After My Rebirth, My In Laws Regretted Everything

The cold concrete floor pressed against Marcus Kane's cheek, rough and unforgiving. Blood pooled around his head, warm and sticky, spreading like spilled wine across the warehouse floor. Each breath came harder than the last, a wet, rattling sound that echoed in the cavernous space. "Please..." Marcus whispered, the word barely audible through his broken teeth. "Victoria... why?" His wife stood ten feet away, her arms crossed over her designer dress—the red one he'd bought her last Christmas, maxing out his credit card because she'd said it would make her happy. She looked at him the way someone might look at roadkill. Not with hatred. Worse. With indifference. "Why?" Victoria laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "God, Marcus, you're still so pathetic. Even now." Damien Cross stepped into Marcus's failing vision, his two-thousand-dollar shoes clicking against the concrete. The CEO's face was untroubled, almost bored. He checked his Rolex—the same model Marcus had dreamed of owning someday—and sighed. "This is taking too long," Damien said, pulling out his phone. "I have dinner reservations at eight." "Just finish it," Victoria said, her voice flat. "I want to go home and shower. This place smells like garbage." Marcus tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. The beating had been thorough. Professional. He could feel at least three broken ribs, his left arm bent at an angle that made his stomach turn, and something was very wrong inside his chest. Probably internal bleeding. "The papers," Damien said, crouching down beside Marcus. He held up a stack of documents, the pages blurring in and out of focus. "You signed everything over. Your patents. Your code. Your mother's apartment. All of it. Very cooperative of you." "My... signature..." Marcus coughed, more blood filling his mouth. "Forged..." "Who's going to believe that?" Damien smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "A failed programmer with gambling debts and a suicide note? Everyone knows you've been depressed, Marcus. Your own wife will testify to it." Victoria nodded, examining her manicured nails. "You've been so unstable lately. Talking about conspiracy theories. Paranoid. I've been so worried about you, darling." The word "darling" coming from her lips felt like another knife wound. "Five years..." Marcus breathed, his vision darkening at the edges. "I gave you... everything..." "You gave us nothing," Victoria snapped, her composure cracking for just a moment. "You were nothing. A broke, pathetic nobody my father saddled me with to save the company. Did you really think I could love someone like you? Someone who couldn't even afford to take me to decent restaurants?" "I saved... your family's business..." "With what?" She laughed again. "Your pathetic savings? Your dead mother's apartment? That barely covered three months of operational costs. Damien's investment saved us. You were just a convenient scapegoat who happened to be developing valuable AI technology." Damien stood, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. "Speaking of which, those patents you developed? The machine learning algorithms? They're worth about forty million. Maybe more. Thank you for your contribution to Cross Industries." "That was... mine..." Marcus's voice was fading, darkness creeping in from all sides. "I spent... three years..." "And now it's mine," Damien said simply. "Along with your wife. She's been mine for two years now, in case you were still confused about that." Two years. Marcus's mind reeled. Two years of her affair, right under his nose. Two years of him coming home early to make her favorite meals, rubbing her feet after her "late nights at the office," believing her lies about working on the Ashford company restructure. "The Ashfords..." Marcus gasped. "They knew?" Victoria's expression answered the question before she spoke. "Who do you think introduced me to Damien? Daddy needed a real investor, Marcus. Not a pretend husband playing businessman with his last few thousand dollars." The warehouse door opened, and Marcus heard footsteps. Multiple people. Through his failing vision, he recognized Richard Ashford's expensive shoes. His father-in-law. The man who'd shaken his hand at the wedding, thanking him for "saving our family." "Is it done?" Richard's voice was businesslike, efficient. He could have been asking about a board meeting. "Almost," Damien replied. "Another few minutes." "Make it look good," Richard said. "The suicide note is in his handwriting?" "Close enough," Damien answered. "We had plenty of samples from the patent documents he signed." Catherine Ashford's voice drifted over, sharp and annoyed. "This is taking forever. I have bridge club at nine." His