Bella Youngman

A sharp pain shot through my head, pulling me from a deep darkness. I opened my eyes to my luxury penthouse, but I shouldn't have been there. I remembered dying. The memory was cold and sharp: my protégé, Dustin, sold me out, and my husband, Graves, watched our company crumble, leading to my fatal heart attack. Then, Graves appeared, his charming, empty smile unchanged. But he wasn't alone. A young woman, Alex Salazar, stood behind him, clutching her cheap handbag. Graves introduced her as an intern, saying she had nowhere to stay and would be living with us. My eyes fell to her neck, where a dark hickey was partially hidden. The date on the nightstand confirmed it: I had traveled back in time to the exact day Graves brought Alex home in my previous life, the beginning of my long, painful nightmare. Last time, I had screamed and thrown things, starting my humiliation. A strange calm washed over me. I had been given a second chance, not to win him back, but to escape. "Of course," I said, my voice even, "The poor thing. We should take care of her." Graves looked surprised, then relieved. He thought he had won. "In fact," I continued, pulling out divorce papers, "I'll make sure she's comfortable. You just have one small thing to do for me." I wanted the Malibu property. "Give me that, and I'll walk away quietly. You can have your new life. You can take care of this... orphan."

My husband Kamden and I were the most powerful couple in New York, an unbreakable alliance of wealth and influence. To the world, we were perfect, especially with our new baby daughter, Penny, waiting for us at home. But the illusion shattered at the Jasper Stone gala when Cason Vincent walked in. He wasn't just a rival; he was a dead ringer for Kamden—a cruel, predatory mirror image who seemed to know the secrets of the year I spent in London. In front of the city’s elite, a socialite screamed that I was a fraud, accusing me of using Kamden as a "substitute" for the man I truly loved. The music stopped, and the room turned into a sea of judgmental whispers. I expected my husband to shield me, but the paranoia in his eyes was sharper than any rumor. He grabbed my scarred left hand—the one I had ruined to save his life years ago—and squeezed it until I winced in pain. "Am I just a replacement?" he hissed, his voice trembling with a terrifying insecurity. He didn't see the wife who had sacrificed her world-class piano career for him; he saw a woman who had settled for a copy. The injustice of it felt like a physical blow. I had destroyed my body and my future to keep him safe, yet he was ready to believe a stranger’s lies over three years of marriage. He didn't want the truth; he wanted me to beg for his forgiveness for a sin I never committed. I realized then that my silence wasn't an admission of guilt, but my last shred of dignity. I pulled my hand away and walked out of the gala alone, leaving Kamden standing face-to-face with the man who had come to dismantle our lives.

The champagne was still bubbling in my hand when a five-year-old boy ran onto the ballroom floor and screamed "Daddy" at my husband. Then his mistress, Hayden, walked in wearing a dress that cost more than my car, announcing to the stunned crowd that they were a family. Instead of kicking them out, Emilio protected them. The next day, when I confronted them, Hayden lied and claimed I tried to hurt her. Without hesitation, Emilio shoved me hard to "protect" his real family. I fell backward onto the concrete curb. While I lay there bleeding, losing the baby I had wanted for years, he didn't even check on me. He stepped over my body to comfort his mistress and illegitimate son, leaving me to wait for the ambulance alone. In the hospital, I learned the sickening truth: he had only married me years ago because he thought I was terminally ill and would die quickly. Now that I had survived, I was just an inconvenience blocking his happy ending. He even tried to force me to sign away my assets to save his company from a scandal caused by his mistress. "You're nothing without me," he sneered. I looked at the check he offered to buy my silence and tore it up. If he wanted me gone so badly, I would grant his wish. I arranged for a one-way ticket to Zurich and left a single white tulip on his pillow—the flower of the dead. To the world, Elana Acosta died on that pavement. But Elana Valeri was just getting started.

