The first time she saw him, he was all sharp suits and broad shoulders, effortlessly standing out. He smiled, patted her head, and handed her a princess dress. 

Fast forward to twenty. He got drugged at a banquet. She wore that same dress, offering herself as the cure. 

By morning, they were a wreck—clothes askew, air thick with implication. 

Nicole Jenner, Andrew’s childhood sweetheart, stood frozen in the doorway before bolting, tears blinding her. She never saw the truck. 

She died on impact. 

Andrew changed after that. 

Buried Nicole with eerie calm. Married Lena with the same detachment. Took her to bed every night—cold, empty. And every time she got pregnant, he made sure it didn’t last. Dragged her to the clinic over and over until the eighteenth time nearly killed her. 

Lying on the operating table, weak and drained, she heard the doctor call him. 

His voice was ice. “Is she dead? Let me know when she is.” 

That was the moment she finally got it. 

He hated her. Hated that she’d been his so-called cure. Hated that Nicole was gone because of it. 

As her heart monitor flatlined, regret swallowed her whole. 

Then—she woke up. 

Back in the same hotel room. Back on the night Andrew had been drugged. 

Lena’s breath hitched. Andrew lay on the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, his usual cold expression softened by fevered exhaustion. 

This was it. The moment that had wrecked everything. The moment she’d thrown herself at him, blind to the fallout. 

But now she knew the truth.