Her Last Wish Was Revenge

Chapter 1

Elena

The cold of the marble floor is the first thing I truly feel. It seeps through my silk dress, a deep, unforgiving chill that feels like death itself. The second is the coppery taste of blood in my mouth. My vision blurs at the edges, a dark vignette closing in on the grand foyer of my own home. Above me, the crystal chandelier sparkles, each shard of light a mocking star in my dimming universe.

They are talking. Their voices float down from the top of the grand staircase, distorted and distant, like I am hearing them from underwater.

"Is she still breathing?" Chloe asks. There is no concern in her voice. Only irritation. Like I am an errand she is waiting to be over.

"Not for long," Mark replies, his voice smooth and calm. The same voice that read wedding vows to me. The same voice that promised me forever. "It was a clean push. The fall did most of the work."

Chloe lets out a sigh. "Honestly, Mark, did you have to make such a mess? This is a vintage Persian rug. The blood will be impossible to get out."

My best friend. My maid of honor. She is worried about a rug.

"It will be our vintage Persian rug in a few days, darling," Mark says, the term of endearment he once used for me now a poisoned dart. "Don't worry about it. Once the estate is settled, we can burn the whole house down for all I care."

I try to move. I try to scream. Nothing happens. My body is a leaden cage, and my voice is trapped in my throat. All I can do is lie here, listening to the architects of my demise plan their future over my dying body.

"What about my shoes?" Chloe whines. "These are Louboutins. Look, there is a spatter right on the red sole. It’s ruined."

"I will buy you ten pairs," Mark promises, his voice getting closer as they descend the stairs. "A hundred. I will fill a closet with them, Chloe. Once her inheritance clears, we can have anything we want. Everything she had will be ours."

I can see them now. Their feet come into view first. His polished Italian leather shoes, her ridiculously high red soled heels. They stop a few feet from my head, looking down at me like I am roadkill.

"She looks so surprised," Chloe says with a little laugh, a sound I once thought was as lovely as wind chimes. It is nails on a chalkboard now. "Did you see her face when I told her? When I told her we had been together since college? I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head."

"She was always so naive," Mark agrees. He nudges my shoulder with the toe of his expensive shoe. I feel the jolt through my entire body, a fresh wave of agony. "So trusting. ‘Mark, darling, could you help me with this clasp?’ Pathetic."

He mimics my voice. He makes it high and stupid. I want to claw his eyes out. The rage gives me a flicker of strength. My fingers twitch on the marble.

Chloe gasps. "Mark, she moved!"

"It is just nerves firing," he dismisses, his tone bored. "The doctor said it was an open and shut case. A tragic accident. Grieving husband. Devastated best friend. The police will eat it up. We have been playing our parts for years, what is one more performance?"

He crouches down beside me. His face fills my vision. The handsome face I fell in love with, now a grotesque mask of greed and contempt. He reaches out and touches the diamond necklace around my throat, the last gift he ever gave me.

"Such a shame," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the cold jewels. "You were almost the perfect wife, Elena. Beautiful, rich, and utterly clueless."

His words are the final blow. More painful than the impact against the floor. More final than the bleeding wound in my side. The betrayal is a poison that finishes what the fall started. My life was a lie. My love was a joke. My friendship was a tool.

The darkness at the edge of my vision consumes everything. Mark's face disappears. The sparkling chandelier vanishes. All that is left is the cold, the pain, and one single, burning thought.

A wish.

A prayer to a god I do not believe in.

Let me do it again.

Please. Just one more chance.

Then, nothing.

I sit up with a gasp that feels like it tears through my soul. A deep, ragged breath fills my lungs with air that smells of lavender and old books. Not the cloying, metallic scent of blood.

My hand flies to my stomach, expecting the wet stickiness, the roaring fire of pain. There is nothing. Just the soft, worn cotton of my pajamas. My body feels whole. Strong.

Panic claws at me. I look around wildly. This is my room. Not the cold, sterile master suite I shared with Mark, all charcoals and chrome. This is my childhood bedroom in my father’s house. The vintage concert posters are still on the wall. My stack of worn out novels sits on the nightstand. The air is warm with morning sun streaming through the window, not the dim, cold light of the foyer chandelier.

