Reborn Bride, No Longer Your Victim

On the eve of my wedding, a photo of my fiancé with an intern sent me fleeing to Paris. But when the plane landed, five years had passed. My parents were dead, killed in a car crash while searching for me. My fiancé, Clayton, was now married to that same intern. She was pregnant and living in our home. He treated me like a deranged stranger, and when she faked a fall down the stairs, he blamed me. He locked me in a dark panic room-my greatest fear-to punish me. There, in the suffocating darkness, I lost our baby. He thought I was just acting for attention. But a return ticket brought me back. I've woken up on my wedding day. My parents are alive. This time, I'm not running. Chapter 1 Audrey Hanson POV: On the eve of my wedding, a single TMZ notification blew my life, my future, and my past to smithereens. My phone buzzed on the silk of my wedding dress, laid out on the bed like a promise. My maid of honor, Chloe, was in the bathroom, humming along to some pop song on the radio. The air was thick with the scent of roses and champagne. Everything was perfect. Too perfect. The screen lit up with the lurid headline: TECH MOGUL CLAYTON YOUNG' S LATE-NIGHT RENDEZVOUS WITH MYSTERY INTERN. WEDDING ON THE ROCKS? My heart stopped. I clicked. The photo was grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. There was Clayton, my Clayton, his tall frame leaning close to a younger woman outside a dimly lit bar. His hand was on her arm. Her face was tilted up towards his, her expression a mixture of adoration and something else I couldn't decipher. The article named her. Kisha Fox. An intern at his company. A wave of nausea washed over me. It felt like the floor had dropped out from under my feet. My breath came in short, sharp gasps. This couldn't be real. Not Clayton. Not the man I had loved for eight years, the man who had gotten down on one knee in this very room six months ago. Chloe came out of the bathroom, her face scrubbed clean. "Audrey? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." I couldn't speak. I just held out the phone. Her eyes scanned the screen, her smile faltering. "Oh, Audrey... this is... this is tabloid garbage. You know how they are. They twist everything." But I saw his expression. The focused intensity. I knew that look. He wasn't just talking to an intern. "I need some air," I whispered, my voice a stranger's. "Audrey, wait. Let's call him. Let's just talk to him," Chloe pleaded. But I was already moving, grabbing my purse, my keys. The walls were closing in. The beautiful white dress on the bed seemed to mock me. Betrayal was a cold, suffocating blanket. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I didn't drive home. I drove to the airport. I walked to the nearest ticket counter, my mind a blank static. "The next international flight out," I said, my voice hoarse. "Anywhere." The agent looked at me, my tear-streaked face, my trembling hands. "Ma'am, the next one is to Paris. It's boarding in twenty minutes." "I'll take it." I paid with the credit card Clayton and I shared, a bitter irony that didn't escape me. I walked through security in a daze, the article burning behind my eyes. I didn't have a change of clothes. I didn't have a plan. I just had to get away. On the plane, I stared out the window as the city lights blurred into a constellation of pain. The flight attendant offered me a drink, her smile sympathetic. I just shook my head, unable to form words. The hum of the engines was a lullaby to my broken heart. I closed my eyes, exhaustion finally pulling me under, and let the darkness take me. When I woke, it was to the gentle chime of the landing announcement. Sunlight streamed through the window, harsh and unforgiving. My head throbbed. I felt groggy, disoriented, as if I' d been asleep for days. Stepping off the plane and into the Charles de Gaulle Airport, I felt a strange sense of displacement. The air smelled different. The fashion was... odd. Sleeker, more futuristic. The phones people were holding were thin, almost translucent sheets of glass. I shook my head, blaming it on jet lag. My first instinct, a raw, primal need, was to call my parents. They would know what to do. They always did. I pulled out my phone. It was dead. Of course. I found a charging station, but the port was a shape I' d never seen before. A man next to me, noticing my confusion, offered me his charger with a kind smile. "Old model, huh? Haven't seen one of those in years." Years? My blood ran cold. I plugged it in and my phone sputtered to life. I ignored the dozens of frantic texts from Chloe and Clayton. I just needed to hear my mom's voice. I dialed her number. A recorded message answered, cold and automated. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service." Panic, sharp and acidic, clawed at my throat. I tried my dad's number. Same message. "No, no, no," I muttered, my hands starting to shake again. I tried their home phone. Disconnected. I stumbled through the airport, my mind racing. Maybe they changed their numbers. Maybe they moved. A thousand frantic possibilities, none of them making sense. I hailed a taxi, the vehicle humming silently, unlike any car I'd ever been in. I gave the driver my parents' address, an address I'd known my whole life. "That's in the old district," he said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Not much there anymore." The drive was a blur of unfamiliar skyscrapers and holographic advertisements. When we arrived, my childhood home was gone. In its place stood a sterile, glass-and-steel apartment complex. "No," I whispered, getting out of the car. "This can't be right." I showed the doorman a picture of my parents on my phone. He looked at the photo, then at me, his expression softening with pity. "The Hansons," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry. There was an accident. A car crash. About... four and a half years ago." The world went silent. The sounds of the city faded into a dull roar in my ears. