Reborn To Love My Stoic Soldier Husband

The harsh, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound left in the world.

Clara lay flat on the hospice bed. Her lungs felt like they were packed with crushed glass. Every shallow breath was a battle she was losing.

Trevor stood at the edge of her bed. He wasn't crying. He was smiling. It was a cold, tight smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

He leaned down. His breath smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes.

"You spent your whole life building a fortune for people who hate you, Aunt Clara," Trevor whispered. His voice was a physical scrape against her eardrums. "Thanks for the inheritance."

He reached for the plastic valve connecting her oxygen tube to the wall.

Panic exploded in Clara's chest. Her heart hammered wildly against her brittle ribs. She tried to lift her hand. She needed to stop him. Her fingers were nothing but bone and thin, bruised skin. They twitched on the white sheet, heavy and useless.

Trevor wrapped his hand around the valve. He didn't hesitate. He yanked it.

The hiss of oxygen stopped.

Clara's mouth fell open. Her chest heaved, pulling in nothing but dead, empty air. Her throat constricted. Fire ripped down her windpipe. She was drowning on dry land.

Trevor turned his back on her. He walked out of the room. The heavy wooden door clicked shut, sealing her inside her own grave.

Darkness edged into her vision. The burning in her lungs turned into a crushing weight.

In her final seconds, the sterile white ceiling faded. A face replaced it. A face with a strong, clenched jaw and deep, silent eyes. Cade. The man she had driven away. The man who had loved her when she was unlovable.

A single, hot tear broke free from her wrinkled eye. It slid down her temple, pooling in her gray hair.

The monitor flatlined. A solid, piercing tone drilled into her skull.

Then, absolute black.

A violent jolt ripped through her spine.

Clara gasped. Air flooded her lungs in a massive, painful rush. She choked on it, coughing violently.

She wasn't lying down. She was sitting up.

Her hands flew to her throat. The skin wasn't loose and papery. It was firm. Smooth.

She opened her eyes. The sterile hospital room was gone. She was sitting on a hard mattress covered in a cheap, scratchy red bedsheet.

Her breath hitched. She looked down at her hands. No liver spots. No protruding blue veins. Just young, unblemished skin.

She touched her face. Her cheeks were warm. Her fingers came away smeared with thick, cheap foundation.

She looked around. Faded red paper cutouts of the word "Happiness" were taped to the peeling wallpaper. Two red candles burned on a chipped wooden nightstand, dripping wax onto the surface.

A sliver of yellow light spilled from beneath the bathroom door across the room. The sound of running water echoed through the thin walls.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow.

She was twenty years old. This was her wedding night.

Clara stood up. Her legs wobbled. She walked to the small vanity mirror in the corner.

A young woman stared back at her. Her hair was styled in stiff, outdated curls. Her wedding dress was a monstrosity of cheap lace and stiff tulle.

She pinched the soft flesh of her forearm. Hard.

A sharp, stinging pain shot up her arm. She let out a shaky breath. It wasn't a dying hallucination. The pain was real. The air in her lungs was real.

The water in the bathroom shut off.

The sound snapped her back to reality. In her past life, this was the exact moment she had started screaming. She had thrown a lamp, cursed Cade's name, and forced him to sleep on the lumpy couch in the living room. It was the beginning of a miserable, toxic marriage.

Clara closed her eyes. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her breastbone.

Not this time.

She reached up to the high collar of her dress. Her fingers fumbled with the top plastic button. It was digging into her windpipe, suffocating her just like the oxygen tube had. She ripped it open.

She kicked off the stiff, pinching white heels. Her bare feet hit the cold, warped floorboards.

She walked toward the bathroom. Every step felt like walking out of a grave.

She stopped in front of the door. She could hear the rough friction of a towel rubbing against wet skin inside.

Clara didn't yell. She didn't throw anything.

She reached out. Her palm flattened against the cool brass doorknob. She turned it. The latch clicked.

She pushed the door open.