Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital loomed against the night sky, its windows glowing like vigilant eyes. In my past life, I had visited this place countless times, always as the dutiful daughter visiting her "mentally ill" mother. Always supervised by Victoria or a nurse she trusted. Always leaving with an even deeper sense of helplessness.

But tonight would be different.


I paid the taxi driver and walked toward the entrance with purpose. The night security guard looked up from his crossword puzzle as I entered.

"Visiting hours are over, miss."

I smiled, mimicking Victoria's haughty confidence. "I'm Elizabeth Haston's daughter. There's an emergency, and I need to see her immediately."


He frowned. "I'll need authorization from—"

"Dr. Morris," I finished for him, naming the doctor who had always been in Victoria’s pocket. "He’s waiting for my call. Should I call him now, or would you prefer to explain to him why you delayed me?"


The security guard hesitated, then opened the door for me. Some troubles aren't worth having, especially during a late Friday night shift.

I knew by heart the way to my mother's room—third floor, east wing, Room 317. The hallway was quiet at this hour, most patients sedated into sleep by medications. A nurse glanced up as I passed, but my confident stride and determined expression prevented her from questioning me.

Outside Room 317, I paused to compose myself. The last time I had seen my mother alive, she had been a shell of herself—frail, confused, her once vibrant artistic spirit crushed by years of unnecessary medication.

I knocked gently, then used the keycard I had stolen from the nurses' station during a previous visit—a contingency plan I had never before had the courage to use.

The room was dimly lit by a small bedside lamp. My mother sat in an armchair by the window, her gaze fixed on the night sky. She didn't turn when I entered.

"Mom," I said softly.

She looked at me, her blue eyes—so similar to mine—clouded by medication. "Ella?" Her voice was a whisper, as if she feared speaking too loudly would make me disappear.

"It's me." I crossed the room to kneel before her, taking her thin hand. "I've come to take you home."

Confusion crossed her face. "Victoria said... the doctors said..."

"They lied," I said firmly. "You're not sick, Mom. You never were."

I took a small pill box from my purse. Inside were the medications that, in my previous life, I'd had analyzed by a pharmacist friend—after it was too late to help my mother. These weren't medications to treat any mental illness, but drugs that induced symptoms mimicking schizophrenia and paranoia.

"These are what they've been giving you," I explained, showing her the pills. "Victoria has been poisoning you for years."

My mother stared at the pills, then at me. "How do you know this?"

I had prepared for this question. I couldn't tell her that I had lived this life before, that I had watched her die, that I had discovered the truth only after losing everything.

"I found Victoria’s diary," I lied smoothly. "She has been planning this for years—drugging you, convincing Father that you were unstable, isolating you from everyone who loved you."

"But why?" my mother's voice broke. "What did I ever do to her?"

"Your existence was an obstacle to her," I said simply. "You were an obstacle between her and Father’s fortune. An obstacle between her daughter and my inheritance."

My mother's eyes cleared a little, a spark of her old wisdom returning. "Richard would never believe such things about me."

"He already does," I said gently. "But we're going to change that. First, we need to get you out of here, somewhere safe."

I helped her to her feet, draping a coat over her thin shoulders. "We need to move quickly and quietly. Can you walk?"

She nodded, determination replacing confusion. "Where are we going?"

"To see an old friend of yours," I replied, guiding her toward the door. "Oliver Morrison."

In my past life, Oliver was Alexander's lawyer, and later became one of my few allies in the Blake family. What Victoria never knew was that Oliver had fallen in love with my mother before Victoria had her committed to a mental institution. They had been art students, before she met my father.

Oliver never married, and in my past life, he confessed to me during a company party after having too much to drink—he had always regretted not fighting harder for Elizabeth Haston.

Now, he would get a second chance. So would she.

We made it to the service elevator without incident. The night staff was minimal, and those who saw us looked the other way—an unexpected benefit of being reborn was that I knew exactly who could be bribed and who could be intimidated.

Outside, a rideshare car I had booked in advance was waiting. As we settled into the back seat, my mother gripped my hand tightly.

"How did you know?" she asked. "All these years, I thought I was crazy. I thought the things I remembered—what I saw Victoria do—were hallucinations."

"I knew because I believed you," I said, tears welling in my eyes at the truth of these words. "Because some things can never stay hidden."

As the car pulled away from Bellevue, I watched my mother's reflection in the window. She already looked more lucid, more like her old self. By morning, the drugs would begin to leave her system, and the real recovery work could begin.

My phone vibrated again—multiple messages from Victoria, growing increasingly frantic. I turned it off again without reading them.

Let her panic. Let her wonder where her carefully orchestrated plan had gone wrong. Let her feel, for once, the fear and helplessness she had inflicted on my mother for years.

The car turned onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward Oliver's Upper East Side apartment. I had called him from the taxi on our way from Bellevue, giving him enough information to prepare for our arrival, but not overwhelming him with the whole truth.

"Ella," my mother suddenly said, her voice stronger than before. "There's something you should know. Something I've never told anyone."

I turned to her, curious. Even with my knowledge of the future, there were still secrets I had yet to discover.

"The night before Victoria had me committed to the asylum," she continued, "I found documents in your father's study—financial records showing transfers of millions from his accounts. When I confronted Victoria, she didn't deny it. She just smiled and said no one would believe me."

I felt a chill run down my spine. In my past life, those funds were never found. After my death, Victoria gained control of everything.

"We'll find the evidence," I promised. "This time, everyone will believe you."

As we approached Oliver's building, I allowed myself a moment of hope. In just one evening, I had altered the course of my destiny. I had saved my mother, avoided Alexander Blake, and begun plotting the downfall of Victoria and Sophia.

But I knew it was too early to celebrate. Katherine Stanford was still out there, still determined to claim Alexander for herself. My father was still under Victoria’s influence. And Alexander himself—the man whose betrayal had cost me everything—was a complicated issue I would eventually have to face.

The game had only just begun.