Pregnant Wife's Revenge

Morning light streamed through the windows of the Salazar dining room, casting a deceptively peaceful glow over the breakfast table. I sat across from Leland, my hands cradling a teacup to hide their trembling. Three days until the fire. Three days until I would die again if I didn't escape.

"I've been thinking," I said, forcing my voice into a gentle, wistful tone that felt foreign on my tongue. "With the baby coming soon, I'd like to spend these final weeks with Mother at the Montgomery estate."

Leland looked up from his newspaper, surprise flickering across his features before settling into that practiced smile I now recognized as utterly false.

"Whatever for?" he asked, reaching for his coffee. "You'll be due any day now. The doctors are all arranged here."

I placed my hand protectively over my swollen belly, feeling Rome shift beneath my palm. "I know, but..." I let my voice tremble slightly, injecting just enough emotion to seem genuine. "I remember how Mother comforted me when I was young, how she held me when I was afraid. I want that same comfort now, before our child arrives."

I watched Leland's expression carefully, noting how his eyes darted briefly to the window—calculating, always calculating.

"It would only be for a week," I continued, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile. "Just until I feel ready to face the delivery. You understand, don't you? This is my first child."

Something shifted in Leland's posture—a subtle relaxation. He believed me. He thought I was merely a sentimental, frightened pregnant woman seeking maternal comfort.

"Of course, my dear," he said magnanimously, reaching across to pat my hand. "Family bonds are important. I'll arrange for the most comfortable carriage immediately."

"Thank you," I whispered, lowering my eyes to hide the cold calculation behind them.

As Leland stood to summon the steward, I noticed his fingers automatically adjusting his cufflinks—once, twice, three times. The nervous tell I'd recognized in my previous life. He was pleased I was leaving. My absence would make it easier for him to finalize his murderous preparations without my presence complicating matters.

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The journey to the Montgomery estate passed in tense silence. I stared out the window, watching the familiar landscape unfold, knowing this might be my last chance to see it. The carriage wheels crunched on the gravel driveway as we approached the imposing stone facade of my childhood home.

"Welcome home, Lady Riley," the butler said, his familiar face a balm to my frayed nerves.

"Please inform my mother I've arrived," I said, not bothering to remove my cloak. "And I wish to see her immediately. Alone."

Something in my tone must have conveyed urgency, for he nodded without question and led me directly to Mother's private chambers.

"Leave us," I instructed the maid who attempted to follow with refreshments. "No one is to enter until I say so."

Mother looked up from her correspondence, surprise evident in her elegant features. "Riley? What's wrong?"

I closed the door firmly behind me, then turned to face her. The words caught in my throat as tears welled in my eyes.

"Mother," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I need you to believe something impossible."

And then it all poured out—the fire, the smoke, the agony of labor as flames consumed me. Rome dying in my womb. Leland's betrayal with Bonnie. How I had watched it all as a spirit before being granted this second chance.

"I know how it sounds," I said, wiping tears that wouldn't stop falling. "But I remember everything—every detail of how they planned it, what they said, how it would happen."

Mother's face had drained of color, her hands trembling as she reached for me. "Riley..."

"I heard Leland telling Marcus exactly where to place the flammable materials. I saw Bonnie in the garden with him, talking about their son becoming the Salazar heir." My voice grew stronger with each word. "They're going to kill me and my child, Mother. Just like they did before."

For a long moment, Mother simply stared at me, her eyes searching mine for any sign of delusion or deception. Then, with a decisive movement, she rose and crossed to her writing desk.

"I believe you," she said firmly, pulling out paper and ink. "Every word."

She began to write in quick, precise strokes—a coded message to her sister, the Queen.

"What do we do?" I asked, watching her hand move across the page.

Mother's eyes met mine, steel replacing shock. "We fight back, darling. And we make sure they pay for what they've done."