In my previous life, I gave Genevieve Sutton everything I had. My inheritance, my connections, my entire future—I laid them all down like a plush velvet carpet beneath her designer heels.

In the final seconds before I stopped breathing, she stood over my hospital bed, clinging to Garrett Ward’s arm, and smiled down at me with genuine amusement. "Carson, did you honestly believe I married you for love?" her voice was a velvet purr. "If your father hadn’t backed Garrett’s venture, why would I have ever spared you a single glance?" "Garrett is the only man I’ve ever loved.

From day one." I died with my eyes wide open, choked by betrayal. When I opened them again, I was sitting across from my mother on a quiet, sunlit afternoon, right in the middle of her attempt to arrange my engagement.

This time, I set my porcelain teacup down on the saucer without a tremor, looked my mother dead in the eye, and gave her two words: "I won't." My mother froze.

She had no idea what was running through my mind—that in this lifetime, I wouldn't be the one left begging on my knees.

1 I woke to pain. It wasn't physical; it was a deep, searing ache right behind my sternum, like someone dragging a dull blade back and forth across my ribs.

My vision was washed in sterile white, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, I thought I was still tethered to that hospital mattress. The memory of my previous life was too sharp, etched into my mind with acid.

I could still see Genevieve framed by the doorway of my private room, the cruel upward curve of her painted lips. "You really are pathetic, Carson." "Did you actually think all those years of devotion were real?" "Your father guaranteed Garrett’s credit line, and that was the only reason I walked down the aisle with you." "To put it plainly: you were nothing more than a stepping stone." By then, my lungs had been too fluidlogged to speak.

The fourth round of chemo had ravaged my body, shutting down my organs one by one. She had stood there in an immaculate tailored suit, perfectly styled, with my best friend standing right behind her. Garrett hadn't even looked me in the eye.

He had merely slipped an arm around Genevieve’s waist and rested his chin against her shoulder, marking his territory over the dying. The last thing I saw was the two of them turning on their heels. The soft click of her heels against the linoleum.

The heavy door swinging shut in the draft. And then, darkness. "Carson? Honey, are you listening to me?" The voice broke through the fog. I blinked hard, my breath catching in my throat. Before me was a polished darkwood tea table.

A pot of steaming green tea sat on a slate coaster, fragrant steam curling into the warm air. Sitting across from me was my mother, Eleanor Cole.

She was wearing the deep forestgreen silk dress I remembered from years ago, slowly turning a strand of jade prayer beads between her manicured fingers, watching me with an affectionate, expectant smile. "Where did your mind wander off to?

I'm trying to talk to you about something important." My entire body seized. I looked down at my hands resting on the armrests. No IV lines. No purple hematomas from blown veins. No jaundiced, paperthin skin.

My fingers were long, tanned, and healthy—the hands of a twentysixyearold man. My heart thudded against my ribs with violent, glorious vitality. I was alive.

I was back. "What... what did you just say, Mom?" My voice came out lower, rougher than I intended. My mother set down her beads and slid a glossy photograph across the table toward me.

The woman in the photo was burned into my marrow: Genevieve Sutton. An elegant oval face, almondshaped eyes shimmering with practiced warmth, and a delicate jawline that made her look like the epitome of highsociety grace.

If I hadn’t witnessed her mask slip in that hospital room, I would still have thought she was the most breathtaking woman in the world. "The Suttons finally agreed," my mother said, lifting her cup to take a dainty sip. "You’ll meet Genevieve for dinner next week to settle the details.

You’ve had your heart set on that girl since you were a boy, Carson. Consider this my gift to you." Since I was a boy. She wasn't wrong. In my last life, I had fallen for Genevieve when I was fifteen years old.

I spent twelve years worshipping the ground she walked on, chasing her from private prep school to an empty, performative marriage. I gave her my life. And in return, she called me a stepping stone.

I reached out, took the photograph, and turned it facedown on the mahogany table with a quiet snap. "Mom. Call it off. I’m not marrying her." The sunroom fell dead silent for three long seconds.