The world shattered in a flash of white-hot light, and the screaming began. My husband, John, once the living proof of my life' s work, a hero reborn, transformed into a monster right before my eyes. He wasn't just violent; he was unrecognizably enraged, tearing at reinforced barriers with superhuman strength given by the very neural chip I designed to heal his mind. In the ensuing chaos, a heavy stanchion swung, hitting me. I woke up in a sterile hospital room, a hollow ache where my baby bump used to be. Our child was gone. John, who had caused this, sat nearby, his face a battleground of conflicting emotions. He blamed me, "Our child is dead because your work wasn' t good enough, Eve." His words twisted the dagger. Not only had he stolen our child, but he also accused my life's dedication, corrupted by my shrewd rival, Vivian Thorne, whose name on his lips felt like the ultimate betrayal. They stripped me of everything-my project, my license, my credibility-a public execution at my hospital bed. Then, Vivian, with a sickeningly sweet smile, proposed using my dead son's genetic material, combined with my stolen neural map, to create her "perfect" being. The horror paralyzed me. This wasn't just theft; it was a profane violation. I was forced to concede, typing out the master password to my life' s work. But then, a flicker of something new ignited within me. "You have no idea what you' ve just done," I whispered. Trapped, tortured, alone, a faint whisper echoed in my mind from the depths of despair. It's not over. It was my own voice-clear, strong, a promise of retribution.

The studio lights were blazing, but a different kind of heat spread through me-the fizzing anticipation of finally revealing my four-year secret with Liam, my celebrated architect boyfriend. He was "ArchitectGod," I was "ChefSweetheart," and our in-game mansion, "Evermore Estate," held the truth of our love. Tonight, on the "Building Love" finale, I' d log in live and propose. Just minutes before the broadcast, I found a quiet corner backstage. My thumb hovered over the familiar game icon, a smile touching my lips. But instead of our virtual home, a sterile system notification popped up: "Your partnership with 'ArchitectGod' has been terminated. You have been removed from the shared property 'Evermore Estate.'" My mind went blank. My message to Liam, "What's going on?" was met with three chilling words: "It's over, Ava." Then, a 10,000,000 gold coin transfer. A severance package. My secret life, dismissed with meaningless game currency. The online forums exploded: "ArchitectGod just dumped ChefSweetheart!" Before I could breathe, I was ushered onto stage. The host announced Liam's "new partner"-Chloe Green, a rival designer. Liam, the man I loved, stood beside her, his face a mask of cool indifference. My blood ran cold as Chloe announced they' d been "collaborating secretly in the game for a little while now." They had stolen my life, online and off. My stomach clenched. This wasn't just a breakup; it was a public execution. I stood frozen under the hot lights, their betrayal burning into my soul. Why? How could he do this? I had to fight back.

My mother' s voice, thick with religious fervor, announced her latest decree for SAT season: 100 days of no secular music, no TV, no internet. This wasn't the first time. I remembered falling down the stairs, Molly's raging accusations still ringing in my ears, right before the darkness consumed me. Now, I was 16 again, trapped in the same suffocating reality, but with the chilling knowledge of how it all ended for me. My twin sister, Molly, quickly embraced Mama's extreme rules, her 'pious' facade masking pure laziness, while I quietly perfected my escape plan. As Molly spiraled into isolation at school, earning the nickname "Amish Girl," my mother, Debra, only tightened her grip, even forbidding basic hygiene. The SAT scores revealed my 1580 against Molly's dismal 850, shattering Mama's carefully crafted image, especially on live stream. Instead of facing reality, Mama demanded I sacrifice my Duke acceptance, "for Molly's sake," a sister who had literally killed me in my past life. How could my own mother expect me to give up my entire future, again, for the one who destroyed me? Why was I back? This time, I wouldn't argue, I wouldn't compromise, and I certainly wouldn't die for their delusions. This time, I was getting out, even if it meant watching them burn their own lives to the ground.

Ethan swirled his whiskey, convinced, "Relationships, marriage, it's all a game, and the one who cares less, wins." He' d often said it, casually dismissing his wife, Chloe, and believing she loved him too much to ever leave. Then came Mark's hushed words, cutting through the bar's noise like a knife: "She's dead, Ethan." Dead? Ethan laughed, a harsh, unnatural sound, certain it was a twisted prank. Chloe was just at Olivia's, throwing a tantrum, he' d even mocked her "vacation" in a text. He meticulously cleaned, cooked her favorite meal, and replaced her drooping orchid, waiting for her triumphant return. But the food grew cold, the silence deafening, as his delusion deepened. Then, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson stood at his door, their faces etched with a grief so profound it shattered his constructed reality. "She is dead, Ethan!" Mr. Peterson roared, "Dead because of you! You killed her spirit long before that car ever touched her!" Ethan swayed, his mind reeling. Dead? But how? Why couldn't he remember? Why did everyone look at him with such hatred, such pity? Was he truly capable of something so monstrous that his mind had simply erased it? A blinding headache pulsed behind his eyes, a terrifying void in his memory threatening to swallow him whole. As the ceramic bird Chloe made finally fell from his numb fingers, the dam in Ethan' s mind broke. Memories, cold and brutal, flooded in: ignoring her calls during a storm, prioritizing a deal over her safety, her body under a white sheet, his blank stare at her funeral. Months later, a diagnosis came: glioblastoma. The doctor offered surgery, but warned it could erase his traumatic past. "I won't forget her," he rasped, refusing the memory-erasing procedure. He would cling to the pain, a constant reminder of the woman he destroyed, now the only thing left of her he deserved.

