Over the next three months, I allowed our relationship to develop along the path I remembered from my previous life. Dinners became more intimate, professional events became opportunities for public appearances as a couple, and Ethan's possessive tendencies—which I'd once found flattering—emerged with increasing clarity.

He began questioning my continued work with the Blackwood Hotel, suggesting it was a conflict of interest given James's occasional competition with Hayes family investments. He expressed concern about my heavy workload, suggesting I could afford to be more selective about clients now that I had "established" myself. He introduced me to his social circle as "my Olivia," a possessive framing I pretended not to notice.


Throughout this period, I maintained my private connection with James, though with increasing difficulty. Our dinners became less frequent, our communication more careful. I could see his concern about my developing relationship with Ethan, though he never directly questioned my choices.

"You seem different lately," he observed during one of our rare evenings together at his apartment. "Preoccupied."

"Just busy," I replied, though we both knew it was more than that.


He studied me for a moment, his perceptive eyes seeing more than I wanted to reveal. "The Hayes orbit has its own gravity," he said finally. "It pulls people into patterns they might not choose freely."

The observation was uncomfortably accurate. In my previous life, I'd been gradually shaped by the Hayes family's expectations and values, becoming someone I barely recognized by the end. This time, I was aware of the process but allowing it to unfold for my own purposes.


"I know what I'm doing," I assured him, though sometimes I wondered if my focus on revenge was narrowing my vision just as my naivety had before.

"I hope so," he replied simply. "Just remember that you have choices, Olivia. Always."

Six months into my relationship with Ethan, he proposed—exactly as he had in my previous life, during a weekend at his family's Hamptons estate. The private beach dinner, the sunset timing, the vintage Tiffany ring that had belonged to his grandmother—all precisely as I remembered.

"You've transformed my life," he said, kneeling before me on the sand. "Your brilliance, your vision, your strength—you challenge me to be better in every way. I can't imagine my future without you in it."

The words were perfect, the setting romantic, the ring exquisite. In my previous life, I'd been overwhelmed with joy and validation, tears streaming down my face as I accepted immediately. This time, I recognized the calculated nature of his timing—after the successful completion of another Hayes Foundation event, with his parents conveniently planning to "drop by" the beach house the following morning to celebrate the engagement he was confident I would accept.

"This is unexpected," I said, which was a lie but necessary to maintain my performance.

"Is it?" he smiled, still kneeling. "I think we've been moving toward this moment since we met. Some connections are simply inevitable, Olivia."

The confidence in his statement revealed volumes about his worldview—that what he wanted was inevitable, that resistance was merely a temporary obstacle to his desires. In my previous life, I'd found this certainty charismatic. Now I recognized it as entitlement.

Still, I had reached the critical juncture in my plan. Accepting his proposal would give me access to the inner workings of the Hayes empire, positioning me precisely where I needed to be for the final phase of my revenge.

"Yes," I said, manufacturing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Yes, I'll marry you."

His triumphant expression as he slipped the ring onto my finger was exactly as I remembered—not the joy of mutual love but the satisfaction of acquisition. He pulled me into a kiss that was more possessive than passionate, his hands gripping me with an intensity that bordered on uncomfortable.

"You've made me the happiest man alive," he declared, though his eyes held calculation rather than emotion. "My parents will be thrilled."

Of course they would be, I thought coldly. They'd orchestrated this outcome from the beginning, identifying me as a useful addition to their family interests—talented enough to bring value, malleable enough (they believed) to be shaped to their purposes.

The following morning, Richard and Victoria arrived at the beach house bearing champagne and knowing smiles. Their congratulations were warm but assessing—Victoria immediately discussing potential wedding dates that aligned with the social season, Richard mentioning prenuptial arrangements with casual authority.

"Nothing to worry about," he assured me when I raised an eyebrow. "Standard protection for family assets. Your attorney can review it with ours."

In my previous life, I'd been intimidated by this immediate business approach to our engagement, afraid to seem difficult or ungrateful. This time, I met his gaze directly.

"Of course," I replied coolly. "I'll have my legal team prepare as well. Standard protection for my company and personal assets."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he nodded approval. "Smart. I've always said Ethan needed someone with business acumen as well as social grace."

As Victoria launched into discussions of suitable venues and guest list considerations, I felt Ethan's hand tighten around mine—a subtle reminder of ownership, of my new position within their world. In my previous life, I'd leaned into that possession, grateful for the security and status it represented.