This makes no sense. I died. I felt my heart beat its last, desperate rhythm. I felt the final piece of warmth leave me on that cold, hard floor. Is this some kind of afterlife? A strangely specific heaven?

My eyes land on my phone, charging on the nightstand. My old phone. The rose gold one I replaced years ago.

With a hand that shakes so badly I can barely control it, I snatch it from its cradle. My thumb, pale and trembling, presses the home button. The screen flashes to life, blindingly bright.

And there it is. Under the time, in stark black digits, is the date.

October 12th.

Five years ago.

The morning of my engagement party.

The day Mark would slip a diamond on my finger and a noose around my neck. The day Chloe would stand beside me, beaming, calling me her sister while she slept with my fiancé. The day I sealed my own fate with a happy, oblivious, ‘yes’.

A wave of nausea crashes over me. I stumble out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom, my reflection leaping out from the mirror. It is me, but not me. My face is fuller, softer. There are no fine lines of stress around my eyes. There is no trace of the weary suspicion that had started to cloud my features in those final years. The girl in the mirror is twenty three years old, her face unlined by betrayal, her eyes bright with a naive love that makes me want to scream.

I grip the sides of the porcelain sink, my knuckles turning white. The trauma is so fresh it feels like I am still there, bleeding on the marble. I can almost feel the phantom ache in my side, hear their mocking laughter echoing in my ears.

But as I stare into my own younger eyes, something shifts. The shock, the horror, the gut wrenching grief… they begin to recede. They cool and harden into something else. Something solid and heavy in the pit of my stomach. It is a cold, clear, and beautiful rage.

They are alive. They are happy. And they have no idea what is coming.

But I do. I know everything. Every secret meeting. Every whispered lie. Every stolen kiss. I know about the bad investments Mark will advise me to make. I know about the friends Chloe will turn against me with her poisonous gossip. I know their entire playbook, from start to finish. They think they are holding all the cards, but I am the one who has seen the final hand.

I push myself away from the sink and walk back into the bedroom. I pick up the phone again, my hand perfectly steady this time. A text from Mark is on the screen.

*Can’t wait to make you my fiancée tonight. My whole life starts with you. I love you.*

The lie is so blatant, so sickening, it makes me laugh. It is a harsh, ugly sound in the quiet morning air.

That girl, the one who would have melted at this message, is gone. She died on the floor of her perfect home, listening to her husband and best friend complain about the blood on their shoes. I am what came back. I am his grieving widow, his devastated friend. I am the tragic accident just waiting to happen.

I look at my reflection in the dark screen of the phone. A slow smile spreads across my face. It feels alien. Dangerous. It does not reach my eyes.

“Alright, Mark. Alright, Chloe,” I whisper to the empty, sunlit room, my voice a low promise. “You wanted my life. This time, you can have it.”

This time, I will be the one pushing. And I will make sure they enjoy the fall.

Chapter 2

Elena

My reflection is a stranger in the gilded mirror. The girl looking back is wearing a dress the color of cream, delicate silk that whispers against her skin. Her hair is a cascade of soft waves, her makeup flawless. She looks happy. She looks in love. She is a perfect, beautiful lie.

My mother fusses with a stray curl behind my ear, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Oh, my baby. You’re glowing. Just glowing.”

I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “It’s a happy day, Mom.”

“The happiest,” she agrees, her voice thick with emotion. “Mark is such a wonderful man. He adores you. I can see it in the way he looks at you.”

I wonder what she would see if she looked closer. If she could see the viper coiled behind his charming smile. If she could see the ghost of me, bleeding on a marble floor.

The doorbell chimes, a cheerful, melodic sound that grates on my raw nerves. It is him.

“That must be Mark!” Mom claps her hands together, all giddy excitement. “I’ll let him in. You stay right here. Let him see you for the first time tonight.”

She hurries out of the room. I can hear their muffled voices from the hallway. Her bright, welcoming tone. His smooth, practiced charm. The sounds are so familiar they make my stomach clench into a tight, painful knot.