For fifteen years, I poured every ounce of my being into raising my "brother" Billy-Joe, sacrificing my own dreams and college education to get him to his NFL draft party. He was my whole purpose after our parents supposedly died. At Billy-Joe' s draft party, the festive air turned noxious. I saw them: Earl and Sue-Ellen, my "dead" parents, alive and too prosperous, doting on a jeweled stranger named Tiffany. My blood ran cold when they confessed the brutal truth: I was a mere "swap," used to raise their biological son, while their true daughter Tiffany lived in luxury as the Governor's child. Fifteen years of my life, my sacrifices, were just a "business decision." "She was useful," Sue-Ellen hissed, "Now you're a loose end." Before I could process their betrayal, pain exploded, and darkness claimed me. I woke up gasping, not in the afterlife, but in my old trailer bed. It was the day of their fake funeral. My body was intact, yet I had been brutally murdered. How could they fake their deaths, then try to kill me for their monstrous secret, leaving the world to pity them? This wasn't grief; it was a cold, sharp fury. This was no nightmare. This was a second chance. And I knew, with chilling clarity, every single payback I was going to exact. They thought they had disposed of me? They were about to pay.

Ethan Caldwell, the silent, brooding man I hired to protect me, became my world. I’d found him battered and broken in an alley, a lonely art student extending an impulsive hand. For months, he was my quiet guardian, his intense gaze a constant comfort. Then my stepsister, beautiful, fragile-looking Chloe, entered our lives. She spun a story of childhood bravery, of saving a boy, clinching it with a cheap, painted whistle she swore was a cherished memento. Every word was a lie. In an instant, Ethan’s loyalty mutated. His icy stare, once a barrier to the world, turned on me, accusing. Chloe, his supposed childhood savior, became his singular, toxic obsession. His "protection" transformed into a relentless torment for me. My art, my passion, systematically obliterated. My masterpiece, ruined by her "clumsy" accident. My painting hand, my Achilles tendon, deliberately shattered to cripple my future, all dismissed as "an unfortunate incident." My own father and brother, swayed by Chloe’s manipulative pleas, turned their backs, echoing accusations of my "jealousy" and "instability." Ethan—the man I saved, the man I trusted—suppressed undeniable evidence of Chloe's deceit, even orchestrating her winning a prestigious art competition with *my* stolen designs. I lay physically broken in a hospital bed, isolated, bleeding internally from my stepsister's calculated cruelty. How could the man I saved—the man who claimed to protect—become my ruthless tormentor? Was his devotion to Chloe’s fabricated innocence so profoundly blind he’d sacrifice *everything* for her: truth, justice, even my life? When they demanded a public apology from me for Chloe's lies—a condition for receiving life-saving medical care—something inside me snapped. At a high-society gala, facing their public condemnation, I finally hit back. I raised my cane. Not at Chloe, but at my own mending leg, deliberately inflicting fresh horror to expose every lie, every betrayal. This was my fight, and I would make them see the truth, no matter the cost.

Here’s the translation: In our next encounter, he had become a top celebrity. Meanwhile, I was still at the village entrance catching geese. Someone mentioned me and asked, "Do you still keep in touch?" Zhou Sinian glanced down at me and replied, "No contact, not familiar." Three years ago, he said I was too clingy and that there was no way we could be together. After hearing that, I deleted his contact information, threw away his gifts, and walked away. I thought he was still the same. But I didn’t expect that from the very beginning of participating in the dating show, he was there for me.

