"I appreciate your concern," I said neutrally. "But I'm quite capable of managing my client relationships."

"I don't doubt that," he replied, his tone softening as he reached across the table to touch my hand. "I just worry about you, Olivia. You work too hard, take on too much. You need someone watching out for your interests."


In my previous life, I'd found this protective stance charming—evidence of his care and concern. Now I recognized it for what it was: a subtle undermining of my competence, a suggestion that I needed guidance and protection—specifically, his.

"My interests are well-managed," I said, gently withdrawing my hand. "But thank you for your concern."

His expression flickered with frustration before settling back into charm. "At least let me help with the museum project Mia mentioned. The director is an old family friend—I could ensure you get priority consideration."


And there it was—the connection between Ethan and Mia, the coordinated approach they were developing. In my previous life, this "coincidental" assistance had seemed like fortunate timing. Now I saw the calculated manipulation behind it.

"What museum project is this exactly?" I asked, feigning ignorance. "Mia mentioned something but didn't provide details."


"The Whitney is planning a special exhibition next spring—a fusion of technology and traditional art forms. They're looking for an innovative approach to the opening event. Mia thought your creative vision combined with her art world connections would be perfect."

The project sounded legitimate and potentially prestigious. In my previous life, this collaboration had been the catalyst for making Mia my business partner—I'd been overwhelmed by the opportunity and grateful for her assistance.

"Interesting," I said noncommittally. "Though my schedule is quite full through next spring."

"This would be worth making room for," he pressed. "The right kind of visibility can transform a career. And with my family's connection to the board..."

The implied quid pro quo was clear—his influence in exchange for... what? Closer personal ties? Business information? Access to my growing network? Whatever his immediate goal, the long-term strategy was the same as before: integration into his world on his terms.

"I'll consider it," I said, checking my watch. "I should get back to the office—I have a client call at two."

He insisted on paying the bill despite my objections—another small assertion of control—and walked me out to the street. As we waited for my car, he stepped closer than necessary.

"Have dinner with me this weekend," he said, his tone making it more command than request. "My place. No business talk, no interruptions. Just us."

In my previous life, I'd accepted a similar invitation eagerly, flattered by his persistence and attracted to his confidence. That dinner had led to our first kiss, the beginning of our romantic relationship, and ultimately, my destruction.

"I can't this weekend," I said firmly. "I have commitments."

"With Blackwood?" he asked, a edge entering his voice.

The direct question surprised me—in my previous life, Ethan had never shown jealousy because he'd never had reason to. I'd been completely devoted to him, blind to alternatives.

"My personal schedule isn't relevant to our professional relationship," I replied coolly.

His jaw tightened momentarily before he forced a smile. "Of course. Another time, then."

As my car arrived, he leaned in to kiss my cheek, his lips lingering a beat too long near the corner of my mouth. "We'd be good together, Olivia," he murmured. "In every way. I'm a patient man, but even patience has limits."

The subtle threat beneath the charm sent a familiar chill through me—a reminder of what he was capable of when thwarted. In my previous life, I'd never seen this side of him until it was too late. This time, I recognized the warning signs.

That evening, I met Mia for drinks at a trendy bar in SoHo—neutral territory where we could talk without the intimacy of a dinner. She arrived looking stylish but slightly harried, her expression brightening when she spotted me.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, hugging me. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me entirely."

"Just busy," I replied, returning her hug briefly. "Your text mentioned a museum project?"

She launched into an explanation of the Whitney exhibition—the same details Ethan had shared, confirming their coordination. As she outlined how perfect we would be as a team for the opening event, I studied her with new awareness.

In my previous life, I'd seen only my supportive best friend, eager to help and share in my success. Now I noticed the calculation behind her enthusiasm—the way she emphasized her connections while subtly suggesting I couldn't secure the contract alone, how she positioned herself as essential to the opportunity.

"It sounds interesting," I said when she finished. "Though I'm concerned about the timing with my other commitments."

"This is the Whitney," she pressed, leaning forward. "This kind of opportunity doesn't come along often, Liv. We'd be amazing together—your vision, my connections. The perfect team."

The echo of my previous life—where I'd agreed enthusiastically to this exact proposal—was unsettling. I took a sip of my drink, buying time to formulate my response.

"Let me think about it," I said finally. "I'd need to review my existing contracts before committing to something this significant."

Her disappointment was evident, though she tried to hide it. "Of course. Just don't wait too long—they're making decisions next month."

We moved on to other topics—her recent events, mutual acquaintances, industry gossip. As we talked, I noticed how often she mentioned Ethan—casual references to running into him at gallery openings, his family's support of arts organizations, his apparent admiration for my work.

"He seems quite taken with you," she remarked, watching my reaction carefully. "Half the women in Manhattan would kill to be in your position."

"We have a professional relationship," I said firmly. "Nothing more."

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. "If you say so. Though I've heard he's never this persistent unless he's serious about someone."

The same phrase she'd used months ago—almost word for word. A script, I realized, designed to flatter me with Ethan's supposed exclusive interest.

"My focus is on my business," I replied. "Not dating."

"All work and no play," she teased, though I caught the assessment in her eyes. "Though speaking of play, what's the story with you and James Blackwood? I saw you having dinner together at Lucien last month. Looked pretty cozy."

The fact that she'd noticed—and remembered—a dinner weeks ago suggested she was monitoring my activities more closely than a casual friend would. Another warning sign I'd missed in my previous life.

"We have ongoing business projects," I said neutrally. "Dinner discussions are more productive than office meetings sometimes."

"Mmm-hmm," she hummed disbelievingly. "Well, be careful there. I've heard he can be ruthless in business. Doesn't play well with others."

The subtle undermining—planting doubts about James while promoting Ethan—was so familiar it was almost laughable. In my previous life, similar comments had influenced my perception, making me wary of potential allies while trusting those who would ultimately betray me.

"I appreciate your concern," I said, signaling for the check. "But I'm quite capable of judging character for myself."

As we parted outside the bar, her hug lingered a beat too long. "Think about the Whitney project," she urged. "We'd be unstoppable together."

I watched her walk away, mentally adding this interaction to my growing map of her and Ethan's coordinated approach. They were accelerating their efforts, becoming more direct in their attempts to influence my decisions and relationships.

The game was intensifying, exactly as I'd planned. But as I headed home, I found myself thinking not of revenge but of James—his kiss by the moonlit lake, his respect for my boundaries, his warning about the Hayes family's manipulations.

For the first time since my resurrection, I wondered if there might be more to this second life than the justice I'd returned to deliver. If perhaps, alongside my carefully orchestrated revenge, there might be room for something I hadn't planned for—something genuine, unexpected, and real.

But such thoughts were dangerous distractions from my purpose. I had returned with a mission, and that mission remained unchanged: to systematically dismantle the lives of those who had destroyed mine, piece by calculated piece.

The clock was ticking—three years and eight months until the anniversary of my death. Everything was proceeding according to plan. I couldn't afford to lose focus now, not when I was finally positioning my betrayers exactly where I needed them.

Not even for an unexpected ally who made me question whether revenge was all this second life could offer.