My Husband Faked His Death,So My Mother-in-Law Made Me the Billionaire Heiress

My husband fell overboard and drowned. They never recovered his body.

My mother-in-law and I were devastated.

While sorting through his belongings, I discovered a journal he'd left behind.

Page after page revealed the truth: my mother-in-law had always looked down on me, had been sabotaging me behind my back for years. And my husband—my devoted, loving husband—had been quietly shielding me from it all.

Before I could confront her, she came for me first.

She called me a viper. A snake with a poisoned heart. She accused me of killing her son, of cheating on him while he was alive. Her screams brought the neighbors running.

We tore into each other. The whole city heard about it.

In the end, she hired men to break my arms and legs. They threw me out like garbage.

She died shortly after—some sudden illness, they said. Collapsed in the hospital.

And then.

Then.

My husband reappeared.

He strolled back into the world with his mistress on his arm, collected his mother's vast fortune, and drove past me in a luxury car while I begged for scraps on the street.

The look on his face—that smug, contemptuous sneer—I'll never forget it.

"The whole point of faking my death," he said, leaning out the window like he was discussing the weather, "was to make you and my adoptive mother destroy each other. I needed you both ruined. It was the only way to get my hands on her money fast enough."

"Everything in that journal? Lies. Every word. But only a fool like you would fall for it."

"Oh, and the slow-acting poison in her food?" He smiled. "That was me. But everyone will assume it was you—the bitter, resentful daughter-in-law. No one will ever suspect her precious son."

I listened.

I understood.

And then I died—choking on rage and grief and the bitter taste of betrayal.

When I opened my eyes, I was back.

The night before Theo Mason's "fishing trip."

1.

8:17 PM.

Theo leaned close, his voice soft with practiced concern. "Myra Simmons, you and Mom have been giving each other the cold shoulder for days now. I know she went too far, but... she's still your elder."

He pressed a shopping bag into my hands. "I bought some high-end bird's nest porridge. Just tell her you picked it up, make her a bowl before bed. Smooth things over a little, yeah?"

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

The concerned furrow of his brow. The gentle, coaxing tone. The way his thumb brushed my knuckles like I was something precious.

I swallowed the fury clawing up my throat and nodded, letting my lip tremble just slightly. Playing the wounded wife. The role I'd perfected without ever knowing it was a role.

In my first life, my relationship with Madge Mason had never been good, but it hadn't been terrible either. Just... cold. Punctuated by silences and small slights I could never quite trace.

I'd spent years feeling vaguely wronged, wondering why nothing I did was ever enough for her. Why she always seemed to be waiting for me to fail.

It wasn't until I was dying in the gutter that I understood.

Theo had been stoking that fire the entire time.

On the surface: the devoted husband, the filial son. Beneath it: a puppet master pulling strings I couldn't even see.

That journal he'd "accidentally" left behind? The final match tossed onto years of carefully laid kindling.

Looking back now, I could see exactly how stupid I'd been. How pitifully easy to manipulate.

Theo watched my performance—the quivering chin, the reluctant acceptance—and sighed like a man carrying the weight of the world.

"Tell you what," he said, running a hand through his hair. "After things calm down, I'll talk to Mom about us getting our own place. Moving out. Would that help?"

He cupped my face. "It kills me to see you hurting like this."

Then he kissed my forehead. Soft. Tender.

The lips of a man who would watch me starve.

He slipped away to the guest room—to his mother—and I heard the low murmur of voices through the wall. Poisoning her against me, no doubt. Another drop in the well.

Minutes later, he emerged with his fishing gear slung over one shoulder.

"Mom! Myra!" he called out. "I'm heading to the coast to fish. Might be back late, so don't wait up!"

He looked, for all the world, like a middle-aged husband escaping the tension at home. A man who just needed some air.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Madge shuffled out of the guest room, her face tight and unreadable.

I stared at her.

My chest ached with everything I couldn't say. Your son is a monster. He's been poisoning you—literally. He's going to fake his death tonight and let us tear each other apart.

How do you explain rebirth to someone who already thinks you're the enemy?