Elena died on the operating table, betrayed by her husband, her unborn child already gone. But death? Just her intermission. She woke up in a whole new world-a beastmen's world, where females are rarer than diamonds and the strongest males go mad without a woman's mark to calm them down. And her? Labelled the weakest female alive. An F-rank body with a joke of a status. But hidden inside? Unlimited mental power. Just as she's figuring out this mess, a system pops up with one hell of an offer: Complete the missions. Bond with assigned males. Save this world. Do all that, and you get a one-way ticket back home. for revenge. Sounds simple? Think again. A Wolf General, colder than a blizzard, who should have ended her-ended up letting her mark him. A Fox Prince, all charming smiles and secret schemes, who started playing games only to lose his own heart. A golden Dragon, sunshine-bright and fiercely possessive, who declares her his destined treasure. A shadowy Serpent, too patient and too dangerous, watching her every move from the dark. A Phoenix King, whose love burns so hot he'd reduce empires to cinders for her. They all need her mark. They all want her. And sharing? Not in their vocabulary. Too bad for them- She's not here for love stories. She's here to survive. To climb. To turn their legendary power into her own stepping stones. And one day. To go back and make her betrayers wish they were never born.

The sensation of falling wasn't like flying; it was heavy, violent, and smelled of burning flesh. Above us, on the crumbling balcony of the Sears manor, Duke Cato Sears turned his back, shielding his cousin Bianca from the smoke as he walked away, leaving my sister Blossom and me to drop into the abyss. As the darkness slammed shut like an iron door, I realized my entire life had been a cruel script written by the people I called family. In my first life, I was the sacrificial lamb of the Dawson manor, sold to a man who eventually watched me die without blinking. My sister Blossom had pushed me into Cato's arms to avoid his rumors, only to laugh when the fire finally consumed us both. My father had measured my value like a piece of livestock, and my step-grandmother didn't even acknowledge my existence while I was being led to the slaughter. I died in that fire, feeling the heat scorch my skin and the weight of a hatred so potent it tasted like bile. I spent twenty years being the weak, manipulated shadow of a girl, only to end up as nothing more than a phantom scorch mark on a "hero's" estate. I couldn't understand why my own blood treated my life like a game they could discard. The injustice of it all burned hotter than the flames that took my last breath. Then, I sat up, sucking in air that tasted of lavender and air conditioning, not smoke. I was back in my bedroom, three days before the engagement ball that ruined my life. Blossom stood at the door, her "sweet" mask slipping as she tried to manipulate me into the Duke's path again. She thought she was the only one who had come back, but she didn't realize that this time, I was going to let her have exactly what she wanted: the Duke, the bankruptcy, and the living hell that awaited her in that house.

I stood in the Royal Hall, clutching a glass of warm champagne while watching Senator Levine laugh. To the crowd, he was a pillar of the community; to me, he was the parasite who had already destroyed my life once. In my past life, this gala was the night the monarchy began to bleed. Levine successfully planted his cameras, the Vance empire funded a coup, and the kingdom I loved was sold off to the highest bidder. I lived through the consequences of my silence. I watched my sister, Seraphina, die in childbirth because the medical supplies were intercepted by traitors. I watched the man I loved, Duke Elliot, stripped of his titles and branded a criminal. I spent my final days in a damp, freezing cell, listening to the executioner sharpen his blade while the people cheered for our demise. The injustice burned in my throat like lye. I died wondering how I could have been so naive, how I could have let these monsters walk among us while I played the part of a perfect, quiet wife. Why did the gods let the wicked prosper while my family’s blood watered the palace gardens? What would I have given for just one chance to strike first? Then, the world shifted. I opened my eyes to find myself back at the gala, the scent of sandalwood and rain surrounding me as Elliot rested a possessive hand on my back. I wasn't just a Duchess anymore; I was a ghost from a future that would never happen, and I was ready to erase every name on my list.

Chloe Miller and Blake Harrison were husband and wife, a title that masked three years of mutual hatred and separate beds. Then, a gang abducted and brutally murdered Chloe. But instead of peace, she woke to the Grim Reaper' s voice: "Ms. Miller, you have desires you have not resolved. You cannot be reborn yet." She was granted ten days to return to life and fix her problems, or risk eternal damnation. Chloe returned to find Blake celebrating her "death" with her adoptive sister, Amelia Miller, the woman Blake truly loved. Blake, believing her to be a manipulative ghost, grabbed her throat. "You have the nerve to come back!" he snarled. He thought she faked her kidnapping, mocking her with twisted accusations alongside Amelia and her parents. Chloe, overwhelmed, saw the prayer beads she' d gotten for Blake during his accident, a symbol of her wasted devotion. Her past devotion felt like a torment now, a chain she needed to break. She pulled the beads from his wrist, scattering them, severing their hold. "I' m tired, Blake," she said, her voice clear and firm. "Let' s get a divorce." His eyes widened in shock. He refused. He' d always refused. But this time, Chloe wasn' t fighting for him. She was fighting for herself. She was finally ready to rewrite her own story, leaving behind the shattered pieces of her past.

