Wren POV: The heavy oak doors of the bridal suite could not keep out the sound. The grand organ of Holy Name Cathedral echoed through the thick wood, the wedding march vibrating against the floorboards. I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I stared at the woman reflected in the glass. The custom Vera Wang gown swallowed me in layers of pristine white tulle. My eyes, usually soft and compliant, shifted. The fog of confusion evaporated, replaced by a clarity so cold it made my chest ache. I dug my manicured nails into the center of my palm. The sharp, biting pain pierced my skin. My breath hitched. I wasn't dead. The freezing Chicago blizzard that had stopped my heart in my past life was gone. I was really back. Back to today. Back to the start of all tragedy, and also to the moment when everything could still be redeemed. The suite door burst open. It slammed against the wall with a violent crack. Preston Vance, my fiancé, rushed in. His phone was gripped tightly in his hand, his face pale and frantic. He didn't even look at me. He yanked at his black bowtie, his signature tell when he was cornered or lying. "I have to go," Preston blurted out, his voice tight. "Bri was at practice. She fell on a triple axel. She broke her leg. They just rushed her to Northwestern Memorial." In my past life, I had begged him not to go to his mistress's place. I had cried until my throat bled, clinging to his tuxedo jacket. Now, I just looked at him. My face was a mask of ice. I watched him panic like a pathetic clown performing a cheap trick. Preston paused. My silence seemed to throw him. He frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes, but his panic quickly buried it. "You need to go out there," he ordered, pointing toward the door. "Handle the reporters from the Tribune and ESPN. Keep my grandfather Gus calm. Make up an excuse." "I'll make it up to you later," he threw the empty promise over his shoulder, already turning away. He sprinted toward the cathedral's rear exit without a single ounce of hesitation. Gasps erupted from the hallway. The groomsmen, half of the Chicago Wardens roster, shouted his name. Preston's escape was already causing a scene. I walked slowly to the window. I looked down at the alley. Preston's silver Porsche tore out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of exhaust. A cold, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of my lips. The sharp click of heels echoed from the open doorway. My adopted sister, Bianca Hale, walked in. She wore an ivory bridesmaid dress, but the custom tailoring and the excessive spray of diamond accents along the bodice made it far more luxurious than a standard attendant's gown, subtly designed to outshine the bride without crossing the line into obvious sabotage. My parents, Diane and Richard Hale, adopted Bianca when I was seven. From her first week in our house, she wanted to be the only daughter in it. She broke Grandma June's vase and cried that I had pushed her. She tore up her own homework and said I did it. Every time, my parents believed her, and every time, I was the one who got punished. By the time I was twelve, nobody in my family listened to a word I said. Today, if my wedding fell apart, Bianca would be the only Hale daughter anyone wanted to look at. Bianca's face was twisted into a mask of deep concern, but the malicious gleam in her eyes gave her away. "Oh, Wren," Bianca sighed loudly, making sure the bridesmaids in the hall could hear. "Preston is just too loyal to his friends. You can't blame him for leaving." I turned around. I dragged my heavy skirt across the carpet. My eyes locked onto my adopted sister, sharp as broken glass. Bianca took a step back, like a sudden, unexplainable chill had crawled up her spine. She forced a smile and reached out, trying to grab my arm. "Come on. Let's go out there and bow to the guests. You need to apologize." I didn't hesitate. I swung my hand and slapped Bianca's wrist away. The smack was loud and crisp. Bianca gasped. She cradled her hand against her chest. The skin on the back of her hand turned bright red. Tears instantly pooled in her eyes. Diane pushed through the crowd at the door. She saw Bianca crying and rushed forward. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Diane screamed, pulling Bianca behind her. Diane pointed a shaking finger at my face. "Hale Construction cannot lose every Vance contract just because you are too pathetic to keep a man in your bed!" "Fix your makeup," Diane commanded, her breathing heavy. "Go out to the main hall. Announce that the wedding is postponed. Tell them it's your fault." The suffocating weight of my past life pressed down on my chest. But the reborn me only felt a deep, hollow sense of absurdity. "The wedding is not being postponed," I said. My voice was flat, cutting through Diane's rant. Diane and Bianca froze. They stared at me like the humiliation had finally snapped my mind. I didn't explain. I grabbed handfuls of my heavy tulle skirt, lifted it, and walked straight past the two women. "Where are you going?" Bianca yelled from behind. "All of Chicago is out there waiting to laugh at you!" I didn't look back. "I'm going to get a new groom."

