Prolog
1066 Words
The first thing Rhea felt was the weight of her lashes lifting, heavy as if she were waking from a century of sleep.
Her surroundings were a blur of soft white and pastel pinks. Something floral teased her nose—sweet and familiar. Her fingers twitched against velvet. A voice echoed nearby, chipper and far too energetic for the way her chest felt like it was cracking open.
“Shirley, pass me the highlighter—no, not that one, the champagne glow! This bride is glowing like she’s been kissed by angels.”
Bride?
Rhea blinked again, slower this time.
Wait.
Why was she on a makeup chair?
Why was she in a white robe?
Why was Shirley talking about highlighter?
She tried to sit up, but a gentle palm pressed her shoulder down. “No moving, honey, your eyeliner wings are sharp enough to assassinate someone. Stay still.”
Still dazed, Rhea glanced down.
Her hands.
Perfectly manicured.
Her lap.
A sea of tulle and lace.
Her body was wrapped in the familiar weight of that wedding gown—the custom ivory one with delicate off-shoulder sleeves and hand-sewn pearl embroidery. The one she’d picked months before her wedding, when love still felt like a sure thing.
Her breath caught.
What the hell was happening?
Her eyes darted around the room. Everything was exactly as it had been that morning—her mother’s vintage perfume misting the air, the white roses in the vase by the window, even Avelyn’s loud voice from the hallway yelling something about flower petals being unevenly scattered.
No.
No, no, no.
Her heart thundered in her ears. This wasn’t right.
The last thing she remembered—truly remembered—was Asher. The betrayal. The fight. His hands. The blood. The cabinet. The taste of copper and regret.
She had been hurt. Badly.
She was supposed to be in a hospital bed. Not wearing Dior lipstick and holding a cascading bouquet of blush peonies, white ranunculus, and trailing eucalyptus. The same bouquet from her wedding. She remembered the scent. She remembered how the florist called it “romantic chaos.”
She looked at her reflection in the makeup mirror. And there she was.
The girl before the storm. The bride she used to be.
Younger. Whole. Hopeful? Not yet. But physically unbroken.
It hit her all at once like a slap from the universe.
This was the morning of her wedding.
Somehow, impossibly, the clock had turned back.
She didn’t know whether to cry or laugh—or vomit. The universe hadn’t just listened to her silent plea.
It had rewound the goddamn tape.
Her heart thundered in her chest like a drumroll. This couldn’t be real. But the fabric against her skin, the light perfume on her collarbone, the laughter outside—all of it screamed otherwise.
Then came the knock.
“Ten minutes to walk, babe!” Avelyn’s singsong voice.
And Rhea? Rhea nearly passed out again.
She was supposed to marry him.
Again.
She shot upright, ignoring the squeal from the makeup artist. Her heart pounded harder. “Where’s Asher?” she asked.
“Probably waiting at the altar looking gorgeous and terrified,” Shirley joked.
Rhea stood on trembling legs, clutching the armrest of the chair like it could anchor her in time. Her feet carried her forward, but her soul hung back.
Step by step, like watching a nightmare crawl back into daylight.
She peeked out into the hallway.
There it was. The same white runner. The same arch of cherry blossoms. The same string quartet playing Clair de Lune—Asher’s favorite.
Her fingers clutched the bouquet too tightly. Petals trembled. Just like her.
And then she saw him.
Asher.
Smiling nervously by the altar, in that tailored navy suit with a boutonnière that matched her bouquet. The man she had once loved so completely. The man who destroyed her.
Her stomach twisted. Her knees went weak.
And yet, no one around her knew. They saw a blushing bride, not a time traveler running on emotional caffeine and trauma-induced déjà vu.
She wanted to scream. Shake everyone. Demand an explanation.
But what could she say?
Hey, quick question: is this a dream or divine intervention? Also, that man up there? He’s going to cheat, lie, and throw me into furniture.
Instead, she took one step closer.
One step toward the altar.
One step toward everything she had once believed was love.
And every part of her soul screamed: Don’t do it.
She paused mid-aisle.
No one noticed yet.
Her breath hitched.
She looked at Asher again, and for a moment, the room fell away. Behind him, she could almost see flashes—Lucian’s eyes watching her like she was something sacred. Lucian’s voice, the one that never tried to fix her pain but made space for it.
“Then let’s not want too hard... let’s just be.”
She blinked rapidly.
Be brave, Rhea. Be something.
And then—like lightning—an idea.
A bad, ridiculous, desperate idea.
But it was all she had.
She stumbled once—then more dramatically.
Gasped.
And dropped her bouquet like it had personally offended her.
Gasps rippled across the hall.
The music stopped.
And Rhea did the most theatrical swoon this side of a telenovela. She flung herself backward in a slow, calculated collapse, clutching her stomach as if the spirit of Shakespeare himself had possessed her.
Aunties screamed.
Avelyn nearly tripped over her heels.
“RHEA?!”
“Oh my God, she fainted!”
“Call someone!”
“Get the medic! Is she breathing?!”
Rhea kept one eye half-closed, fighting the urge to peek and ruin her performance. Her palms were sweating. Her heart galloped like it had just won the Kentucky Derby.
Asher rushed toward her, panic written all over his face.
Too late, buddy.
Too late.
A paramedic from the hotel staff appeared with water. Someone fanned her with a wedding program.
She blinked up at the chandelier dramatically. “Where… am I?” she whispered, milking it.
The chaos around her grew.
And inside, Rhea smiled.
Because if the universe had given her a second chance—she wasn’t going to waste it saying I do to the wrong man again.
She was done being quiet. Done being polite.
This time, Rhea was going to burn the script.
- Writer