A sharp pain shot through my head, pulling me from a deep darkness. I opened my eyes to my luxury penthouse, but I shouldn't have been there. I remembered dying. The memory was cold and sharp: my protégé, Dustin, sold me out, and my husband, Graves, watched our company crumble, leading to my fatal heart attack. Then, Graves appeared, his charming, empty smile unchanged. But he wasn't alone. A young woman, Alex Salazar, stood behind him, clutching her cheap handbag. Graves introduced her as an intern, saying she had nowhere to stay and would be living with us. My eyes fell to her neck, where a dark hickey was partially hidden. The date on the nightstand confirmed it: I had traveled back in time to the exact day Graves brought Alex home in my previous life, the beginning of my long, painful nightmare. Last time, I had screamed and thrown things, starting my humiliation. A strange calm washed over me. I had been given a second chance, not to win him back, but to escape. "Of course," I said, my voice even, "The poor thing. We should take care of her." Graves looked surprised, then relieved. He thought he had won. "In fact," I continued, pulling out divorce papers, "I'll make sure she's comfortable. You just have one small thing to do for me." I wanted the Malibu property. "Give me that, and I'll walk away quietly. You can have your new life. You can take care of this... orphan."

The screams of the "Proving" ceremony were the first thing I heard when I woke up. My eyes shot open, and the scent of pine, sweat, and something metallic filled my lungs. I was back in this godforsaken survivalist compound, mysteriously transported from my office job. A hand grabbed my arm, and it was Gabrielle Chadwick, or Gabby, her terrified eyes pleading. "Molly, help me! Please! They're going to hurt me!" This was the ritual where young men would strike unmarried women with leather belts, and the one enduring the most blows was deemed "most desired." In my past life, I shielded Gabby, taking every blow for her, believing I was protecting a friend. My sacrifice made me the "most honored," granting me first choice of a partner, and I chose Caleb Scott, the compound leader' s son. But my life with Caleb was a private hell of control and brutality, while Gabby, seething with resentment for what she thought was her rightful place, pretended to be my friend. She eventually got her revenge, pushing me off a cliff during a foraging trip. Now, reborn at the start of that same horrifying ceremony, Gabby was playing the same part, her hand clamping my arm, her voice a desperate plea for me to be her shield again. I looked at her, at the calculated fear in her eyes, remembering the sharp, final impact of falling. Not this time.

The stale smell of burnt coffee and dread filled the air. I knew this night. The final, all-night document review for a billion-dollar merger. Last time, my husband, Mark, the senior partner, abandoned his post for his intern mistress, Chloe, after she ruined critical documents. Their negligence cost us the deal and ruined Mr. Thompson, our biggest client. They pinned it all on me. I was disbarred, sued into oblivion, and died poor and alone, while Mark and Chloe thrived, protected by her powerful family. Now, I was back. Reborn on the worst night of my life, with only four hours to save everything. But the past was insistent. Chloe, with her shrill apologies, again spilled coffee-this time directly onto the irreplaceable signature page. Mark, predictably, jumped to defend her, leaving the crucial filing to comfort his "distressed" mistress. "Chloe needs me!" he hissed, as his phone blared with her manipulative threats: "If you don't come to me this second, I'm going to the clinic! I'll get rid of it!" He shoved me aside, spitting, "The firm has malpractice insurance for a reason." And just like last time, he was gone, leaving chaos in his wake. How could a man jeopardize a billion-dollar deal, his reputation, and his client' s legacy for a flighty intern? How could such selfish, incompetent people rise to power while I was destroyed? This time, I wouldn't just watch. I wouldn't break. With pain in my heart and hip, I walked to the head of the abandoned table. The game had changed. This time, I' d take the lead. And this time, I wouldn' t just survive-I' d make sure they burned for it.

