Reborn Heiress: Marrying My Ex's Disabled Uncle

Angela Kane POV:

The first thing to go was the sound.

Everything faded into a dull, muffled hum, except for the shrill, steady beep of the heart monitor. It was counting down the last seconds of my life.

Then my vision blurred. The sterile white ceiling dissolved, and I saw Central Park in June. Brett on one knee, his eyes burning with something I'd mistaken for love. "You're the only one for me, Angela," he'd said, sliding a diamond onto my finger. The memory should have been sweet. Instead, it curdled in my chest like poison.

A bitter taste flooded my mouth—not medicine. Lemonade. Juliana, my stepsister, pressing a glass into my hands with that saccharine smile of hers. "You look exhausted, big sister," she'd cooed. "Maybe you should rest more."

I felt a coldness seeping into my bones, like I was sinking through the surface of a frozen lake. It was the same cold I'd felt the last time Brett held me. His arms had barely touched my shoulders. His impatience had been a physical force, pushing me away.

The only thing I could smell was antiseptic. But my mind conjured something else—Juliana's perfume. A cloying, limited-edition scent I knew Brett had given her for her birthday.

The pieces began clicking into place.

A charity gala at the Kane-owned hotel. I'd left early, feeling unwell. Passing through the underground garage, I'd seen Brett's Bentley rocking gently in the dim light. Juliana had stumbled out of the passenger side, her dress disheveled, her lipstick smeared. Brett said she'd gotten sick in the car. I'd believed him. The sheer, idiotic stupidity of it twisted through my insides with a pain sharper than any disease.

I remembered the doctor's measured words, the confusion in his eyes. He'd called my condition unusual. A wasting sickness, he'd said. He'd mentioned trace compounds in the toxicology report—a cardiac suppressant. Origin unknown.

I remembered Brett holding my hand at my bedside, his voice a soft, convincing caress. "Just hold on, Angela. We'll get married as soon as you're better." But his other hand, hidden beneath the blanket, had been laced tightly with Juliana's.

I remembered the family lawyer, his face arranged into a mask of concern, sliding a stack of papers toward me. An asset transfer agreement. "Just to make things easier for Brett to manage while you recover." I'd signed it. I could barely lift the pen.

My friends stopped visiting. My Instagram became a gallery of Juliana's triumphs—wearing my couture gowns to parties that should have been mine, standing beside the man who should have been mine. The whispers of New York society echoed in my head. *The Kane girl. Can't even keep her own man and her own dresses.*

Love burned away. What remained was black, searing hatred.

I tried to lift my finger toward the call button. Not to save myself. I just wanted to see their faces one last time. To watch their masks crack when they realized I knew.

But my hand wouldn't move.

Through the soundproof glass, I saw them. Brett and Juliana in the private lounge beyond my room. Laughing. Heads bent close together. I couldn't hear the words, but I didn't need to—their body language was a confession. The way Brett gestured toward my room with his thumb. The way Juliana's shoulders shook with mirth. I knew, with the cold clarity of the dying, exactly what they were celebrating.

I opened my mouth. No sound came out. A thin trickle of dark blood escaped the corner of my lips.

The line on the monitor flattened. The steady beep became a single, piercing, unending scream.

And as my consciousness dissolved into the dark, my soul issued one final vow—not a prayer, but a curse.

*If there is a next life, I will drag you both to hell.*

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