Evelyn studied her reflection for hours, watching as sunlight crept across the room. She meticulously cataloged every detail of her restored body: the flat stomach, the strong heartbeat, the effortless breathing. Everything felt impossibly real—yet the bone-chilling terror of plummeting from that high-rise remained equally vivid, branded into her soul.

Within this healthy vessel now dwelled a vengeful spirit who had clawed her way back from hell, burning with righteous fury.


It took an entire afternoon to accept this impossible reality. She turned off her phone, unplugged the internet cable, and sealed herself away from the world, forcing her racing mind toward clarity.

Hatred churned like molten lava in her chest, but she understood that raw anger alone wouldn't deliver justice. She needed a plan—meticulous, ruthless, calculated to make them suffer a thousandfold what she had endured.

And the first step was simple: cancel tomorrow's marriage registration.


That evening, Mark's call arrived right on schedule, his voice perfectly modulated with that precisely calibrated blend of affection and concern.

"Darling, is your white dress ready for tomorrow? I can hardly wait to see you become my wife."


Hearing that voice sent bile rising in Evelyn's throat. She could practically see his handsome, duplicitous face through the phone. She dug her nails into her palm until they drew blood, using the sharp pain to steady her voice.

"Mark," she began, injecting a carefully measured note of regret into her voice, "I'm afraid tomorrow's registration… needs to be postponed."

A telling silence hung on the line for several seconds.

"Postponed? Why? What's happened?" Mark's tone carried a barely perceptible edge of suspicion.

"The firm just landed an extremely urgent project," Evelyn improvised smoothly, her mind razor-sharp. "Arthur Blackwood is personally overseeing it, and I'll need to work overtime for the foreseeable future. You know how crucial this promotion opportunity is for me."

"Arthur Blackwood?" Mark repeated, his wariness instantly dissolving into a toxic blend of contempt and jealousy. Arthur was the youngest partner at the firm—a man Mark had always desperately tried to outshine but never could. Mentioning work, especially work with Arthur, was the perfect way to neutralize Mark's suspicions.

"Fine," he sighed with feigned magnanimity, "if it's for our future, I suppose there's no choice. Work comes first—just don't burn yourself out, dear."

"Mmm, I'll try not to."

After hanging up, Evelyn released a long-held breath, her back drenched with cold sweat. Round one of her dance with the devil—a narrow victory.

The next day, Evelyn walked into Sterling-Goldman's gleaming headquarters after what felt like a lifetime away.

Stepping into that monument of glass and steel, everything felt simultaneously familiar and alien. Colleagues greeted her warmly, chattering about market trends and office gossip. None suspected that behind her pleasant smile lurked memories of her own brutal murder.

At precisely nine o'clock, the department meeting commenced.

Evelyn took her seat at the far end of the polished conference table, her gaze inevitably drawn to the commanding figure at its head—Arthur Blackwood.

He wore a charcoal suit without a tie, top buttons casually undone, exuding effortless authority. His features might have been chiseled from marble by a Roman master—strong, defined, timeless. When his penetrating gaze swept the room, it commanded attention without effort.

In her previous life, Evelyn had rarely interacted with this executive. He'd been a distant figure of legend until the final stages of her illness, when he'd made unexpected hospital visits. He always came alone, sitting quietly beside her bed, discussing history and philosophy in that resonant voice that somehow brought her peace. She'd assumed it was merely professional courtesy—a boss showing humanity toward a dying employee.

But now, as Arthur's gaze swept across the room and landed on her, something profoundly complex flashed in those unfathomable eyes. This wasn't the look of a superior acknowledging a subordinate—there was something deeper that Evelyn couldn't decipher yet felt strangely familiar.

The meeting progressed through discussion of a potential acquisition, analysts offering their assessments in turn. When Evelyn's moment came, she rose, feeling all eyes shift to her.

She drew a steady breath and delivered her analysis with methodical precision, supporting each point with comprehensive data and clear logic. As she concluded, she added with deliberate casualness:

"Of course, markets remain inherently unpredictable. As the Roman poet Horace wrote: 'Carpe Diem, Quam Minimum Credula Postero.' We must seize the day while placing minimal faith in tomorrow."

The conference room fell silent for several seconds. Most attendees looked bewildered by the obscure Latin quotation, likely assuming she was merely showcasing her education.

But Arthur Blackwood, at the head of the table, froze with his pen suspended in mid-air. His head snapped up, his gaze lancing toward her like a blade. His entire body visibly tensed, and for the first time, his impassive mask cracked—an expression of profound shock and disbelief flashing across his features.

Those words were the last he had spoken to her in that previous life, whispered at her hospital bedside as death approached.

"Evelyn," he had murmured then, "if there's ever another chance, remember these words."

Evelyn met his penetrating stare and calmly took her seat, though her heart hammered against her ribs.

As the meeting adjourned and Evelyn gathered her materials, Arthur's assistant materialized at her side.

"Miss Anderson, Mr. Blackwood requests your presence in his office immediately."

Evelyn's heart leapt to her throat, though her expression remained neutral. She followed the assistant to the corner office on the top floor, with its sweeping panorama of Manhattan's skyline.

The assistant closed the heavy oak door behind her with a soft click, leaving her alone with Arthur.

Arthur stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, his tall silhouette backlit by morning sunlight, creating a solitary shadow against the glass. He remained silent, the weight of unspoken words making the air between them almost unbreathable.

After what felt like eternity, he slowly turned to face her, his eyes churning with emotions too complex to name.

He stared at her intently before asking in a voice rough with emotion:

"Has that rain… finally stopped?"

Evelyn's eyes instantly filled with tears.

That rain—the icy deluge that had soaked her broken body on the pavement.

She fought to contain the tidal wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm her, nails digging crescents into her palms as she struggled to steady her voice.

She lifted her chin, meeting his intense gaze, and answered deliberately:

"Now, it's sunny."