021. Her breath caught in her chest. Five years. She had been sent back five full years into the past. Today was August 11, 2021. Today was the exact night of her grand engagement party to Julian Thorne—the night she had officially announced their union to the business world, handed Julian his first executive seat at Vance Enterprises, and inadvertently handed him the rope he would eventually use to hang her family. "Miss Vivian?" Thomas asked softly, stepping closer with a look of worry. "Is something wrong? Should I fetch the doctor?" Vivian closed her eyes, taking a long, slow, deep breath. The suffocating terror and panic that had gripped her moments ago slowly evaporated, replaced by a cold, crystalline stillness. The universe had handed her an impossible gift. A second chance. When she opened her eyes again, the innocence that had once defined her was gone. In its place was a sharp, lethal radiance. "Nothing is wrong, Thomas," Vivian said, her tone smooth, measured, and dangerously calm. "In fact, everything is finally right." She walked toward the large walk-in closet where three high-end designer gowns hung on satin padded hangers—including a pure, virginal white silk dress that her stepmother, Victoria, had handpicked for her to wear tonight to project an image of soft, submissive innocence. Vivian reached out and brushed her fingers against the white silk, a cold, bitter smile playing on her lips. In her past life, she had played the sweet, obedient daughter and the trusting fiancée, and it had gotten her murdered, her brother imprisoned, and her family's empire stolen. "Thomas," Vivian turned back to the butler, her gaze locking onto his with absolute authority. "Yes, Miss Vivian?" "Call the stylists upstairs immediately. Tell them to take this white dress back to the boutique." Thomas blinked, surprised. "Take it back? But Madam Victoria spent weeks selecting that gown specifically for your engagement announcement..." "Madam Victoria's taste no longer dictates my life," Vivian interrupted smoothly, her voice carrying a weight that made the old butler freeze in his tracks. "Tell the stylists I want the deep crimson velvet dress from the autumn runway collection. The one with the structured shoulders and the high slit." Thomas stared at her for a second, sensing the sudden, powerful shift in her aura. Gone was the timid girl who yielded to her stepmother's every whim. Standing before him was a queen preparing for battle. A slow, respectful smile touched the butler's lips. "Right away, Miss Vivian. And what about the jewelry?" Vivian looked down at her bare wrist, remembering the diamond necklace Chloe had stolen from her dying body. "Tell them to bring out my mother's emerald suite," Vivian commanded softly, her eyes flashing with cold, dangerous resolve. "Tonight, we aren't celebrating an engagement, Thomas. Tonight, we are opening a war."