My Kept Husband Bought His Own Demise

The screech of tires. The crunch of bone. Warm blood spreading beneath me.

"No... my baby..."

That final moment from my past life was hammered into my mind.

I remembered lying on the freezing asphalt, tossed aside, my six-month pregnant belly heavy with death.

At the edge of my fading vision stood Isabella on the curb, looking down at me with a gaze warped by manic jealousy.

She was my husband Mateo's cousin. A bitter widow.

Right up until I drew my last breath, I had naively believed she shoved me into traffic out of spite—jealous of my claim to the vast Romano family fortune, jealous of my doting, picture-perfect husband.

"Serena? What are you spacing out for? The light's green."

Isabella's raspy voice yanked me back to reality. My eyes snapped open, and I gasped for air, my gaze darting down to my perfectly flat stomach before snapping up to scan my surroundings in disbelief.

The bustling streets of Chicago. A steady thrum of traffic. The crosswalk sign was still glowing red.

I felt her step close behind my right shoulder. Still wearing her funeral black, venom lurking in her eyes, she was staring daggers into my back.

Her hand lightly touched the fabric of my coat—a seemingly helpful, guiding gesture that I knew would turn into a lethal shove.

Thank God. Fate, it turned out, played fair. I had been sent back—rewound a whole year before the day I was murdered.

I wasn't pregnant yet.

In my previous life, I thought it was the unborn Romano heir that had ultimately pushed her over the edge.

Now, the chilling truth washed over me: even here, on the very day they put her husband in the ground, her envy had already crystallized into something lethal.

She was getting ready to do exactly what she'd succeeded in doing before—shove me into the path of an oncoming semi-truck, framing it as a tragic, freak accident.

Not this time.

The roar of a diesel engine surged closer. Isabella's fingertips brushed the fabric of my trench coat.

In the split second she committed her weight to the push, I feigned a stumble off my stiletto. I pitched hard to the left, my body twisting gracefully in a half-spin.

"Whoops!" I cried out.

Isabella hadn't accounted for thin air. Pouring every ounce of her malicious intent into the shove, her own momentum betrayed her.

"Ahhh!" she shrieked, totally losing her footing as she plunged headfirst off the curb toward the rushing traffic.

The trucker slammed on his brakes. Tires locked, screaming against the asphalt and sending up a thick stench of burning rubber.

The towering grille of the cab missed crushing her outright, but it clipped her shoulder hard, throwing her violently across the pavement.

Isabella tumbled three or four times over the rough street before her forehead cracked violently against the curb. Blood instantly masked her face. Curled into a pathetic ball, she began to wail in blind agony.

Gasps erupted from the crowd as pedestrians rushed forward.

Safely planted on the sidewalk, I looked down at Isabella, who was now writhing on the asphalt.

The phantom, gut-wrenching pain of my previous death finally receded, replaced by a cold sliver of satisfaction.

Taking a deep breath, I arranged my features into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. I clicked over in my heels and dropped to one knee beside her.

"Oh my God! Isabella! How could you be so careless?" I covered my mouth with both hands, dialing my voice precisely to the pitch of a frantic, sobbing cousin. "Are you still out of your mind with grief over your husband? Why on earth would you just dive into traffic?!"

I projected my voice loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear.

Instantly, the onlookers' expressions shifted into sympathetic, unquestioning understanding.

Isabella's face was a gory mess. Her shoulder was clearly dislocated, and she was shaking uncontrollably from the pain.

Gritting her bloodied teeth, she glared at me, her lips trembling as she tried to form the accusation. "It was you... you moved..."

"Shh, don't try to speak, sweetie," I interrupted smoothly. I placed a comforting hand over her ruined shoulder—and dug my fingers in hard.

She sucked in a sharp, reflexive breath, fresh tears bursting from her eyes.

"Someone's already called 911," I whispered, leaning in so close that only she could hear the ice in my voice. "Next time you walk, watch your step. After all, the Romano family doesn't subsidize the blind."

Her eyes blew wide with terror. She couldn't process how the pushover cousin she had known all her life was suddenly flashing a smile that cold and calculating.

Minutes later, the wail of an ambulance siren pierced the air, accompanied by strobing red and blue lights.

I stood at a safe distance, my expression stoic as the EMTs loaded Isabella onto a stretcher.

Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out a sanitizing wipe. Slowly, methodically, I cleaned the fingers that had touched her shoulder, and tossed the crumpled wipe into a nearby trash can.

I rested a hand gently on my flat stomach, a silent vow to the child I would protect this time around, letting a chilling smile ghost across my lips.

This is only the beginning, Isabella.