After Rebirth, I Became My Ex-Mate's Gravedigger

The crystal chandelier cast dancing shadows across the marble floor as I made my way through the Blackwood estate's grand foyer. Wedding planners bustled around me like worker bees, their voices a distant hum as they transformed my childhood home into what the media was already calling "the wedding of the century."

If only they knew they were decorating for a funeral—Damien's.

My phone buzzed with another text from him, the fourth since our tense conversation this morning. I didn't bother reading it. Let him sweat. Let him wonder why his perfect little puppet had suddenly developed a spine.

The scent of white roses filled the air, their cloying sweetness making my stomach turn. In my first life, I'd chosen those flowers because Damien mentioned once that they were his favorite. Now I realized he'd probably been thinking of Isabella when he said it.

"Aria, darling!" Isabella's voice rang out like silver bells, sickeningly sweet and perfectly pitched to carry across the foyer. She glided toward me in a flowing emerald dress that complemented her auburn hair, her arms outstretched as if we were long-lost sisters reuniting.

I turned to face my would-be destroyer, my expression carefully neutral. "Isabella. You're early."

"I couldn't stay away!" She pulled me into an embrace that felt like being hugged by a viper. "I'm so excited for you. This is going to be the most magical day of your life."

Magical. If she only knew how magical it was going to be—just not in the way she expected.

"I brought you something special," she continued, producing a bottle of vintage champagne from her oversized Hermès bag. "Dom Pérignon 1996. I've been saving it for this exact moment."

My blood ran cold. I remembered this bottle. In my first life, Isabella had brought the same champagne, insisting we toast to "friendship and new beginnings." I'd been so touched by the gesture, so grateful to have someone who cared about me when Damien seemed increasingly distant.

I'd never suspected the pills she'd dissolved in my glass—the ones that would make me dizzy and disoriented, causing me to stumble during the ceremony and providing the first crack in my public image.

"How thoughtful," I said, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. "Shall we open it now?"

Isabella's eyes lit up with predatory satisfaction. "I was hoping you'd say that. Let's go to your room—just the two of us. Like old times."

Old times. When she'd been slowly poisoning me with contraceptives while pretending to be my best friend. When she'd been feeding Damien lies about my "unstable behavior" while playing the concerned confidante.

I followed her up the grand staircase, my heels clicking against the marble steps like a countdown to her destruction. The photographers documenting my "getting ready" process would capture this moment—the bride sharing a private toast with her dearest friend. They had no idea they were about to witness the opening move in my war.

My bedroom had been transformed into a bridal suite, complete with a team of makeup artists and hairstylists who would arrive in a few hours. For now, it was just Isabella and me, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in a golden glow that felt almost mocking.

"This is perfect," Isabella said, settling onto the velvet chaise lounge as she worked the cork free with practiced ease. "Just like when we were in college, remember? Staying up all night talking about our dreams?"

Oh, I remembered. I remembered her asking detailed questions about my family's business, about my trust fund, about my relationship with Damien. I'd thought she was being a supportive friend. Now I knew she'd been gathering intelligence.

The cork popped with a soft sound, and Isabella poured the champagne into two crystal flutes, her movements graceful and deliberate. I watched her carefully, noting the way she angled her body to block my view of the glasses, the subtle movement of her hand as she reached into her clutch.

She turned back to me with a radiant smile, offering me a glass. "To Aria Blackwood—soon to be Aria Steele. May all your dreams come true."

I accepted the flute, noting the slight cloudiness that hadn't been there moments before. In my first life, I'd attributed it to the lighting. This time, I knew better.

"To friendship," I replied, raising my glass. "And to getting exactly what we deserve."

We clinked glasses, the crystal singing a pure, clear note. Isabella watched me intently as I brought the flute to my lips, her green eyes bright with anticipation. I took what appeared to be a generous sip, making sure she could see the champagne touch my lips.

What she couldn't see was that none of it actually entered my mouth.

"Mmm," I said, licking my lips. "This is incredible. No wonder you've been saving it."

Isabella's smile widened, triumph flickering in her eyes. "I knew you'd love it. Drink up—we have so much to celebrate."

She turned away to refill her own glass, and I seized the moment. The large potted orchid near the window provided perfect cover as I quickly tipped the contents of my flute into the soil, the drugged champagne disappearing into the rich earth.

When Isabella turned back, I was holding an empty glass, my cheeks slightly flushed as if from alcohol.

"Another?" she asked, already reaching for the bottle.

"Maybe just a little," I said, swaying slightly on my feet. "I'm starting to feel it already."

The lie came easily. In my first life, the drugs had hit me within minutes—a dizzy, disorienting sensation that had made me clumsy and confused. Isabella had played the concerned friend then, insisting I needed "fresh air" and leading me outside where the photographers would capture my stumbling, unfocused state.

Not this time.

I accepted the second glass, repeating the same performance. Isabella watched me like a hawk, her excitement barely contained as she waited for the drugs to take effect.

"You know," she said, settling back on the chaise, "I have to admit, I'm a little jealous. Damien is such a catch. You're so lucky he chose you."

The words were barbed, designed to make me feel insecure, grateful, desperate to hold onto what I had. In my first life, they would have worked.

"I am lucky," I agreed, letting a dreamy quality creep into my voice. "Sometimes I can't believe this is really happening."

"Well, believe it," Isabella said, her voice dripping with false warmth. "By tonight, you'll be Mrs. Damien Steele. The most envied woman in New York."

If she only knew that by tonight, I'd be the most dangerous woman in New York.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. In three hours, I would walk down the aisle to marry the man who had orchestrated my destruction. I would say vows I didn't mean to a man who had never loved me. And I would smile for the cameras while planning his downfall.

But first, I had a performance to finish.

"Isabella," I said, letting my voice waver slightly, "can I tell you something? I'm scared."

Her eyes sharpened with interest. "Scared? Of what, sweetie?"

"What if I'm not good enough for him? What if he realizes he made a mistake?"

The words tasted like poison, but they had the desired effect. Isabella leaned forward, her expression a perfect mask of concern that didn't quite hide the satisfaction in her eyes.

"Oh, Aria," she cooed, reaching for my hand. "You can't think like that. Damien loves you. He chose you."

Lies wrapped in comfort, designed to keep me docile and grateful. In my first life, these conversations had slowly eroded my confidence, made me more dependent on Damien's approval, more willing to accept his neglect.

This time, they were just confirming everything I already knew about her true nature.

A knock at the door interrupted us. "Ms. Blackwood? The hair and makeup team is here."

"Perfect timing," Isabella said, standing and smoothing her dress. "I should let you get ready. You're going to be the most beautiful bride New York has ever seen."

She moved toward the door, then paused, turning back with what looked like genuine affection. "Aria? I'm so happy for you. You deserve all the happiness in the world."

The sincerity in her voice was almost believable. Almost.

"Thank you," I whispered, letting tears gather in my eyes. "For everything. I don't know what I'd do without you."

She blew me a kiss and swept from the room, leaving me alone with the scent of roses and the bitter taste of revenge.

I walked to the window and looked down at the grounds below, where white tents bloomed like expensive flowers across the manicured lawn. In a few hours, three hundred of New York's elite would gather to witness what they believed was a love story.

They had no idea they were about to watch the opening act of a tragedy.

My phone buzzed with another message from Damien: "Can't wait to see you walk down that aisle. You're going to be perfect."

Perfect. Yes, I was going to be perfect.

Perfectly devastating.