They say every dog has its day.
Mine came six feet under.
My name is Zara Cole, and I died on my wedding anniversary — pushed off a rooftop by the two people I loved most: my husband, Damien Cole, billionaire CEO and world-class liar, and my best friend, Priya Shah, who had been warming my side of the bed for years while I ironed Damien's shirts and called it love.
I was twenty-eight years old. I weighed forty-three kilograms because Damien said I looked "healthier" when I was smaller. I hadn't laughed in two years. I had zero bank account, zero self-respect, and approximately one brain cell — which I used exclusively to make excuses for everyone who was destroying me.
And then gravity introduced itself.
But here's the plot twist nobody asked for:
I woke up.
Not in heaven. Not in some misty afterlife with a wise old woman handing me life lessons. I woke up in my own body — seven years in the past, the morning of my twentieth birthday, face-down in my tiny apartment that smelled like instant noodles and ambition.
I was broke. I was nobody. Damien hadn't noticed me yet. Priya was still "my best friend." The world was still intact.
And this time?
I'm going to break it first.
No more forgiving. No more shrinking. No more being the understanding wife, the loyal friend, the silent sufferer. This time, I'm keeping every talent they made me abandon, every opportunity they convinced me to refuse, and every secret they buried alongside me.
They wanted a lamb. They're getting a wolf in a red dress.
Welcome to my second life. Population: one very angry, very funny, and absolutely unhinged woman who has nothing left to lose and everything left to take.