mother-in-law. The woman who'd made him serve guests at family dinners, who'd called him "the help" in front of her friends, who'd thrown his Christmas gift in the trash because it wasn't "up to Ashford standards." "Mom, please," Victoria said, but there was no real emotion in her voice. "Just... let's get this over with." "Where's Derek?" Richard asked. "Your son is passed out drunk in the car," Catherine replied icily. "As usual." Derek. The brother-in-law who'd lost half a million in underground poker games, debts Marcus had paid off by selling his mother's jewelry collection. The same Derek who'd spit in his face and called him a peasant. They were all here. The entire Ashford family, watching him die. "Did you... plan this... from the beginning?" Marcus forced out the words, each one agony. Richard crouched down, his face coming into focus. There was no guilt there. No remorse. Just cold calculation. "Not from the very beginning," Richard said thoughtfully. "Initially, we just needed someone to blame for the company's failures. Someone expendable. You were perfect—no family, no connections, no one who'd ask questions. But then we found out about your little AI project. That changed things." "You used me..." "We used your stupidity," Richard corrected. "You really thought we'd accepted you? That we'd welcomed you into the family? Marcus, you were a tool. Nothing more. And now you've served your purpose." Marcus felt tears mixing with the blood on his face. Five years. Five years of trying to win their approval. Five years of taking their a***e, believing that if he just worked harder, earned more, proved himself worthy, they'd finally see his value. He'd been a fool. "Any last words?" Damien asked, checking his watch again. "We really do need to move this along." Marcus's vision was almost gone now. The darkness was winning. But through the pain, through the betrayal, through the crushing weight of his failure, one thought crystallized in his dying mind. If he could do it all again... If he could go back to the beginning, knowing what he knew now... He would destroy them all. "I... hate you..." Marcus whispered. "All of you... I hope... you rot..." "How dramatic," Victoria said, already turning away. "Goodbye, Marcus. Try not to haunt us or anything tacky like that." The last thing Marcus heard was Damien's footsteps walking away, the click of expensive shoes on concrete. The last thing he felt was the cold floor against his cheek. The last thing he thought was a single, burning wish. *Please... let me do this over...* *Let me have another chance...* *I'll make them pay...* *I'll make them all pay...* The darkness swallowed him whole. --- And then Marcus Kane opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was music. Classical music, the kind that rich people pretended to enjoy. Strings and piano, elegant and refined. The second thing he noticed was that he wasn't in pain. No broken ribs. No shattered arm. No blood filling his lungs. Marcus sat up fast, his heart hammering. He was in a chair. A wooden chair with white cushions and ribbons. Around him, people in formal wear chatted and laughed, champagne glasses catching the light from crystal chandeliers. He knew this place. The Sterling Grand Hotel. Ballroom Three. White and gold decorations, rose centerpieces on every table, a six-tier wedding cake in the corner. His wedding reception. "No," Marcus breathed, his hands shaking as he stared at them. No bruises. No blood. No broken fingers from where Damien's men had stomped on them. Just his hands, young and unmarked, wearing a wedding band that felt like a shackle. "Marcus? Darling, are you alright?" He looked up, and there she was. Victoria Ashford—no, Victoria Kane now. His wife. She stood before him in her wedding dress, the one that had cost thirty thousand dollars, the one her mother had insisted he couldn't possibly understand the importance of. Her dark hair was swept up elegantly, diamonds glittering at her throat—borrowed from her mother, not from him, because he couldn't afford real jewelry. She looked exactly as she had five years ago. Young. Beautiful. Innocent. But Marcus knew better now. "I asked if you're alright," Victoria repeated, and there was already an edge to her voice. That sharp impatience she'd shown throughout their marriage, the tone that said he was inconveniencing her. "You look like you've seen a ghost." Marcus stared at her, his mind racing. This was impossible. He'd been dying. He'd been dead. The warehouse, the blood, the cold concrete—it had been real. He knew it had been real. But here he was. Five years in the past. On his wedding day. "Marcus!" Victoria's voice rose slightly. "People are staring. Pull yourself together." He looked around the ballroom. There was Richard Ashford, his father-in-law, in