This time, I recognized it for what it was—the closing of a trap I had deliberately walked into, a necessary step toward the justice I had returned to deliver.

The engagement announcement appeared in the New York Times the following Sunday—a carefully worded statement emphasizing my professional accomplishments alongside Ethan's family pedigree. The phone calls and congratulations poured in immediately, including one from Mia that contained a note of something I now recognized as calculation.

"I'm so happy for you," she gushed, though her tone held an undercurrent I couldn't quite identify. "We should celebrate! Dinner this week?"

I agreed, knowing this meeting would be significant. In my previous life, Ethan's proposal had triggered a shift in Mia's behavior—subtle at first, then increasingly obvious as my wedding plans progressed. This time, I would be watching for the signs I'd missed before.

We met at an upscale restaurant in SoHo, where Mia arrived looking particularly polished, her expression bright with what appeared to be genuine excitement.

"Let me see it!" she demanded as soon as she sat down, grabbing for my left hand. "Oh my god, it's gorgeous. Vintage Tiffany, right? Ethan mentioned his grandmother's ring was spectacular."

The casual reference to private conversations with my fiancé—discussions about family heirlooms that would normally be intimate—confirmed what I already knew about their relationship. In my previous life, I'd thought nothing of such comments, assuming they reflected innocent friendship rather than calculated information gathering.

"When did Ethan discuss his grandmother's ring with you?" I asked lightly, watching her reaction.

A flicker of something—caution, perhaps—crossed her face before she laughed dismissively. "Oh, ages ago. When we were discussing the Hayes family collection for that art authentication project. He mentioned their heirloom jewelry in passing."

The explanation was plausible but practiced—too smooth, too ready. In my previous life, I'd accepted such explanations without question, trusting both my fiancé and best friend implicitly.

"How thoughtful of him to share family history with you," I remarked neutrally.

"We've become good friends," she shrugged, her eyes carefully assessing my reaction. "He values my opinion on art and culture. And lately, on you."

"On me?" I raised an eyebrow.

"He wants to make you happy," she explained, her tone suggesting this was perfectly normal. "He asks what you like, what matters to you. It's sweet, actually."

In my previous life, I'd found this touching—my fiancé consulting my best friend to ensure he pleased me. Now I recognized it as the beginning of their alliance against me, the foundation of the betrayal that would eventually destroy me.

"Very sweet," I agreed with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Though I prefer direct communication in relationships."

She laughed, though something in her expression suggested my response wasn't what she'd expected. "Of course. But men sometimes need guidance, you know? Especially with important things like engagement rings and wedding plans."

Wedding plans. The words hung between us, laden with significance. In my previous life, I'd immediately asked Mia to be my maid of honor, sharing every detail of planning with her, relying on her input and support. This time, I would be more strategic.

"Speaking of wedding plans," she continued when I didn't immediately respond, "I assume I'll be standing beside you? Maid of honor duties are practically in my job description after all these years."

The presumption was exactly as I remembered—not a request but an assumption of position, of insider status in my most personal moments. In my previous life, I'd confirmed immediately, grateful for her interest and support.

"Actually," I said carefully, "we haven't discussed the wedding party yet. Ethan and I are considering something small, possibly even a destination ceremony with just immediate family."

Her expression froze momentarily before she recovered. "Oh! That's... unexpected. You always talked about a big New York wedding."

"People change," I replied simply. "Priorities shift."

"Of course," she nodded, though her disappointment was evident. "Well, whatever you decide, I'm here to help. You know that."

The remainder of dinner passed with surface pleasantries, though I could sense her recalculating, adjusting to this unexpected development. As we parted outside the restaurant, her hug lingered a beat too long.

"I'm so happy for you," she said again, though her eyes held something I now recognized as assessment rather than joy. "You deserve everything coming to you."

The double meaning in her words—unintentional but prophetic—almost made me laugh. Yes, I thought as I watched her walk away. I do deserve everything coming to me. And so do you.

As I returned home that night, I studied the vintage Tiffany ring on my finger—the same ring that had once represented my greatest happiness and eventually my greatest betrayal. Now it was simply a tool, a means to an end, a necessary step toward the justice I had returned to deliver.

The clock was ticking—two years and four months until the anniversary of my death. Everything was proceeding according to plan. I was engaged to the man who had watched me die, friends with the woman who had helped him betray me, and positioned perfectly within the family whose machinations had destroyed me.

The trap was set. Now I just needed to wait for my betrayers to walk into it, exactly as I had once walked into theirs.