My Unconventional Bride

Eleanor Hayes, my godmother, sat across from me in her familiar study, presenting glossy portfolios for my future.

"It's time you thought seriously about settling down," she said, gentle yet firm.

My heart slammed against my ribs, a desperate drum.

This conversation.

This room.

I knew it.

A cold dread, sharp as a winter blade, pierced through me, an echo from a life already lived.

Isabelle Vance.

Her beautiful, cruel face flashed, bringing with it the suffocating memories of my first existence.

"You were never good enough for me, Ethan," she' d hissed, her eyes like ice, a final cut.

That bitter, public divorce, her humiliating betrayal with Julian Croft.

Then, the shouting, the chaotic confrontation, and her spoiled child' s reckless prank.

The fall.

Darkness.

A chilling plunge into an ornamental lake, drowning amidst the detached laughter of society.

My own death, undeniably real, my last breath choked with bitter regret and public ridicule.

Now, I was back.

Years earlier.

At this exact, pivotal moment that began my first life' s spiral into ruin.

I could feel the ghost of that past betrayal, the hollowness of a future wasted, screaming at me.

I had been a fool, desperate for acceptance from the wrong woman.

But this time, a second chance pulsed with terrifying clarity.

This time, I would defy expectations.

This time, I would choose my own destiny, no matter how unconventional.