Wren POV: I stood in front of the carved wooden doors of the Vance family's VIP suite. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands were steady. Two men in black suits stepped in front of the door, blocking my path. "Mr. Rhett Kincaid is in a closed-door meeting with Mr. Gus Vance," the guard said, his voice devoid of emotion. "No interruptions." I looked him dead in the eye. I recited a specific sub-clause number. It was a highly classified emergency loophole regarding who would inherit the Vance family's ownership of the Chicago Wardens, a closely guarded secret I had overheard Preston drunkenly bragging about. The guard's jaw tightened. He pressed two fingers to his earpiece and whispered into his hidden microphone. Three seconds passed. A heavy mechanical click echoed from inside the wood. The door unlocked. The guards stepped aside. I walked into the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the sharp scent of black coffee and expensive cigar smoke. Rhett Kincaid, Preston's uncle and the captain of the Chicago Wardens, sat in a single leather armchair. His long legs were crossed. He was casually flipping through a thick stack of trade documents. Gus Vance sat opposite him. The old man's face was purple with rage. He already knew about his grandson's disgraceful exit. Rhett looked up. His deep, gray-blue eyes locked onto me. His gaze was an abyss, giving absolutely nothing away. Gus gripped his cane. "Are you here to cancel the ceremony, Wren? I am deeply sorry for what Preston did." I straightened my spine. I looked at the two most powerful men in the NHL and dropped the bomb. "The wedding proceeds as planned," I said clearly. "But the groom's name changes." Gus gasped. His knuckles turned white around his cane. "Are you insane? Do you want to drag a random groomsman to the altar?" I shifted my gaze. I looked directly at the silent man in the armchair. "I am marrying Rhett Kincaid." The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Gus sucked in a sharp breath, the kind of silence that only lands when the unthinkable becomes real. Rhett's fingers stopped turning the page. Rhett slowly closed the folder. He leaned forward. "Do you have any idea what you are saying right now?" "Every word of it," I said. "Preston walked out on me at the altar. His uncle can walk me down it instead." The bluntness of it hung in the air like a detonation. Gus made a strangled sound. Rhett's expression didn't shift by a single degree. I took a step closer. "The mutual benefit agreement we briefly discussed at the Wardens gala last year." I looked at him with absolute, unwavering certainty. "You need a wife to pacify the board and handle the family's pressure about who takes over the team. I need a fortress to survive the fallout of today. Your name is the only one strong enough to shield me, and I am the only woman in Chicago desperate enough to sign away my freedom without asking questions. It's a win-win." A dark, unreadable ripple crossed Rhett's eyes. He stood up. His massive frame instantly swallowed the light in the room, radiating pure dominance. He walked until he was inches from my face. He looked down, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "If you sign this contract, Wren, there is no backing out. Ever." I didn't flinch. I tilted my chin up. "I have nothing left to lose. I am not afraid of the dark." Gus suddenly stood up, his cane trembling. "Do it, Rhett! This saves the family's face. And it completely cuts that ungrateful bastard Preston out of the ownership succession!" "If you agree, Rhett," Gus breathed heavily, "I will have the lawyers change the documents and the cathedral screens immediately." Rhett stared into my unwavering eyes. The silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod. He turned to his executive assistant standing by the wall. "Initiate Plan B. You have five minutes to replace all physical and digital materials." A sudden commotion erupted outside the door. Bianca shoved past the guards, stumbling into the room. She saw me standing dangerously close to Rhett. "What are you doing?" Bianca shrieked. "Are you trying to seduce your elder? You are disgusting!" I didn't say a word. I closed the distance between us, raised my hand, and delivered a brutal backhand across Bianca's face. The sharp crack echoed off the walls. Bianca crashed to the floor, clutching her stinging cheek, screaming in shock. Rhett didn't blink. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to me. "Don't dirty your hands," Rhett said softly.