his expensive tuxedo, talking to business associates with that booming laugh. Catherine Ashford, his mother-in-law, in her designer gown, eyeing Marcus like something unpleasant she'd stepped in. Derek Ashford, his new brother-in-law, already drunk and hanging on some bridesmaid's arm. And there, by the bar, was Damien Cross. Marcus felt ice flood his veins. Damien was here. At his wedding. The man who would murder him five years from now was standing at his wedding reception, chatting with Richard like they were old friends. Because they were old friends, Marcus realized. Damien had been in the picture from the beginning. The affair had started early, maybe even before the wedding. How had he been so blind? "Marcus!" Victoria grabbed his arm, her nails digging in. When she spoke again, her voice was low and threatening. "You're embarrassing me. Smile and act normal, or I swear to God—" "Or what?" The words came out before Marcus could stop them. Victoria blinked, clearly shocked. In their entire relationship—dating and marriage—Marcus had never interrupted her. Never challenged her. Never done anything but try desperately to please her. "Excuse me?" she said, her eyes narrowing. Marcus stood up slowly, his mind still reeling but his body moving on instinct. He was really here. This was really happening. He'd been given a second chance, an impossible, miraculous second chance. And he was not going to waste it. "Nothing," Marcus said, forcing his voice to steady. "I'm fine. Just... overwhelmed." "Well, get un-overwhelmed," Victoria hissed. "Your speech is in five minutes. The one where you thank my family for accepting you into their lives. Remember?" Oh, Marcus remembered. He remembered standing at the microphone, stammering through a prepared speech Richard had written for him. Thanking the Ashfords for their generosity. Promising to work hard to be worthy of their daughter. Practically begging them to like him while they sat there with barely concealed contempt on their faces. He remembered every humiliating word. "Yes," Marcus said quietly. "I remember the speech." "Good." Victoria's expression softened slightly, though there was no real warmth in it. "Just stick to what we practiced. Don't add anything stupid. And for God's sake, don't mention your mother or any of that depressing stuff. Nobody wants to hear about dead relatives at a wedding." His mother. Who'd died of cancer two years before, working three jobs until the very end to put him through college. Who'd left him a small apartment in Queens, the only thing of value she'd ever owned. The apartment Victoria had made him sell six months into their marriage to "invest in the family business." The apartment he'd never gotten back. "Of course," Marcus said, his voice hollow. "Wouldn't want to depress anyone." Victoria gave him a tight smile and patted his cheek—the gesture more condescending than affectionate. "That's my husband. Now come on, photos with the family." She walked away, her dress trailing behind her. Marcus watched her go, this woman he'd loved so desperately, who'd destroyed him so completely. A waiter passed by with champagne. Marcus grabbed a glass and downed it in one gulp. The alcohol burned, but it was good. It made this nightmare feel more real. "Easy there, Marcus." He turned to find Damien Cross standing beside him, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, a knowing smile on his face. Up close, Marcus could see the man who would order his death. The man who would steal his work, his wife, his life. "Big day," Damien continued, raising his own glass. "Marriage. Big commitment. You nervous?" Marcus looked at him—really looked at him. In his first life, he'd thought Damien was just another investor, another business contact of Richard's. He'd shaken the man's hand at company events, made small talk about the weather and stock prices, completely oblivious to the fact that Damien was sleeping with his wife. Now he knew the truth. Now he knew everything. "Should I be?" Marcus asked carefully. Damien's smile widened. "Most grooms are. But then again, you're lucky. Victoria's a catch. Beautiful, intelligent, well-connected. Way out of your league, if I'm being honest." The insult was delivered smoothly, wrapped in compliments. This was how Damien operated, Marcus remembered. Always undermining, always making sure you knew your place. "I suppose I am lucky," Marcus said, his voice neutral. "You are," Damien agreed. "The Ashfords are good people. Generous people. Taking you in like this, giving you a place in their family business. Not many families would do that for someone from your... background." *Someone from your background.