My own father, David, drowned me in the cold Caribbean, tying the anchor chain to my ankles himself, his voice devoid of emotion as he declared it was "for Chloe," my adopted sister, blaming me for her demise. But instead of death, I gasped awake, not underwater, but on our luxury yacht, the *Serenity*, hours before the terrifying pirate attack I'd already endured, realizing I was trapped reliving my darkest nightmare. My frantic warnings dismissed, my father abandoned us *again*, taking all able-bodied security and crew for a dolphin chase with Chloe, only to explicitly tell my terrified mother on the phone that I was "shark bait *again*," a chilling confirmation that he remembered my original death and was willing to let it happen once more. The injustice was soul-crushing: while my brother, Mike, bravely sacrificed his arm fighting the invading pirates, even our closest ally, Uncle Ben, initially sided with David and Chloe, believing their manipulative lies about my supposed "jealous drama." However, the grotesque discovery of Mike's severed limb in the open ocean finally shattered Uncle Ben's blind faith, transforming him into an unlikely ally and igniting within me an unyielding resolve to uncover the shocking truth: my "sweet" adopted sister, Chloe, was the actual orchestrator of every horrific betrayal, and I would make sure she paid for every single one of our recurring nightmares.

As a successful surgeon, I, Michael, dedicated my life to my chosen sister, Chloe, whose critical lung condition required a transplant. My biological sister, Sarah, however, remained nothing but a painful, inconvenient burden, ignored and resented for years. Terminally ill and near death, Sarah made a final, desperate call from her hospital bed, her voice weak as she tried to say goodbye. My only response? A chilling, impatient "If you're not dead, stop bothering me!" before I hung up. I dismissed every subsequent plea from her university, every warning about her rapidly deteriorating health, convinced she was just a "drama queen" faking for attention. Even when her name appeared on the critical admissions list at the very hospital where Chloe was scheduled for her life-saving surgery, I coldly scoffed, "She's doing this to ruin my day." How could I, a healer, allow such a festering hatred to consume me, built on a lie I blindly believed for years? The sheer, crushing weight of Sarah's silent suffering and my monstrous indifference hangs over me, a chilling testament to my unforgivable cruelty. But then, the unimaginable truth was slammed into my reality: the anonymous donor who saved Chloe's life was none other than Sarah. In a single, devastating moment, her ultimate sacrifice exposed the agonizing depths of my abandonment, shattering my carefully constructed world and setting me on a course of inescapable, public ruin.

For years, I lived a quiet life as Sarah, deeply in love with Beau Harrison, tirelessly helping him and his brother Clay rise through the ranks. I poured my heart into a protective Woven Ward for Beau, believing we were building a beautiful, shared future towards our sacred Haven. My Cinderheart sister, Ashlyn, found her own love with Clay, and our gentle Shadowfox, Whisper, curled at our feet, a constant comfort. Then, a knock on the door shattered our world into a million pieces. Clay stood there with a smug Crystal Thorne, his voice chilling as he callously abandoned Ashlyn. Crystal brazenly demanded Ashlyn's very essence, her Spirit-Spark, for her own selfish ascension. But the true horror struck when she casually confessed they' d already murdered Whisper, harvesting his spark for Crystal' s gain. Ashlyn' s raw scream tore through the cabin as untamed flames erupted around her, shedding her disguise like a burning cloak before she rocketed away in a desperate escape. My heart was a burning stone of grief and rage. Moments later, Beau arrived, his face a stranger' s, summarily dismissing our love as he told me I was too "gentle" and "unambitious" for the Haven. He stood there with Crystal, expecting me to hand over my own Spirit-Spark after witnessing my beloved sister' s torments and our innocent pet' s murder. How could they be so utterly blind, so incredibly callous? They saw only Sarah, the soft woman they thought weak and easily discarded. They had no idea I, Scarlett, held the keys to the very divine realm they craved, no idea about the Guardian Spirit they had just so heinously betrayed. But their triumph would be short-lived, their stolen glory a trap. A cold resolve solidified in my core; my own vengeful plan was already set in motion. With a feigned, heartbroken resignation, I handed Beau the Woven Ward again, knowing it was now not a gift, but a tether ensuring their destined fall. "Oh, I' ll be there," I whispered, as Sarah was irrevocably gone, and Scarlett, the ancient Guardian, returned, ready to make them pay.