The heart monitor's flatline scream was the last thing I heard before everything went black. Thirty-two years old, collapsed at my desk at 3 AM, drowning in the quarterly reports for Chen Industries while my husband attended another "emergency" with Elena. But I didn't stay dead. I woke up gasping, my silk sheets tangled around my legs, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. My hands—smooth, unmarred by the stress rashes that had plagued my final year—flew to my chest. Strong heartbeat. No pain. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. The date made my breath catch: September 15th, 2019. Five years earlier. I grabbed the phone with shaking hands, scrolling frantically through my messages. There, at the top: a calendar reminder I'd set years ago and forgotten. "Investment meeting—DS Tech startup, 2 PM. Anonymous transfer: $5 million." DS Tech. Damien Shaw's company. My husband's company—or it would be, after I'd anonymously funded his struggling startup through a shell corporation. He'd never known his mysterious angel investor was his own wife. I'd kept it secret, thinking I was being noble. Supporting his dreams without bruising his ego. What a fool I'd been. In my original timeline, that $5 million was just the beginning. Over five years, I'd funneled nearly $50 million of my family's money into Damien's ventures while he built his tech empire. And the whole time, Elena Martinez—his "childhood sweetheart," the delicate artist who could barely balance a checkbook—had played the supportive muse while systematically poisoning him against me. *"Victoria's so cold, Damien. So focused on money. She'll never understand your vision like I do."* She'd understood my money just fine when she'd used his credit cards—funded by my investments—to buy her gallery, her penthouse, her collection of vintage cars. I stumbled to my walk-in closet, catching my reflection in the full-length mirror. Twenty-seven years old again. My face wasn't yet hollowed by exhaustion, my eyes not yet permanently shadowed. I looked like myself, but younger. Softer. That softness had nearly destroyed me. My phone buzzed again. A text from Damien: "Late meeting. Don't wait up." Even now, before we were supposed to meet Elena for "the first time" at his college reunion next month, he was with her. I scrolled through our message history with morbid curiosity. Polite. Distant. We'd been married eight months, a union arranged by our families—his parents, old friends of my father, desperate to save their son from bankruptcy after his first startup failed. I'd agreed because I'd seen his pitch deck and believed in his vision. He'd agreed because he needed Chen family connections. Neither of us had pretended it was a love match. But I'd grown to love him anyway, fool that I was. And he'd grown to resent me, especially after Elena reappeared and reminded him what "real passion" felt like. Another text, this one from my assistant: "Mrs. Shaw, the transfer authorization needs your signature by noon." Five million dollars. The foundation of everything Damien would build. The beginning of my own destruction. I looked at my reflection again, really looked. That soft, hopeful woman had died on her office floor, alone, while her husband held another woman's hand. I wasn't her anymore. My fingers flew across my phone screen, typing a message to my assistant: "Cancel the DS Tech investment. Redirect those funds to a new account under my maiden name. I'll send specifications within the hour." Then I opened my laptop and began to research. Every patent Damien would file. Every product launch. Every market trend that would make DS Tech worth billions. If I couldn't have those five years back, I'd at least make sure they counted. This time, I wouldn't be his secret benefactor. I'd be his worst nightmare. ---