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the pavement. Four and a half years ago. The driver helped me back into the car, murmuring condolences I couldn't process. My mind was a vortex of horror and disbelief. Then I remembered the date on the newspaper kiosk I' d passed. 2029. I had left in 2024. I had been on that plane for five years. Grief was a physical force, crushing the air from my lungs. My parents were dead. They had died looking for me. The thought was a jagged piece of glass twisting in my gut. It was my fault. All my fault. I was alone. In the future. My parents were gone. The life I knew was gone. There was only one person left. My hands trembled as I scrolled through my contacts. His name was still there, a painful reminder of a life that no longer existed. Clayton Young. My finger hovered over the call button. What would I even say? Hi, I know I disappeared on our wedding day, but I accidentally time-traveled five years into the future and my parents are dead. He would think I was insane. But I had no one else. No money, no home, no family. Just a name in a phone that was a relic from another time. In my purse, my fingers brushed against a small, velvet box. The engagement ring. I hadn't even had the presence of mind to take it off. I pulled it out. The diamond caught the light, cold and brilliant. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had slipped it on my finger. I found his house key on my keychain. The one to the home we were supposed to move into after the wedding. A beautiful brownstone we had spent months renovating. Our future. I had to try. I had to know. I pressed the call button. It rang once. Twice. My heart hammered against my ribs. "Hello?" The voice was his, but it was different. Deeper. Colder. Stripped of all the warmth I remembered. "Clayton?" I choked out, tears blurring my vision. There was a long pause on the other end. "Who is this?" "It's... it's Audrey." Silence. The silence was so heavy, I thought the line had been cut. "Audrey," he finally said, his voice flat, emotionless. "After five years, you call me now." It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. "Clayton, I... I can explain," I sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Something happened. I got on a plane, and... and I landed, and it's five years later. My parents... they're gone." "Stop," he said, his voice like a whip. "Just stop. You think you can disappear on our wedding day, leave me standing at the altar, and come back five years later with some insane story about time travel?" "It's the truth!" I cried, desperation making my voice shrill. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's the truth! I'm at the airport. I have nowhere to go. Please, Clayton. I need your help." Another long silence. I could hear the faint sound of music in the background, something soft and jazzy. "Where are you?" he asked, his tone resigned, weary. I gave him my location. "Stay there," he commanded. "Don't move." The line went dead. I waited for what felt like an eternity, huddled on a bench, the grief for my parents a physical ache in my chest. When his car pulled up-a sleek, impossibly futuristic model-my heart leaped with a desperate, foolish hope. He got out. He was different. Older. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, etched with lines that hadn't been there before. He wore a tailored suit that screamed power and wealth. But it was his eyes that were the most changed. They were cold, hard, and empty. All the love, the light that used to shine there when he looked at me, was gone. I ran to him, wanting to fall into his arms, wanting the comfort of the man I loved. "Clayton," I sobbed, reaching for him. He took a step back, his face a mask of stone. "Don't touch me." The words hit me harder than a slap. I froze, my arms falling to my sides. "Time travel, Audrey? Is that really the best you could come up with?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Five years of silence, and you come back with a story worthy of a bad sci-fi movie." "It's true," I whispered, my whole body trembling. "You have to believe me." "Believe you?" He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Why should I believe you? You jilted me. You humiliated me. You broke my heart and then you vanished. For five years." "I saw the article," I stammered, trying to make him understand. "The picture with the intern..." "So you saw a picture and you ran?" he shot back. "You didn't call, you didn't ask. You just ran. And now you expect me to what? Welcome you back with open arms?" "My parents..." I choked on the word. "They're dead, Clayton. They died in a car crash. The doorman said... they were looking for me." The news, the final, horrifying piece of my shattered reality, hit him. For a flicker of a second, I saw something in his eyes-shock, maybe even pain. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that same cold mask. "I know," he said, his voice quiet but sharp as a razor. "I was the one who identified their bodies. I was the one who arranged the funeral. I was the one who searched for you for two years, Audrey. Two years. I spent millions. I hired private investigators. I followed every dead-end lead. And you? Where were you?" "I was on a plane!" I screamed, the injustice of it all tearing through me. "I don't know how, but I was!" He just stared at me, his face unreadable. He looked past me, his gaze softening for a fraction of a second. "Clay?" A soft, feminine voice called from behind me. I froze. My blood turned to ice. I knew that voice. Or rather, I knew who it had to be. I didn't want to turn around. I couldn't. I could feel her presence behind me, a shadow falling over the last vestiges of my life. "Kisha, get back in the car," Clayton said, his voice losing its hard edge, replaced by a gentleness that twisted the knife in my heart. But she didn't listen. She walked around me, her hand protectively on her swollen belly. She was beautiful, poised, and pregnant. She was the woman from the photo. "So this is Audrey," she said, her voice full of a cloying, fake sympathy. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." The world spun. My fiancé. His pregnant wife. My dead parents. My home, gone. My life, usurped. It was all gone. I stumbled back, my legs threatening to give way again. "I have to go," I mumbled, turning to run, to go anywhere but here. "Go where, Audrey?" Clayton's voice stopped me in my tracks. It was cold, logical, and utterly devastating in its truth. "You have no money. No ID that's valid in this decade. Your parents are gone. Your home is gone. You have nowhere to go." He was right. I was a ghost. A relic. Kisha stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Clayton's arm. "Clay, darling, don't be so harsh. She's clearly been through a lot. Why don't we take her home? She can stay with us until she gets back on her feet." Home. With them. The thought was a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. The home that was supposed to be our home. My home. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. I remembered planning the layout with Clayton, laughing as we picked out paint colors, dreaming of the children we would raise within those walls. Now, she was living my dream. With my fiancé. In my house. And she was inviting me in like a stray dog. Clayton looked from Kisha's concerned face to my broken one. He sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. "Fine. Get in the car, Audrey." I was led to the underground garage. The car was a high-end model I didn't recognize. Clayton opened the passenger door for me. Without thinking, I moved to get in, a habit ingrained from eight years of being his. It was my seat. He frowned slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. But before he could say anything, Kisha spoke up from behind me. "Oh, honey, that's my seat. The baby gets fussy in the back." Clayton' s attention immediately shifted. He gently guided Kisha into the passenger seat, his hand lingering on her shoulder. "Of course. Are you comfortable?" I stood there, frozen in embarrassment. I was the intruder. I was the one who was out of place. I quickly slid into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin. The space that was once mine, filled with my things, my scent, was now hers. The music playing wasn't my favorite indie rock band; it was some soft, generic jazz. The air freshener wasn't the sandalwood I loved; it was a cloying vanilla. Everything was a reminder that I no longer belonged. The car hummed to life and pulled out of the garage. We drove in silence, the weight of five years pressing down on us. The car headed towards the familiar route to the brownstone. Our brownstone. From the outside, it looked the same. But as we stepped inside, my heart sank. The warm, bohemian decor we had planned was gone. It had been replaced with a cold, minimalist aesthetic. White walls, chrome fixtures, abstract art. It was Kisha's taste. Not mine. A maid I didn't recognize took my small purse. "Mrs. Young is pregnant," she said, her voice stern, addressing me as if I were a potential threat. "Mr. Young has instructed that we check your belongings to ensure you aren't carrying anything that could harm her or the baby." My head snapped up. Pregnant. Hearing it again, so clinically, sent a fresh wave of dizziness through me. This was my house. And I was being treated like a criminal. The final, crushing piece of the nightmare slotted into place. I wasn't just a guest. I was an intruder. A dangerous, unstable intruder in the perfect life they had built on the ashes of mine. "Does Mr. Young want to search me himself?" I asked, my voice laced with a bitterness that surprised me. The maid faltered, taken aback by my tone. Kisha glided over, her hand on her belly. "It's alright, Maria. I'm sure Audrey wouldn't hurt a fly." Her eyes, however, told a different story. They were cold, calculating, and full of victory. She was the lady of the house. And I was nothing. I was shown to a guest room-a small, sterile space at the back of the house. The door closed, and I was finally alone. The carefully constructed dam of my composure broke. A sob tore from my throat, raw and ragged. I slid down the wall, curling into a ball on the floor, the grief and betrayal a physical weight pinning me down. My parents. Clayton. My baby... The thought came unbidden, a secret I had been holding close for what felt like a lifetime but was only a matter of days. The baby I had been so excited to tell Clayton about. Our baby. The sobs wracked my body until I was empty, hollowed out. I was a stranger in my own life. My hand fumbled in my purse, which the maid had returned with a sniff of disdain. My fingers closed around the paper ticket. I pulled it out, my tears blurring the ink. It was the return ticket from Paris. The date printed on it was exactly seven days from today. A single, impossible chance. A way back. My heart, which I thought had stopped beating, gave a powerful, hopeful thud. Seven days. I had to survive for seven days. And then I could undo all of this. I could save my parents. I could save myself. I clutched the ticket to my chest like a prayer. It was my only lifeline in this waking nightmare. Seven days. I could do this. I had to. ---