Chapter 2 – Rebirth
1367 Words
Thick, choking smoke stripped Evelyn Collins of her final breath. She felt her consciousness ebb and flow, her very soul plunging into a boundless inferno.
Memories from the past thirty years flickered before her eyes like a decaying reel of film—her innocent first encounter with Frank Scott in their youth, the sweet moments of their early marriage, and then the cruel betrayal, the man she had loved plunging a metaphorical knife into her chest. She could still feel the blood gushing from her heart, crimson and warm.
Her heartbeat grew fainter and fainter, until it finally stilled—frozen in that night of unbearable agony, soaked in hatred and despair.
A splash echoed—“splash”—and Evelyn thrashed awake, gasping for air as she rose from a bathtub.
Her chest ached faintly, but fresh oxygen rushed into her lungs. Clinging to the edge of the tub, she panted desperately, struggling to adjust to the sudden change from the fire and blood of moments before.
There was no searing pain, no acrid scent of burning flesh, no dagger twisting in her heart. All that surrounded her now was a pristine, quiet bathroom and a tub of water that had long since gone cold.
Frantically, Evelyn looked down. All she saw was porcelain skin and the graceful curves of her body.
Where was the wound?
Could it have all been a dream? So vivid, so real… Was it truly nothing more than an illusion?
Her mind was a blank void.
She rose slowly and stumbled towards the mirror. With trembling fingers, she wiped away the thick fog clinging to the glass, studying the reflection of her bare body, of a face so achingly familiar.
It was her. But something was different.
The hands once worn and calloused from years of housework are now smooth and delicate. The fine lines in her eyes vanished. Her skin glowed with a youthful radiance, soft and rosy, as if she were a girl again.
Shock widened Evelyn's eyes. Every detail of that “nightmare” remained etched in her memory, sharp and unforgiving.
How could it be…
Before she could grasp the full extent of her thoughts, a familiar voice called from outside the bathroom.
“Darling, are you finished yet? Everyone's waiting downstairs.”
Frank Scott.
His shadow loomed through the frosted glass, blurry and distorted, but Evelyn recoiled in terror as if confronted by a monster from her darkest memories.
“My dear? Evelyn ?”
He called her name again, concern creeping into his tone. Just as he reached for the door handle, Evelyn bolted upright and slammed the lock shut with a trembling hand.
“I… I'll be right out. Go wait for me downstairs.”
A pause. Then a reluctant, “Alright,” followed by fading footsteps.
Heart pounding, Evelyn forced herself to breathe. She slipped into a bathrobe and stepped cautiously into the bedroom. Her eyes darted around the all-too-familiar space—until they landed on the wedding gown laid out neatly on the bed.
Her body froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She remembered this. Every inch of this room. The exact pattern on the embroidered red bedding—her mother had chosen it for her as part of her wedding dowry.
This was the night of her wedding—ten years ago.
Ten years.
Over three thousand days and nights, each one carved into her soul, each moment lived in anguish.
It couldn't have been a dream.
There was only one explanation.
Rebirth.
“Hahahaha… Frank Scott, you never saw this coming, did you?” she laughed, sharp and bitter, as tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. Even the heavens couldn't stand to watch! This time, I will personally end you, you heartless bastard!
Her laughter rang out, triumphant and wild, yet her eyes brimmed with grief.
Heaven had eyes. The world had none.
And the man she once loved—
Deserved to die.
By the time Evelyn Collins finally descended the stairs, having carefully concealed her swollen eyes beneath layers of foundation, Frank Scott was already in a drunken stupor, reeking of alcohol and surrounded by chaos.
The elders from both families had long since departed, leaving behind a group of young people indulging in unchecked revelry. Evelyn masked the icy contempt in her eyes, forcing a faint smile onto her face as she walked gracefully toward her so-called husband.
It wasn't until someone beside him whispered a reminder that Frank realized his newlywed bride was standing behind him. He hastily withdrew the hand that had been caressing his secretary's waist and staggered toward Evelyn with exaggerated affection.
“Wifey…”
The pungent stench of alcohol made Evelyn's stomach churn. She barely managed to steady Frank with one hand, her gaze lifting to meet that of the woman standing nearby—smug, disdainful, and all too familiar.
Ivy Moore—Frank's secretary.
How foolish she had once been, to believe his lie that it was only a drunken mistake, that he'd mistaken his secretary for her. Now, with eyes unclouded by naivety, she saw the truth: these two had been entangled long before this night.
Having been granted a second chance at life, Evelyn viewed the scene with bitter clarity and a heart full of derision. This time, she would no longer be their sacrificial lamb.
He's clearly had too much. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest before you start embarrassing yourself in front of everyone?”
Her voice was calm but barbed, laced with irony.
Frank blinked, momentarily stunned, as if trying to reconcile the sharp-tongued woman before him with the gentle, obedient Evelyn he thought he had married. His bleary gaze sharpened with suspicion.
Before he could respond, a young heir stumbled toward them with a wine glass in hand, his cheeks flushed with drink.
“Frank, my man! Finally tied the knot with a beauty, huh? Come on, I propose a toast—to you and your lovely bride. May your marriage be filled with joy!”
The wine in the crystal glass swirled precariously close to Evelyn’s dress. She furrowed her brows, ready to refuse, but Frank—caught up in his own vanity—snatched the glass and shoved it into her hand without hesitation.
“Wait a minute!” someone shouted. “It's a wedding toast—it has to be a cross-cup drink!”
The crowd erupted into loud cheers and chants:
“Cross-cup! Cross-cup! Cross-cup!”
Their boisterous voices echoed through the hall, but Evelyn's heart was as calm as still water. Gone was the shyness and bliss of her past life—what remained now was scorn.
With a soft flick of her wrist, the wine glass slipped from her grasp, shattering on the marble floor into a spray of red.
In the stunned silence that followed, Evelyn parted her lips, her tone light and unapologetic:
“Oops. Butterfingers.”
An awkward hush fell over the room. The young man who had initiated the toast scratched his head awkwardly, casting a questioning look at Frank.
Frank's face darkened. With a subtle glance, he signaled the man to retreat, and he slunk away obediently.
Evelyn caught every movement with quiet precision, not missing a single detail.
The incident was swiftly brushed aside, as though it had never happened. Yet the tension in the air lingered, and no one dared to voice what they were all thinking: that this newlywed couple didn't seem all that harmonious.
Frank grabbed Evelyn by the arm and dragged her toward the backyard, his fury barely contained.
“You're hurting me, Frank. Let go!”
She struggled, only to be thrown harshly against the wall.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you know what night this is? Why would you humiliate me in front of everyone?”
The tenderness had vanished from Frank's face, revealing his true colors—cold, domineering, and cruel.
“If you can't stand it,” Evelyn said coolly, her voice like steel beneath velvet, “then divorce me.”
Her fingers clenched tightly around the hem of her dress, restraining the storm of hatred boiling within her.
- Writer