He appears in the doorway a moment later. He holds a bouquet of white lilies, my favorite. In my last life, I thought it was a gesture of his deep, intimate knowledge of me. Now I know it was just information Chloe fed him.

“Elena,” he breathes, his eyes sweeping over me. “You look… stunning. Absolutely stunning.”

“Hello, Mark.” My voice is steady. Too steady. The old Elena would have blushed and stammered.

He walks toward me, his gaze full of theatrical adoration. He is a phenomenal actor. I have to give him that. He stops in front of me and offers the flowers.

“For you,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “Though they pale in comparison.”

I take the lilies. My fingers brush against his. I feel nothing. No spark. No warmth. Just the cold, dead certainty of what he is.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.” I turn to place them in a vase on my vanity, a calculated move to put a small distance between us.

He steps up behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror. He places his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs stroking my bare skin.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, his lips close to my ear.

“A little,” I lie, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “It’s a big night.”

“It’s the start of everything,” he says, and the hidden meaning in his words is a physical blow. He is talking about his future. The one built on my ruin. He smiles, a flash of white teeth. “Our everything.”

I turn in his arms, forcing my expression to soften. I place a hand on his chest, right over his heart. I wonder if it ever beats with genuine emotion, or if it is just a muscle, pumping blood to fuel his greed.

“I can’t wait,” I whisper. It is the truest thing I have said all day.

The party is a blur of champagne bubbles and fake smiles. Our family’s ballroom is packed with the city’s elite, all here to witness the union of two of its most prominent families. The air hums with polite conversation and the soft music of a string quartet.

I am a doll on display, moving through the crowd on Mark’s arm. I smile. I laugh. I accept congratulations from people whose names I barely remember. I play the part of the ecstatic bride to be. And all the while, I watch.

I watch Mark as he leans in to whisper something to his father, their eyes flicking towards my own father across the room. A business deal being sealed with my life.

I watch Chloe as she flits through the room like a social butterfly, her white, custom made dress making her look like an angel. The dress is a strategic choice, I know now. Innocent. Virginal. A stark contrast to the venom she hides.

And I see them together. The little things I was blind to before are now as bright and glaring as spotlights. A shared glance over the rim of a champagne flute. His hand, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the small of her back as he passes. Her laugh, a little too loud, a little too bright, whenever he is near. They are so arrogant. So sure of my ignorance.

My father finds me by the towering champagne fountain. His face, usually so stern and businesslike, is soft tonight.

“You seem happy, pumpkin,” he says, using his old nickname for me.

“I am, Dad.” I link my arm through his. “Very happy.”

“Good. Mark is a good man. Ambitious. He’ll take care of you. And he’s good for the company.”

‘He will take care of me’. The words echo with bitter irony. I squeeze my father’s arm, a surge of protectiveness washing over me. He has no idea the kind of snake he is welcoming into his company, into his family.

“He is certainly ambitious,” I say, letting a hint of something cool enter my voice. My father gives me a curious look, but before he can comment, a microphone taps nearby.

Chloe is on the small stage, standing next to Mark, a champagne flute held high. Her smile is blinding. My stomach turns.

“If I could have everyone’s attention for just a moment,” she says, her voice ringing with false sincerity. The room quiets. All eyes turn to her.

“I just want to say a few words about my two favorite people.” Her eyes find mine, and they are filled with a sickening, saccharine sweetness. “Elena. My best friend. My sister. I have known you since we were learning to ride bikes, and I have never seen you as radiant as you are tonight. You have a heart of pure gold, and you deserve all the happiness in the world.”

My hand tightens around the stem of my own glass. Pure gold. Easily melted down and reshaped to their liking.

“And Mark,” she continues, turning her gaze to him. It is a look of such naked possession that I am shocked the whole room does not gasp. “You are the only man I have ever met who is worthy of my best friend. The way you love her, the way you protect her… it is what every woman dreams of. I could not be happier to welcome you into our little family.”

Her eyes flick back to me. “To Elena and Mark! May your life together be as beautiful as you both are tonight!”

