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The smell hits first. Smoke and melted plastic and something sweet that makes my stomach turn.
I know that smell.
I died in it.
My eyes snap open. White ceiling. Not black. Not crumbling. The fire alarm isn't screaming. My skin isn't burning. I'm in my bed—the one with the stupid silk sheets Mom insisted on buying last year when Dad closed the Zhonghai deal. Before everything went to hell.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the mattress and they come away clean. No ash. No blood. No charred skin peeling off in strips while I screamed and no one came.
I'm breathing too fast. The room spins. There's my desk. My laptop. The closet door half-open with clothes I haven't worn in—
Wait.
I lurch out of bed and grab my phone off the nightstand. The screen lights up. June 8th. 6:47 AM.
June.
I died in September. September 12th. I remember because it was the day after the Mid-Autumn Festival and Mom had left mooncakes on the kitchen counter and they were still there when the house went up. When he stood in the doorway and watched me burn.
Lin Yuhan.
My husband. My killer.
Except I'm not married yet. That doesn't happen until—I swipe through my calendar with numb fingers—August 15th. Two months from now. The contract signing was three weeks later. The fire was two weeks after that.
I'm back.
The thought should feel impossible. It doesn't. It feels like the only thing that makes sense. Because I remember dying. I remember his face in the smoke. Calm. Almost bored. Like he was watching a stock ticker instead of his wife burning alive.
And I remember what I saw right before the ceiling came down. The phone in his hand. The screen lit up with a name I recognized. Qin Yi. His supposed ex. The woman he said meant nothing.
She'd sent him a photo. My parents' car. Wrapped around a tree on Huanshan Road. The same road they died on. The same crash the police said was an accident.
It wasn't an accident.
Nothing was an accident.
My door slams open. I nearly drop the phone.
Mom stands there in her bathrobe, hair a mess, face pale. "Stella. They're here."
I stare at her. She's alive. She's standing right there. Not in a hospital bed with tubes down her throat. Not in a morgue. Not ash in an urn I never got to bury because I died first.
"Stella." Her voice cracks. "Did you hear me? They're downstairs. Three of them. They have—" She swallows hard. "They have guns."
The debt collectors.
I remember this. Not clearly—it was three months ago in the other timeline—but I remember Mom waking me up, her hands shaking, whispering about men in suits who wouldn't leave. Dad had tried to buy time. Tried to negotiate. They'd given us two weeks.
Two weeks before Lin Yuhan showed up with his contract and his fake sympathy and his perfect solution.
Two weeks before I signed my life away.
"Stella." Mom's eyes are wet. "Your father's down there. He's trying to—they want the house. They want everything. They said if we don't pay by the end of the month—"
"I know." My voice comes out steady. Too steady. Mom flinches.
I don't care. My hands have stopped shaking. That's new.
Last time I was terrified. Last time I cried and begged Dad to fix it and believed him when he said he would. I didn't know he'd already lost everything. Didn't know the Zhonghai deal was a trap. Didn't know Lin Yuhan had been planning this for years.
This time I know.
"Get dressed," I tell Mom. "Tell Dad I'm coming down."
"Stella, you can't—"
"I said I'm coming down."
She stares at me. I don't blink. After a second she nods and leaves. The door clicks shut.
I pull on jeans and a sweater. My hands are still steady. In the mirror my face looks wrong. Too calm. Too cold. I'm twenty-three years old and I look like someone who's already died.
Because I have.
The stairs creak under my feet. Downstairs I hear voices. Dad's, tight and angry. A man's, flat and bored. The kind of bored that comes with a gun and a job to do.
I reach the bottom. Turn the corner into the living room.
Three men in suits. Two by the door. One on the couch like he owns it. Dad's standing in the middle of the room, shoulders tight, fists clenched. He looks smaller than I remember. Older.
The man on the couch looks up when I walk in. He's maybe forty. Shaved head. Scar along his jaw. He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"This the daughter?"
Dad moves between us. "She has nothing to do with this."
"She's a Su, isn't she?" The man stands. He's tall. Taller than Dad. "Then she has everything to do with it."
I step around Dad before he can stop me. "How much?"
The man's smile widens. "Smart girl. Fifty million. Yuan, not dollars. Your father thought he could—"
"I know what he thought." I look at Dad. His face goes white. "The Zhonghai deal. You borrowed against the company assets. They were fake."
Dad's mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
The man laughs. "See? Smart girl. Yeah. Fake assets. Fake contracts. Very real debt. We want our money, Mr. Su. End of the month. Or we take the house. The cars. The company. Whatever's left."
"There's nothing left," I say.
The room goes quiet.
Dad's staring at me. Mom's in the doorway, hand over her mouth. The man's smile is gone.
"Excuse me?"
"There's nothing left," I repeat. "The company's underwater. The assets are tied up in bad loans. You'll get the house and maybe five million if you're lucky. You know that. That's why you're here with guns instead of lawyers."
The man takes a step closer. "You got a mouth on you."
"I've got a brain. You want fifty million. We don't have it. So what do you really want?"
His eyes narrow. Then he laughs again. Short and sharp. "What we really want is for your father to stop wasting our time. We know he's got friends. Family. Someone who'll cover this before we have to get messy."
"He doesn't."
"Stella—" Dad starts.
"He doesn't," I say again. "His friends stopped taking his calls two weeks ago. His family disowned him when the first lawsuit hit. No one's coming."
I watch the man's face. He already knows this. He's just waiting for us to admit it. Waiting for us to break.
Last time we broke.
Last time Lin Yuhan walked in like a savior and I fell for it.
"Two weeks," the man says. "That's all you get. After that—" He shrugs. "Not my problem what happens."
He gestures to the other two. They follow him to the door. One of them looks back at me. His hand rests on something under his jacket. A warning.
The door closes. The lock clicks.
Dad sinks onto the couch. Puts his head in his hands. Mom rushes over, wraps her arms around him. She's crying.
I just stand there.
Two weeks.
Last time Lin Yuhan showed up in ten days. Came to the door with flowers and sympathy and a contract that looked like a lifeline. Marry me, he said. My family has money. I'll cover your debts. All you have to do is sign.
I signed.
I thought I was saving them.
I didn't know he'd already killed them. The car crash came three days after the wedding. Brake failure, the police said. Tragic accident.
It wasn't an accident.
None of it was.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Unknown number.
I stare at the screen. My finger hovers over the answer button.
I know who this is.
I answer.
"Miss Su." The voice is smooth. Polite. Young. The kind of voice that belongs to someone who's never had to beg for anything. "My name is Lin Yuhan. I heard about your father's situation. I'd like to help."
My hand tightens on the phone. Last time this call came in ten days. Last time I didn't recognize his name. Didn't know who he was.
This time I know exactly who he is.
The man who killed me.
The man I'm going to destroy.
"I'm listening," I say.
On the other end, Lin Yuhan laughs softly. "Good. I'll be at your door in an hour. We have a lot to discuss."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone. Dad's still on the couch. Mom's still crying. Neither of them heard.
In the other timeline, I opened the door when he knocked. Let him in. Listened to his offer. Believed every word.
This time I'll open the door.
This time I'll smile.
This time I'll sign his contract and shake his hand and let him think he's won.
And when he's close enough—when he trusts me enough—when he loves me enough to let his guard down—
I'll burn him the way he burned me.
The clock on the wall ticks. Fifty-nine minutes.
I go upstairs to get ready. My hands still aren't shaking.
Good.
I'm going to need them steady.