Chapter 52 52
A few weeks later.
It started with numbers.
Small discrepancies. Transfers so clean, so quietly elegant, that even my personal accountant might’ve missed it if not for Tomas’s thoroughness.
But I saw them. I saw them all.
From shell accounts to a series of false consultancy fees, Darren had been taking from me—chipping away at the empire I built with blood and steel. The money was funneled slowly, week by week, month by month, to a Swiss account under a name tied to an offshore trust.
His name.
I stared at the screen, bile rising to my throat as I opened the final email. Sent from an encrypted line. A contract draft. A financial transfer authorization with my forged signature. The watermark of my company. My seal.
The bastard planned to take everything.
The man I shared my bed with. The man who kissed my bruises, who said, “You’re safe with me, Krystal,” while he carved a hole into my trust.
My hands shook.
I was supposed to confront him that night. I had rehearsed it already. I would lay out the evidence, give him the chance to explain—to beg, even. Then I’d decide whether to destroy him in the boardroom or with the courts. Either way, Darren McIntyre was going to learn I am no one’s fool.
But fate had other plans.
I left my penthouse in my midnight black Bentley. Tomas was handling security, trailing discreetly behind, but I needed air. Needed to scream, cry, feel something other than this volcanic rage. I was halfway across the Westbrook Bridge when I saw it.
A black SUV.
No plates. Windows blacked out. It swerved behind me at the last second, scraping the side of my car like a shark circling prey.
I sped up.
The SUV accelerated.
My pulse pounded like war drums. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
And then—impact.
The SUV slammed into the back of my Bentley with brutal force. Tires screeched. My hands jerked the wheel instinctively, but it was too late. A second, stronger push sent me careening toward the edge.
Steel twisted. Glass shattered.
And in the next second—
I was airborne.
The Bentley flew off the bridge like a bird with broken wings. Time slowed, just enough for a thought to whisper in my mind:
He knew. Darren knew I was leaving tonight.
He had asked me just an hour ago where I was going, smiling like a damn angel. “Dinner alone? Want me to come?”
Then—“Sorry, babe, emergency at the hospital. Raincheck?”
Raincheck.
Emergency.
Coincidence?
Lies. All of it.
The car crashed into the icy water with a scream of metal and a blast of suffocating cold. The river swallowed me whole. I tried to kick, to fight, but my seatbelt jammed, trapping me like a fly in amber.
Water gushed through the cracks.
My lungs burned.
My nails clawed at leather and glass.
I gasped—and choked.
It was so cold.
So dark.
My mind spun with betrayal. How did I let him get that close? How did I not see it? The money. The phone calls. The father’s debt. The false concern. All leading to this moment—this grave of water.
I wanted to scream.
But no sound came. Just bubbles rising from my lips, dancing toward the unreachable surface. My chest tightened, vision flickering between panic and surrender. Memories flashed. His perfume. His laughter.
That day I walked into the McLaren estate, broken and unwanted, vowing one day I’d rise above them all.
And Darren.
His touch. His eyes. His knife-in-the-back betrayal.
I trusted you. I LOVED you.
But you sold me for money. For a number. For blood money buried in a Swiss account.
My body gave in.
The last breath left my lungs, and the cold sank into my bones like an old enemy wrapping me in silence.
Darkness swallowed me.
And in that silence, floating somewhere between life and death, a voice echoed in my mind—not Darren’s. Not anyone’s.
It was mine.
“You will not die like this.”
Not under water.
Not in betrayal.
Not before they pay.
I may be drowning now—but if I survive…
I will rise again. And I will burn everything down.
I woke up with a gasp lodged deep in my chest, like I had just clawed my way out of the bottom of the ocean. My lungs ached with the memory of water, my throat dry like it had forgotten how to breathe. I blinked rapidly, chest rising and falling, as sterile white lights above me buzzed in a dull rhythm. The faint scent of rubbing alcohol and dried blood filled my nostrils.
A hospital ward.
I knew this room.
The ceiling. The flickering panel above the corner sink. Even the chip in the tiled floor just a few steps from my bed—it was all too familiar. A sick wave of déjà vu washed over me.
Then a voice—tired, worried, but real.
“Jesus, Abby. You scared me.”
Tita Maribel?
I turned my head, and there she was. Holding a thermos of coffee in one hand and clutching her rosary in the other. Her eyes were puffy. “I found you unconscious in your living room. I knocked and knocked. The door was open. You weren’t answering.”
She placed the coffee on the table and walked to me, brushing the hair from my face like she used to when I was younger and had fevers.
“I—what?”
My voice cracked. My fingers trembled as I reached up to touch my face. Everything felt real. Too real.
“I brought you here right away,” she said softly. “The doctors said you were just exhausted, maybe collapsed from stress. I’ve been sitting here for hours. Thank God you woke up.”
But I wasn’t listening anymore. Because my eyes darted around the room, anchoring themselves on the truth that screamed louder than her voice.
This was the same room.
The same room I woke up in after Elias killed me. After he stabbed me to death.
After I shoved that damn winning lotto ticket in my mouth and choked on it like an idiot, only to be reborn. That version of me clawed her way through vengeance and power.
But now?
Again.
Now I remembered drowning.
I remembered the black SUV hitting my Bentley.
The bridge. The cold, unforgiving river. The water pushing its way into my lungs. The weight of betrayal anchoring me as I sank.
And yet—I was here. Breathing. Alive. Again.
No bruises. No IV. No cracked ribs. Just... soreness. And an unbearable heaviness in my chest like something had tried to kill me from the inside out.
I sat up slowly, dragging the oxygen tubes from my nose. “Tita… what day is it?”
She blinked at me. “What?”
“What day is today?” I asked, sharper this time.
She pulled out her phone, confused. “It's… Monday. April 27.”
I froze.
No. No freaking way.
April 27 was the day I died.
When Elias killed me.
And now I'm back again.