Wren POV: The corridor leading to the main hall was dark and narrow. Rhett bent his arm, offering it to me. I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow. My fingers brushed against the bespoke fabric of his suit. The sudden, intense heat of his body radiated through the material. The warmth hit me like a physical blow. My brain misfired. A violent wave of PTSD crashed over me. The dim wall lights blurred. The hallway twisted, morphing into the freezing, snow-covered streets of Chicago from my past life. I remembered the agonizing cold. Bianca had framed me. The Hale family had thrown me out without a dime. The temperature was twenty below zero. I remembered dialing Preston's number with frostbitten fingers. I remembered hearing Bri's sweet, giggling voice on the other end before the line went dead. I remembered Diane's voice on the voicemail. Die in the street, Wren. Just don't bleed on my carpets. The phantom ice clawed at my lungs. My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe. My knees buckled, and I stumbled forward. Rhett's arm shot out. His large hand clamped around my waist, gripping me tight. He pulled me flush against his solid chest, stopping my fall. "Are you afraid?" his voice rumbled right against my ear, deep and incredibly grounding. I looked up. I stared at the sharp, perfect lines of his jaw. The memories shifted again. I remembered floating above my own dead body. I saw Rhett. The most feared captain in the NHL, standing in a sterile morgue. He had taken off his own wool coat and draped it over my frozen corpse. I saw his private security storming the Hale estate, taking my ashes by force. I saw him standing alone in a private cemetery in Lake Forest, hosting a funeral for a woman he barely spoke to in life. I remembered the suffocating weight of the dirt, the terrifying finality of death. I remembered the sheer, incomprehensible shock of waking up today, breathing, my heart beating in my chest. Why was I back? How was I back? The universe had given me a second chance, a miraculous reversal of fate that defied all logic. And in this new life, the only man I knew I could trust was the one who had shown me mercy when I was nothing but a memory. He had stood in that freezing cemetery, a solitary figure of absolute power, giving me the dignity in death that my own blood had denied me. In the present, my fingers dug into his arm. My knuckles turned stark white. I took a ragged breath. I shoved the weakness deep into my stomach and shook my head. "I just realized it's too late." "Too late to see them for who they are," I whispered, my voice hardening into steel. "But early enough to destroy them." Rhett looked down at me. His eyes dropped to the faint redness at the corners of my eyes. A violent, terrifying darkness flashed in his pupils. His assistant's voice crackled over the radio. "Sir. The main hall screens are rebooted. The press is in position." Rhett lifted his hand. He gently adjusted the edge of my lace veil. The softness of his touch completely contradicted the dangerous aura surrounding him. "Once we push these doors open," Rhett said in a low gravel, "you are the queen of Chicago. No one will ever make you lower your head again." The organ music abruptly stopped. A second later, the grand, imposing chords of a royal wedding march shook the walls. The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall were slowly pulled open by two ushers. Blinding white light from hundreds of camera flashes spilled into the dark corridor. I straightened my spine. I lifted my chin, my eyes turning into chips of ice. I walked like a queen stepping onto a battlefield. "Pleasure doing business with you, Uncle," I whispered. Rhett heard the word. His jaw twitched. A dark, possessive smirk touched his lips. "According to the legal documents being drafted right now," Rhett corrected me, "you will call me husband." The doors opened completely. A thousand eyes and camera lenses snapped directly onto us.