The room erupts in applause. ‘To Elena and Mark!’ they all echo, raising their glasses. I raise mine, the smile on my face feeling painted on. I watch them on the stage. Mark puts his arm around Chloe’s waist, pulling her into a one armed hug of ‘thanks’. His fingers splay possessively against the white fabric of her dress. It is a gesture meant for a lover, not a friend.

And I know it is time.

I set down my empty glass and pick up a full one from a passing waiter’s tray. A deep, rich cabernet. The color of blood.

I make my way through the clusters of guests, murmuring apologies as I go. My target is Chloe, who has just stepped off the stage and is now holding court, basking in the glow of her perfect, heartfelt speech.

I approach her, my own expression a careful mask of adoration.

“Chloe,” I say, my voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. “That was the most beautiful toast I have ever heard. Thank you.”

She turns to me, her smile widening. “Of course, El. I meant every word.”

“I know you did,” I say softly.

And then I move. It is a tiny thing. A shift of my weight. A slight, almost imperceptible falter in my step as if my heel has caught on the edge of the rug. It is a movement I have practiced in my mind a hundred times today.

My hand lurches forward.

The red wine arcs through the air. A perfect, vivid slash of crimson against the pristine, angelic white of her custom gown.

It happens in an instant. A collective gasp ripples through the people standing closest to us. The string quartet seems to falter for a beat.

Chloe looks down. Her mouth falls open, a perfect ‘o’ of disbelief. The stain is huge, a grotesque, bleeding flower blooming right over her stomach. It soaks into the expensive fabric, spreading like a disease.

For a split second, her mask of sweet friendship slips. Raw, undiluted fury flashes in her eyes. It is the ugliest thing I have ever seen.

Then my own performance begins.

“Oh, my god!” I shriek, my voice high with manufactured horror. I clap a hand over my mouth, letting my wine glass drop to the carpet with a dull thud. “Chloe! Your dress! Oh, my god, I am so sorry!”

Heads turn from all over the ballroom. Mark is already pushing his way towards us, his face a thundercloud.

“What happened?” he demands, his eyes locking on the ruined dress.

“It was me!” I wail, forcing tears to well in my eyes. They feel hot and real. Tears of rage, not regret. “I tripped. I am so, so clumsy. Chloe, I’ve ruined it! Your beautiful dress, it’s ruined!”

I reach for her, as if to help, and she flinches away from me, her lips pressed into a thin, white line. She is trying desperately to hold onto her composure, but she is failing.

“It is fine, Elena,” she says, her voice tight and strained. “It is just a dress.”

“It’s not just a dress!” I cry, turning to Mark, making sure everyone sees my devastation. “It was custom made! I’ve completely ruined her night!” I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with silent, fabricated sobs.

Guests start to close in, offering platitudes. “It was an accident, dear.” “Don’t worry, Elena, it can be cleaned.”

Mark looks from me to Chloe, his jaw tight. He is furious, but I have played my part so perfectly, he cannot direct his anger at me without looking like a monster. I am the distraught, clumsy fiancée. To be angry at me now would be cruel.

“It’s alright, Elena,” he says, his voice clipped. He puts a hand on my arm, his grip a little too tight. “Accidents happen.” He turns to Chloe. “Let’s get you to the powder room. Maybe we can get some of that out with club soda.”

Chloe gives me one last look. It is a look of pure loathing. She knows. She does not know how she knows, but she feels it. She knows this was not an accident. Then her mask is back in place. She gives a wobbly, martyred smile to the onlookers.

“Really, everyone, it is fine,” she says. “The night is about Elena and Mark. This is nothing.”

She lets Mark lead her away, a murmur of sympathy following her. I watch them go, my fake sobs subsiding into hiccuping breaths. My mother is at my side instantly, wrapping an arm around me.

“Oh, you poor thing. Don’t you worry. It was an honest mistake. Chloe knows that.”

I look up at her, my eyes wide and tearful. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says, stroking my hair. “Now, come on. Let’s get you some water.”