My mother’s hand hovered above her beads. "What did you say?" "Genevieve Sutton," I repeated, meeting her gaze steadily. "I don't want her. Please tell Walter Sutton the arrangement is off." She was entirely unprepared for this.

Her sculpted brows knitted together in sheer disbelief. "Carson, have you lost your mind? You pursued that girl for over a decade! Now that Walter has finally opened the door, you’re telling me you’re walking away?" I didn't offer an explanation.

How could I? I couldn't look my mother in the eye and say: Mom, in another life, I married her, and as I lay dying of cancer, she confessed she’d been sleeping with my best friend the whole time while they drained our family assets.

I simply stood up, drained the lukewarm tea from my cup in a single swallow, and set it down. "Trust me on this, Mom. Genevieve Sutton is out of my league—or maybe I'm just out of hers.

Either way, it's done." My mother parted her lips to protest, but words failed her. I turned and walked out of the sunroom, stepping out through the French doors into the early autumn afternoon. The sunlight hit my face, bright and gold.

It wasn't scorching; it carried the crisp, invigorating chill of October. What had I been doing at this exact moment in my past life? I had been trembling with ecstasy.

I had been pacing my apartment, calling highend boutiques to order an Hermès bag just so I could bring a gift to our first formal dinner. I had been an absolute, unforgivable fool.

I curled my fingers into fists, feeling the steady pulse of warm blood under my skin. In this life, time was on my side. Opportunity was on my side. The things that were taken from me, I would claim back piece by piece.

And as for the moment when Genevieve Sutton would finally be forced to her knees—I had all the patience in the world.

2 After I shut down the engagement, my mother gave me the cold shoulder for three straight days. I didn't care. My greatest advantage in this life wasn't my family's oldmoney status or a handsome face.

It was the fact that I possessed twelve years of clear, unadulterated foresight. I remembered every major market shift, every real estate bubble, every corporate acquisition that reshaped the city's elite.

I sat at the oak desk in my private loft, pulled out a clean sheet of paper, and began writing: 1. Kingstone Properties — Next March, the municipal zoning council will pass the North Riverfront urban renewal initiative.

Land values will quadruple overnight. 2. Kestrel Technologies — Six months from now, an energy conglomerate will initiate a buyout. Share price will surge over 700%. 3.

Pacific Maritime Logistics — By late December, the new maritime trade corridor opens ahead of schedule. Shipping volume will hit historic highs. In my past life, nearly all of these jackpots were cashed in by Garrett Ward. Why?

Because I handed him my father’s private rolodex. Because every time I caught wind of an insider whisper, I shared it with my "brother" Garrett over scotch.

He built his empire on the back of my generosity, and once he was at the top, he took my wife into his bed. My pen hovered over the paper. I took a slow, measured breath. Don't rush, I told myself. This time, he won't get a single crumb.

That afternoon, I drove out to the North Riverfront district. The municipal redevelopment notices hadn't been posted yet; the entire neighborhood was still a sprawling patchwork of rundown warehouses and lowrent lots.

Land prices were hovering near rock bottom. Using my personal accounts, I quietly executed option contracts on three adjacent industrial parcels.

The capital requirement wasn't massive—my liquid savings combined with my private line of credit covered the deposits with just enough room to breathe.

The real estate broker handling the paperwork glanced at my youth and casual attire, her tone dripping with polite skepticism. "Mr. Cole, the city has no official infrastructure plans for this corridor.

Are you certain you want to lock up this much capital here?" "I'm certain." "Still, the carrying costs—" "Draw up the contracts." She studied me for two beats, then quietly complied. Once the ink was dry, a deep sense of calm settled over me.

Six months from now, when these dirt lots were worth a fortune, she’d spend sleepless nights wondering why she hadn't bought in alongside me. That was only phase one. On the drive back into the city, my phone buzzed in the center console.

The caller ID flashed: Genevieve Sutton. I stared at the glowing letters for five seconds. In my past life, seeing that name appear on my screen would have made my hands shake with eager anticipation. Now? I tapped the red button and cut the call.

Three seconds later, the screen lit up with a text: Carson, your mother mentioned you cancelled our dinner? Is there some kind of misunderstanding between us? I’m free this Sunday—why don't we get coffee and talk?

