Chapter 1

Lydia's POV

"The patient in Bed 7 has been here three months now, right? Not a single family visit."

"Her husband just pays the bills and leaves. Doesn't even look at her. Poor thing."

I lay in the hospital bed, listening to two nurses whispering outside my door. My fingers rested weakly against the edge of the mattress.

Three months ago, I was diagnosed with late-stage cancer.

My husband, Sebastian Carter, came once. He stood in the doorway—didn't step inside—signed the papers with a blank expression, and never came back.

Sebastian was a writer. He locked himself in his study all day, leaving me to spend night after night alone in the living room. We lived under the same roof like strangers from different worlds.

I'd grown used to this hollow marriage. I didn't even bother calling him anymore.

Footsteps echoed outside.

I turned my head toward the door. Sebastian stood there in his familiar charcoal coat, his face expressionless.

"You came." I was surprised. I forced myself to sit up, my body weak and trembling.

Sebastian didn't answer. He walked straight to the bedside and set a document on the nightstand. "Sign it."

I picked it up. The words at the top read: 'Divorce Agreement.'

My heart lurched. I knew he didn't love me, but I never thought he'd divorce me.

"After you sign, the house is yours. Half the savings, too. No kids, so no custody issues." His tone was flat.

"Why?" My voice came out hoarse.

We'd been married twenty years. It wasn't a happy marriage—I knew that. But I'd done my duty as a wife. Now I was dying, and he couldn't even show me compassion. He wanted a divorce instead.

"Why?" A cold smile curved his lips. "You really don't know?"

I said nothing.

He leaned down, hands gripping the bed rail, his face close to mine. "I've always loved Freya. But you stole her happiness. And you have the nerve to ask me why?"

My heart sank.

Freya Spencer was my sister. She died three years ago. Depression.

I never imagined my husband's coldness had anything to do with her.

"You insisted on marrying me. You forced Freya to marry that mafia boss..." Sebastian's eyes reddened, his voice shaking. "That mafia boss was a lunatic! He kept women on the side, humiliated Freya in front of everyone, drove her into depression until she died. You think that's not your fault?"

I closed my eyes in despair.

Years ago, our parents handed us two marriage contracts. They said my personality was too strong—I wasn't suited for a mafia boss. Freya was gentle. Moretti Vance would prefer her.

Freya and I obeyed our parents. Two tragic marriages began that day.

But I was a victim too. Sebastian blamed me for everything.

I felt wronged, but I didn't have the energy to argue. I was already dying. Freya was gone. What was the point?

"This is all your fault." Sebastian's voice was bitter. "If she'd married me, she wouldn't have died like that. She would've understood my writing. She would've supported my work. We would've had something in common. But you? You have no interest in literature. You don't understand a single thing I write!"

He was right. I knew nothing about literature. Freya loved it.

I'd tried to read his books, to understand the world he created. But the complex metaphors and obscure imagery were like a wall I couldn't climb.

Every time I asked him about his work, he brushed me off with impatience. Eventually, I stopped asking. Silence was all we had left.

"Just sign it." Sebastian turned away, his back to me. "I want to see her with a clean slate."

Looking at his resolve, I suddenly felt a strange sense of relief. Maybe this marriage was wrong from the start.

I picked up the divorce agreement and signed my name.

After Sebastian left, I lay staring at the ceiling. Tears slid silently down my face.

That night, my breathing grew heavier. The monitor beeped its monotonous rhythm. I knew I was dying.

In that moment, I didn't have to pretend to be strong anymore.

Memories flooded back. Freya and me as kids, lying in the same bed, talking late into the night. She always saved the best snacks for me. She took the blame when our parents were angry.

She married the wrong man, just like I did.

We were both wrong.

If only... if I could do it over...

The monitor's long, shrill beep filled the room. Alone, I took my last breath.

---

When I opened my eyes again, a crystal chandelier blinded me.

I was in my bedroom. Our bedroom. I bolted upright and looked down. I was wearing a nightgown—pale blue with soft yellow daisies.

This was my favorite nightgown when I was twenty.

My mind went blank.

I was dead. Wasn't I? How was I home?

"Lydia? Freya? Are you up?" My mother's voice came from outside, urgent. "The engagement contracts are ready. All you have to do is sign! Hurry up and come downstairs!"

'Engagement contracts.'

The words hit me like lightning.

I threw off the covers and rushed to the vanity.

In the mirror was a young face. Long brown hair draped over my shoulders. My skin was smooth and flawless.

I touched my cheek. Warm. Alive. This was me at twenty.

I'd been reborn. Twenty years in the past. The day our parents arranged our engagements.

"Lydia! Freya!" My mother's voice rose sharply.

I yanked the door open. Across the hall, another door opened at the same time.

Freya stood in her doorway. Her face mirrored my shock.

"Freya..." Seeing her again, my voice trembled with emotion.

Downstairs, my mother shouted again. "What are you two doing? Get down here!"

Freya lowered her eyes. She didn't say anything. She turned and headed downstairs.

I followed, my thoughts spinning.

In the living room, two documents sat on the long table. My mother pushed them toward us.

"This one on the left is the Vance family." She tapped the red folder. "Moretti is the heir. Excellent pedigree. Powerful connections. Marry him, and you'll live in luxury for the rest of your life."

She paused, then gestured to the blue folder. Her tone was noticeably lighter. "This one is Sebastian. He's a writer. No family money. No fame. But his father and your grandfather were friends. It's still a respectable match."

My mother handed the red folder to Freya. "Your father and I talked it over. You're gentle. You're suited for the Vance family. Lydia's too headstrong. She should marry the quiet Sebastian instead."

The exact same words. In my past life, my mother said the exact same thing.

Freya's hand trembled as she reached for the red folder. Her fingertips barely touched it before she jerked back like she'd been burned. She covered her face and burst into tears.

I froze. In my past life, Freya hadn't reacted this way. She'd accepted our mother's arrangement without protest.

A wild thought flashed through my mind.

Could it be? Did my sister—did Freya—get reborn too?