The Rise Of The Betrayed Wife

Isla's POV:

Declan walked in, holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a smile that would have fooled anyone who didn't know better. The roses were pink ones, the cheap kind they sold at the hospital gift shop downstairs.

I took a step back instinctively, my body responding before my mind could catch up. Fear shot through me in my veins. The last time I'd seen that face, he'd been standing over my dying body, watching as Sienna dragged him out of the room, watching as I bled out on our bedroom floor.

"Isla?" His smile faltered slightly, concern creasing his brow. "Are you okay? You look pale."

I forced myself to breathe, to think. He doesn't know. He can't know. This is a year ago. I haven't caught them yet. I'm not dead yet. I had to pretend. I had to play the part of the meek, silent girlfriend he expected me to be.

I nodded slowly, pressing my hand against my chest to steady my racing heart.

"You scared me," Declan said, moving further into the room. His voice was gentle, and concerned even, the kind of voice he used in public, when people were watching. "The hospital called me this morning. They said you fell down the stairs last night and hit your head? "

I nodded again, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.

It was coming back to me now, the original incident. Margot had left her shopping bags on the stairs, deliberately, I'd always suspected. I'd been coming down in the dark to get water, and I'd tripped. I'd tumbled down half the staircase, landing hard on my ankle and hitting my head on the railing. Declan hadn't been home. He'd been "working late." With Sienna, probably.

"Here," he said, setting the flowers down on the bedside table. They looked wilted already, sad and pathetic. "I thought these might cheer you up."

I stared at them, remembering all the times he'd brought me flowers over the years, after arguments, after long business trips, after nights when he'd come home smelling like someone else's perfume. Guilt flowers, every single time.

"Let me help you get your things together," Declan said, moving toward the small closet where my clothes were hanging. "The doctor already signed your discharge papers. He said it was just a sprained ankle and a mild concussion. Nothing serious."

Nothing serious. I watched him pull my coat from the hanger, I watched him gather my shoes and purse with practiced efficiency. He'd always been good at this—at playing the attentive boyfriend when it suited him.

My hands clenched at my sides. A year ago, or rather, in my original timeline, I would have been grateful. I would have signed "thank you" and smiled at him, relieved that he'd taken time out of his busy schedule to pick me up. But now I knew better. Now I knew exactly what he thought of me. Tedious, boring, a placeholder, and a means to an end.

"The nurse said you ripped out your IV," Declan continued, glancing at the small bandage on my arm. "What was that about? Did something happen?"

I shook my head quickly, forcing myself to look confused and a little embarrassed, like I'd panicked for no reason. He studied my face for a moment, then seemed to accept it.

"Well, let's get you home," he said, holding out my coat. "I'm sure you'll feel better once you're in your own bed."

Home. The word made my stomach turn. That house wasn't home. It had never been home. It was a prison, filled with people who hated me, who were plotting against me even now. But I took the coat from him anyway. I slipped it on, letting him help me with the zipper like I was a child who couldn't manage on her own.

I had to be smart about this. I had to play along until I figured out my next move.

Declan gathered the rest of my things—the flowers, my purse, the paperwork from the hospital—and gestured toward the door. "Come on," he said. "I parked right out front."

I followed him out of the room, moving slowly because of my supposedly sprained ankle. The nurse from earlier saw us leaving and waved, looking relieved that I was finally cooperating. If only she knew.

The walk through the hospital corridors felt surreal. Everything looked the same as I remembered, but different somehow, brighter, and more vivid, like I was seeing it all for the first time. Because I was, in a way. This was my second chance.

We passed by the emergency room entrance, and I caught a glimpse of a man and a little girl near the reception desk. The man was tall, and dressed in a dark coat, and the girl was clutching a stuffed rabbit. My breath caught. It was him. The man from before. The one who'd caught me when I stumbled. Except that hadn't happened yet. Or had it? My head spun trying to make sense of the timeline.

Somehow, our eyes caught, and his brow furrowed.

Does he remember me? No. That can't be possible.

"Isla?" Declan's voice pulled me back. "What are you looking at?"

I tore my eyes away from the man and shook my head. Nothing. It was nothing.

Declan led me outside to the parking lot, where his sleek black car was waiting. He opened the passenger door for me, another performance of the dutiful husband, and I climbed in carefully. The leather seats were cold against my legs. The car smelled like his cologne, expensive and suffocating.

He got in the driver's side and started the engine, adjusting the rearview mirror before pulling out of the parking space.

"I called your father," Declan said as we merged into traffic. "I told him you had a little accident but you're fine. He said he'd stop by later this week to check on you."

My father was the man who'd arranged this marriage in the first place, the man who'd never once asked if I was happy. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past.

"Margot feels terrible about the bags on the stairs," Declan continued, his tone casual. "She didn't realize you'd be up so late. She said she'll be more careful next time."

Liar. Margot didn't feel terrible about anything. She'd probably left those bags there on purpose, hoping I'd trip, hoping I'd get hurt. Maybe even hoping I'd break my neck.

"Anyway," Declan said, turning onto our street, "the important thing is that you're okay. It was just a fall. Just a sprained ankle and a little bump on the head. Could have been much worse."

Could have been worse. I almost laughed. In a year, it would be worse. So much worse. But not this time. This time, I knew what was coming. This time, I had the advantage.

Declan pulled into our driveway and turned off the engine. "Home sweet home," he said, that fake smile back on his face.

I looked up at the house—the large, elegant prison that had swallowed so much of my life. This time would be different. This time, I wouldn't be the victim.

Declan got out and came around to open my door, offering his hand to help me out. I took it, letting him support my weight as I stepped onto the driveway.

The front door opened before we even reached it, and there, standing in the doorway with a fake and practiced smile plastered across her face, was Sienna.