Chapter 2: My Second Chance at Him

I got a second chance.

In my last life, I hated Marissa for stealing my fiancé. I bullied her, tormented her, did everything I could to ruin their relationship. When my engagement fell apart, jealousy drove me off the deep end—I spiked my ex-fiancé’s drink, hoping to force him into bed so he’d be stuck with me.

But it all went sideways. The one who drank it was Marcus.

That night, in a dark room, the usually icy, aloof Marcus turned into something wild. He ignored my cursing and begging, taking me over and over. I tried to escape, sobbing, but he dragged me back each time until I finally blacked out.

Even in my sleep, I couldn’t escape. I dreamed I was lost at sea, drifting on a tiny boat in endless darkness, tossed by waves until sunrise.

When I woke up, I was too scared to make a scene. I swallowed my anger and kept my mouth shut.

Later, I found a chance to lock Marcus in my family’s basement, venting my rage on him. I whipped him, chained him up, took out every bit of anger I had.

He was chained, whip marks all over. “You damn mutt! Who said you could look at me like that?!”

But Marcus just stared back, his eyes deep and unreadable, like a midnight forest. He didn’t flinch, didn’t beg. He just gave me a half-smile. "I’m the mutt, but you’re the one who belongs to me."

I slapped him, hard. He puffed out his cheeks, totally unfazed. My hand stung more than his face did.

I forced some meds down his throat and left, only feeling satisfied when I saw him suffering on the security camera.

His dark hair was soaked with sweat, his eyes wild and bloodshot—like a caged animal. He yanked at the chains, the metal rattling in the empty room.

Then, out of nowhere, he looked straight at the camera—straight at me. That look sent chills down my spine.

Eventually, he went still. I watched, uneasy. I hadn’t meant to kill him—just to scare him, to let out my anger.

I rushed down to check. He didn’t move, burning up with fever, completely unconscious.

Panicked, I unlocked the chains. But the second I did, he pounced—he’d been faking it. He pinned me down, baring his teeth, and took what he wanted, all fangs and claws.

I sobbed, begged, trembled all over, and eventually passed out again in a haze of pain and fear.

After he’d had his way, Marcus ran. Not long after, I went from pampered heiress to penniless nobody.

My dad died suddenly. Some illegitimate son showed up with a will and snatched everything. DNA test? Turns out I wasn’t even my father’s biological daughter. The Brooks family kicked me out without a second thought.

A few years later, Marcus—once the poor kid—was a business tycoon. He found me selling junk on the street. Just like I’d locked him up, he locked me in his mansion, keeping me like a caged canary.

At first, I fought him. Eventually, I gave in. He was gorgeous, rich, and—let’s be honest—insanely good in bed. I told myself I was living the easy life, so why complain?

He kept me for over ten years, until a shipwreck took him away.

When the lawyer read his will, I nearly choked. He’d left me enough money to live like royalty forever. The mansion was mine, too.

Six months after Marcus died, I still couldn’t sleep. For all those years, it seemed like he’d kept me around for revenge, but he’d treated me better than anyone else ever had. I was the only one by his side. Because of me, he barely spoke to his own sister.

I stayed in that mansion, haunting the study where Marcus used to spend so much time. One day, I found a familiar diamond hairpin tucked in a delicate white box.

Back in my freshman year, I’d gone to the bar strip looking for someone, almost got assaulted in an alley, and a boy saved me. To thank him, I gave him that hairpin. I never realized it was Marcus. The lighting was terrible, and I was too shaken to remember his face. I handed him the pin and ran.

I’d seen the box before and once asked, “What’s that? You’re always staring at it.”

He looked at me, voice flat. "A gift from someone I care about."

I teased him, “Unrequited love, huh?”

He gave me a long, searching look but didn’t say a word.

Turns out, the person he liked was me. That stubborn guy—never could admit it.

I developed the world’s worst insomnia, only able to sleep when I hugged his clothes and breathed in his lingering scent. Eventually, it hit me—I liked Marcus. I really did.

When I heard he’d died, I didn’t cry. Not at his funeral, either. But alone at night, missing him, I cried myself to sleep more times than I could count.

If I could do it all over again, I’d want to love him right.

Now, back in the present, Marcus was storming away, furious after I’d tricked and kissed him.

And just my luck—this time I’d actually twisted my ankle. Seriously, universe?

“Marcus! My foot really hurts! I’m not faking—look, it’s all swollen.”

Marissa knelt down, took a look, and piped up, “Bro, her ankle’s definitely swollen.”

Marcus stopped in his tracks, spun around, and came back. He studied my ankle, then—without a word—hoisted me onto his back.

He shot over his shoulder, “Touch me again and I’ll toss you in the lake.”

I nodded, all innocent. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

My arms locked tight around his shoulders, but I kept my lips to myself, just in case. The walk to the health center was silent, except for Marissa’s sneakers squeaking on the linoleum behind us.

…