I allow her to lead me away from the scene of the crime. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirrored column. My makeup is slightly smudged from my crocodile tears. My expression is one of perfect, innocent distress.

No one suspects a thing.

But across the room, as Chloe disappears into the hallway, I see Mark look back at me over his shoulder. His eyes are narrowed. The adoration is gone. In its place is a flicker of something new. Suspicion.

A slow, cold smile touches my lips before I can stop it. I hide it behind my hand, turning it into a cough.

Let him wonder. Let them both wonder.

This was just the first drop. I have an entire ocean of chaos waiting for them.

The mask of the fiancée is heavy. But the satisfaction of seeing that first crack in their perfect world? It is the lightest thing I have ever felt.

Chapter 3

Elena

The air in Mr. Davies’s office smells of old leather and even older money. It is a scent I used to find comforting. Now it just smells stagnant.

He peers at me over the top of his gold rimmed glasses, his expression a carefully managed mixture of concern and condescension.

“Miss Lin,” he says, his voice a low, paternal rumble. “Let me be sure I understand. You wish to liquidate the entire portfolio your fiancé helped you establish? All of it?”

I lean back in the plush chair, crossing my legs. I let the silence hang in the air for a moment, enjoying the slight frown that deepens between his brows.

“That’s correct, Mr. Davies. Every last stock.”

“But… these are excellent holdings. Blue chip securities. Rock solid. Mark has a very keen eye for the market.”

I offer him a small, placid smile. “Mark is brilliant. But I have a new strategy I’d like to pursue.”

He clears his throat, shuffling the papers on his mahogany desk. They are a list of my assets, a catalogue of my own impending financial ruin from a life I already lived. “And this new strategy would be…?”

I lean forward, placing a single sheet of paper on his desk. It has one name on it. “I want you to take the entire principal from the liquidation and invest it in this.”

Mr. Davies picks up the paper as if it might bite him. He holds it at a distance, squinting.

“‘Innovatech Solutions’?” He says the name like it is a foreign word he finds distasteful. “I’ve… I can’t say I’ve heard of them. Are they a new fund?”

“A startup,” I say. “They specialize in data compression algorithms. Very obscure.”

His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “A startup. Miss Lin, Elena, forgive me for being frank, but that is not investing. That is gambling. To put your entire inheritance into a single, unknown tech company…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s reckless. Mark would never advise such a thing.”

“Which is precisely why I’m not asking for Mark’s advice,” I reply, my voice turning to ice. The shift is subtle, but he feels it. He straightens in his chair.

“Of course. It is your money. I am simply advising you as your father has paid me to do for a decade. This is… financially irresponsible.”

I meet his gaze and hold it. The old Elena would have withered under that stare, would have apologized and deferred to his and Mark's superior knowledge. The old Elena is dead.

“Mr. Davies, in six months, a German automotive conglomerate is going to announce a massive recall due to a faulty emissions sensor. The stock for their primary parts supplier, a company that makes up twenty percent of my current portfolio, will lose sixty percent of its value overnight.”

He blinks. “That’s just speculation. Rumor.”

“And in eight months,” I continue, my voice low and even, “a trade dispute with Brazil will decimate the value of two other major agricultural stocks Mark picked out for me. Another thirty percent of the portfolio, gone. By this time next year, the portfolio you’re clutching in your hand will be worth less than half of what it is today.”

He stares at me, his mouth slightly agape. I am not supposed to know these things. A socialite. A fiancée. My expertise is meant to be in floral arrangements and seating charts.

“How could you possibly…?”

“Let’s just say I have a very strong feeling about the market’s direction,” I cut him off smoothly. “So. Are you going to make the trade for me, or do I need to find a new financial advisor who will?”

The unspoken threat hangs between us. His firm has managed my family’s money for two generations. Losing that account would be a catastrophe for him.

He swallows hard, his professional composure cracking. He looks down at the name on the paper again. ‘Innovatech Solutions’.

“As you wish, Miss Lin,” he says, his voice tight. “The trades will be executed by end of day.”

“Excellent.” I stand up, smoothing down my dress. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Davies.”

