The inheritance papers sit on Ethan's desk like a loaded gun. "Just sign here, Liv." My husband taps the line with his pen. His smile is warm. Practiced. "It's just a formality. Married couples share everything, right?" I stare at the documents. In my first life, I signed them. Handed over the two million my grandmother left me without a second thought. Why wouldn't I? Ethan was my husband. We were building a future together. That future ended with me convulsing on our kitchen floor while he watched. "I need to think about it," I say. His smile freezes. "Think about what?" "My grandmother left this money to me specifically. I want to understand the tax implications before I transfer it." Ethan's jaw tightens. Just for a second. Then the smile returns, softer now. Concerned. "Babe, I'm just trying to protect us. If something happens to you, I want to make sure—" "Nothing's going to happen to me." I meet his eyes. "I'm twenty-eight. I'm healthy." The lie tastes bitter. I died at thirty-one. Three years from now. Fentanyl in my wine, traced back to a pharmacy theft. Hannah's pharmacy. My best friend since college, who cried at my funeral while wearing the necklace Ethan bought her with my inheritance money. I know because I was there. Floating above it all. Watching them mourn me. Watching them leave together. Then I woke up in this bed three years earlier with a second chance I don't understand and won't waste. Ethan stands. Walks around the desk. Puts his hands on my shoulders. "You're acting strange lately. Is everything okay?" "Everything's fine." I stand too, slipping out of his grip. "I just want to be smart about this." His phone buzzes. He glances at it and his expression shifts. Something eager flashes across his face before he controls it. "I have to take this. Work thing." He kisses my forehead. His lips feel like ice. "We'll talk about this later, okay?" I nod. Leave his office. Stand in the hallway and count to ten. Through the door, I hear him answer. "She won't sign... I know... We need to move faster." My hands shake. I ball them into fists. My phone buzzes. A text from Hannah. *Brunch tomorrow? I miss your face! ❤️* In my first life, I went to that brunch. We laughed. Shared mimosas. She listened to me complain about wedding planning stress. Hugged me when I cried about missing my grandmother. She was stealing from her pharmacy even then. Building the stockpile that would kill me. I type back: *Yes! Where?* *The Garden Café. 11am? xoxo* I stare at the hearts and kisses. At the friend who murdered me. *Perfect. Can't wait.* I need to get close. Gather evidence. Figure out exactly when they started planning this. Because this time, I'm not the victim. --- The Garden Café smells like vanilla and lies. Hannah waves from a corner table, her blonde hair perfect, her smile bright. She stands to hug me and I let her. Force myself not to flinch. "You look amazing," she says. "That dress is everything." "Thanks." I sit across from her. Study her face. Try to see the monster underneath. She just looks like Hannah. Sweet. Bubbly. The girl who held my hair back in college when I had food poisoning. Who helped me pick out my wedding dress. Who helped my husband murder me. "So." She leans forward. "How's married life? You and Ethan seem so happy." "We are." I smile. "Really happy." Her phone buzzes on the table. She glances at it. I catch the contact name before she flips it over. *E.* The message preview shows: *Did she sign?* My blood turns cold. They're coordinating. Right now. Already. "Sorry." Hannah grimaces. "Work stuff. You know how it is." "No problem." I sip my water. My hand is steady. I'm proud of that. "How is work? Still at the pharmacy?" "Yeah. Same old." She waves it off. "Boring medical stuff. Nothing exciting like your art gallery." The art gallery Ethan convinced me to invest my inheritance in. The one that mysteriously burned down six months before I died. Insurance fraud, I realized later. Another way to drain my accounts. "Actually, I'm thinking of pulling back from the gallery," I say. "Focusing on other things." Hannah's smile tightens. "Really? But Ethan said you were so excited about it." "Ethan and I don't agree on everything." Something shifts in her expression. A calculation happening behind her eyes. "Is everything okay with you two?" Her voice drips concern. "You seem... tense." "Everything's perfect." I lean back. "Actually, I need to use the restroom. Order for me?" "Of course." I stand. Walk toward the bathroom. But I don't go in. I circle back. Stay out of sight. Watch our table. Hannah pulls out her phone immediately. Types fast. Her face is different now. Harder. The mask dropped when she thinks I can't see. She sets her phone down. Digs in her purse for lipstick. Her purse. Wide open. I move fast. Quiet. Years of yoga classes paying off in ways I never imagined. My hand dips into her bag. Finds her wallet. And clipped to the inside pocket— A key card. White plastic. Blue stripe. *Mercy General Pharmacy. Hannah Pierce. Authorized Personnel Only.* The same card that will give her access to controlled substances. The same card she'll use to steal the fentanyl that kills me. My fingers close around it. Then I let go. Leave it there. Back away. Because taking it now won't prove anything. Won't show the pattern. Won't build the case I need. But knowing it's there. Knowing where to find it. That's enough. For now. I walk to the bathroom. Splash cold water on my face. Stare at myself in the mirror. I'm twenty-eight again. Alive. Aware. And I'm going to make them pay for what they haven't done yet. When I return to the table, Hannah is all smiles again. "I ordered you the avocado toast," she says. "Your favorite." "Perfect." I sit. Pick up my fork. And start planning their destruction.