* Code for poor. For not one of them. For beneath their social class. "Very generous," Marcus echoed, his jaw tight. "Just make sure you don't forget that," Damien said, his tone friendly but his eyes cold. "Victoria deserves someone who appreciates what she's giving up to be with him." *Giving up.* As if marrying him was some great sacrifice. Marcus felt rage building in his chest, hot and fierce. But he forced it down, forced himself to smile. He had to play this smart. He couldn't let them know he knew. Not yet. Not until he was ready. "I appreciate it every day," Marcus said. "Good man." Damien clapped him on the shoulder—that same casual dominance, asserting superiority through physical contact. "Now, I believe you have a speech to give." As if on cue, Richard Ashford's voice boomed across the ballroom. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention!" His father-in-law stood at the microphone, commanding the room with practiced ease. "I believe our groom has some words he'd like to share." The crowd turned toward Marcus expectantly. A hundred faces, most of them strangers, all of them waiting to hear him prostrate himself before the Ashford family altar. Victoria appeared at his side, linking her arm through his with a grip that felt more like a restraint than affection. "Remember," she whispered, smiling for the crowd, "stick to the script." They walked to the microphone together. Richard handed it over with a magnanimous gesture, like he was bestowing a great honor. Catherine watched from her table with critical eyes. Derek was passed out in his chair already. Marcus took the microphone, and suddenly everything was very quiet. This was it. This was the moment. In his first life, he'd stood here and humiliated himself. He'd thanked them for accepting him. He'd promised to work hard to deserve Victoria. He'd begged for their approval like a dog begging for scraps. And they'd laughed at him for it. Not openly—the Ashfords were too sophisticated for that. But he'd seen the smirks, heard the whispered comments, felt their contempt like poison in the air. *Stick to the script,* Victoria had said. Marcus looked out at the crowd. At Richard with his fake smile. At Catherine with her judgmental sneer. At Damien with his predatory confidence. At Victoria beside him, already looking impatient, already wishing she were somewhere else. He looked at all of them, these people who would destroy him, and he felt something shift inside his chest. No. No, he was not going to stick to the script. Not this time. "Thank you all for coming," Marcus said, his voice steady and clear. "I know many of you have traveled far to be here today, and Victoria and I appreciate it." Victoria relaxed slightly beside him. Good start. Nice and conventional. "When Victoria and I first met," Marcus continued, "I thought I was the luckiest man alive." Awws from the crowd. Catherine actually smiled. This was going according to plan. "I thought I'd found something real. Something worth fighting for. Something worth sacrificing for." Victoria's hand tightened on his arm. A warning. Marcus smiled. "But standing here today, I realize something important." The ballroom was silent now. Listening. Waiting. "I realize that I need to make something very clear, right from the start. Set some boundaries. Establish some rules." Victoria's nails dug into his arm. "Marcus," she hissed under her breath. "What are you doing?" He turned to her, still smiling, still holding the microphone. "Making a promise, darling." Then he turned back to the crowd, and his voice dropped lower, harder, carrying across the room like a blade. "To my new family, the Ashfords—thank you for welcoming me into your lives. I promise to be exactly the son-in-law you deserve." Richard's smile faltered. Catherine's eyes narrowed. Damien's expression shifted to something calculating. They heard it. The double meaning. The slight emphasis on "deserve." "To my beautiful wife—I promise to give you exactly what you've earned." Victoria's face went pale. "Marcus, stop—" "And to everyone here tonight," Marcus continued, his voice rising now, powerful and clear, "I promise you this: I will remember this day. I will remember every face, every word, every moment. And five years from now, when you think back to this wedding, you'll remember that I stood here and told you the truth." The crowd was murmuring now, confused. Richard stood up, his face darkening. Catherine looked horrified. Damien was watching Marcus with new interest, like he'd suddenly become worth paying attention to. "What truth?" someone called out. Marcus turned to look at Victoria, his wife of twenty minutes, the woman who would betray him in every way possible. "That I'm not who you think I am." Then he handed the microphone back to a stunned Richard, took Victoria's hand—she was too shocked to resist—and walked off the stage. The ballroom erupted into chaos.