I walk out of his office without a backward glance, the feeling of taking the first real step on a new board thrilling me. I am not just dodging their bullets this time. I am building my own fortress.

Chloe is waiting for me on the veranda when I get home, lounging on a wicker chair like she owns the place. She is wearing oversized sunglasses and a scowl. A large, ugly brown water stain has replaced the vibrant red one on the front of her white dress, which is draped over the chair next to her.

“There you are,” she says, her voice flat. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“I had an errand to run,” I say, keeping my tone light and breezy. I sit down opposite her, pouring myself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the table.

“An errand more important than consoling your best friend in her time of crisis?” She gestures dramatically to the ruined dress.

“Chloe, I am still so sorry about that. It was horrible of me.”

“The dry cleaner said the stain is permanent. He called it a ‘catastrophic pigment immersion’.” She sighs, a sound heavy with theatrical grief. “It was couture, El. One of a kind.”

“I know. I feel terrible.”

She takes a sip of her own tea, peering at me over the rim of her glass. “You just don’t seem yourself lately. First, the wine… incident. Now you disappear all morning without a word. Are you getting cold feet? Is the wedding stress getting to you?”

I force a laugh. “Don’t be silly. I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. I was just… meeting with a designer for the wedding invitations.” A plausible lie. The kind of thing the old me would be doing.

Her expression softens slightly. She believes it. Of course she does. She has always underestimated me.

“Well, you should be more careful,” she chides, slipping back into her familiar role as the concerned, slightly more mature friend. “You seemed so out of it last night. Spilling that wine… it’s not like you to be so clumsy.”

“I know. My hand just… slipped.” I look down at my hands, feigning embarrassment.

“Mark was worried. He said you seemed distant.” She watches my face, looking for a reaction. A crack. A tell.

I give her the perfect one. My lower lip trembles. I look up at her, my eyes wide and earnest.

“Was he mad? I really ruined your big moment. Your speech was so beautiful, and I just… I ruined it.”

She waves a dismissive hand, the tension leaving her shoulders. She’s back on comfortable ground, her superiority affirmed. “Don’t be silly. He wasn’t mad at you. Just disappointed for me. You know how protective he is.”

“He is the best,” I say, my voice a soft whisper.

We sit in silence for a moment. Chloe inspects her manicure. She is smug. She thinks she has figured it out. I am just a nervous bride, a silly, clumsy girl overwhelmed by it all. The world is back on its axis.

“Anyway,” she says, standing up and gathering the stained dress. “I should go. I have a fitting for my bridesmaid dress this afternoon. Let’s try to keep this one clean, shall we?” She gives me a tight, condescending smile.

“I’ll do my best,” I promise.

I watch her walk away, her hips swinging. The confidence in her stride is an insult. She has no idea she just walked out of a ghost story. And she is the one being haunted.

Once her car is gone from the driveway, I go straight to my bedroom. I take out the new laptop I bought for cash yesterday morning. It has never been connected to my home network. I use a secure, untraceable wifi hotspot I also paid for in cash.

I open a browser and navigate to a website that specializes in high quality replicas. Jewelry, watches, handbags. The playground of the insecure and the fraudulent.

My fingers fly across the keyboard. Mark gave me a diamond bracelet two nights ago. A pre engagement gift. Delicate platinum, with a single, perfect pear shaped diamond. It was from Cartier. Unique. Instantly recognizable.

I find a replica on the site. It is a good one, but not perfect. The setting is slightly thicker, the clasp less refined. The stone is cubic zirconia, its fire a little too bright, a little too desperate to be real. It is a cheap imitation. An insult.

I add it to my cart. For the delivery address, I type in Chloe’s apartment. I pay with a prepaid, anonymous credit card. In the gift message section, I pause for a moment, considering the perfect words.

I type: *Thinking of you. Can’t wait until we don’t have to hide anymore.*

I do not sign it.

I close the laptop, a cold, clean satisfaction settling over me. It is a small thing. A cheap piece of glass and metal. But seeds of doubt do not need to be large. They just need fertile ground to grow.

And Chloe’s mind, so full of jealousy and insecurity, is the most fertile ground I can imagine.