Her tone was effortless: sweet, gentle, laced with just a hint of wounded vulnerability. It was the exact persona she had maintained in front of me for twelve years. The dutiful, highsociety darling. Softspoken. Flawless.

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and didn't reply. Over the next three days, several more messages arrived. The tone shifted from sweet concern to mild confusion, and finally to a subtle, underlying urgency.

Carson, have you been under a lot of stress lately? I spoke with your mother. She said you haven't been home all week. Where are you staying? Do you want me to come by your loft? I left every single message on read.

On the fourth evening, my mother finally came looking for me, carrying a porcelain bowl of slowsimmered herbal soup into my study. "Carson." "Yeah, Mom." "What on earth is going on between you and Genevieve?

That poor girl has reached out to you multiple times, and you haven't given her the courtesy of a single reply.

If word gets around our social circle, people will think the Coles have no manners." I looked up from my dual monitors, meeting her eyes. "Mom, do you trust my instincts?" She hesitated, her maternal instinct conflicting with her social conditioning. "Of course I do, but—" "Then handle the Suttons for me.

Tell them my focus is elsewhere and the match is officially dead." "Elsewhere? Where?" "Building my own capital." She stared at me for a long moment, taking in the quiet, unyielding focus in my expression, before letting out a soft sigh. "Fine.

I won't force you into an arrangement you don't want. But please... don't be reckless, Carson." She set the bowl down on the edge of the desk and walked out, shaking her head. I turned back to the glowing monitors.

Kestrel Technologies was trading at $22.30 a share. In six months, it would cross $158. I had already begun quietly accumulating my position across multiple discreet brokerage accounts.

3 Ten days after I walked away from the match, Genevieve ambushed me. It wasn't a coincidence.

She was leaning against the driver's side of my Porsche in the subterranean garage beneath my private office building, holding an iced Americano in a cardboard sleeve. No sugar, extra ice. In my past life, it was my signature order.

Of course she knew. "Carson." The moment I stepped out of the elevator bay, she straightened up, her expression morphing instantly into a picture of gentle, delicate worry. "You haven't been answering my calls or texts.

I was getting genuinely worried about you..." She stepped forward, extending the coffee cup toward me. In the past, a gesture like this from Genevieve Sutton would have made my chest ache with adoration.

I didn't reach for the cup. "Genevieve, I thought my mother made my stance entirely clear." Her hand hung suspended in the chilled air of the garage.

A flash of raw disbelief flickered across her eyes before she smoothed it over. "Carson... what happened to you? Did someone say something to you about me?" I looked at her. Under the fluorescent garage lights, she was undeniably striking.

Her makeup was understated, her beige cashmere coat tailored to perfection, her posture radiating oldmoney refinement.

Yet when I looked at that porcelain face, only one memory surfaced: her standing beside Garrett in my hospital room, smirking as she told me I was nothing but a tool. "Nobody said anything," I said, reaching past her to unlock the car. "I just don't see the point in wasting your time.

You deserve someone more suited to your ambitions." The words were impeccably polite, but the wall between us was absolute. Genevieve froze. She was entirely unaccustomed to being dismissed—especially by Carson Cole.

In her worldview, I was supposed to orbit her existence indefinitely, grateful for whatever crumbs of attention she chose to drop. "You've changed," she murmured, her manicured fingers tightening around the paper coffee cup until the cardboard creaked.

I slipped into the driver’s seat and clicked my seatbelt into place. Looking out the open driver's window, I met her gaze one last time. "People grow up, Genevieve." I pressed the ignition, rolled up the window, and put the car in reverse.

In the rearview mirror, she remained rooted to the concrete, the delicate vulnerability on her face hardening into something sharp and calculating. She was running the numbers in her head. Recalibrating.

Trying to figure out what had gone wrong with her most reliable asset. In our previous life, she had worn that exact same look whenever I made a move she hadn't anticipated. Her primary reaction was never Are you okay?

It was always How does this affect my standing?

I had just been too blinded by infatuation to see it. — That night, my phone rang. "Carson, my man!" Garrett Ward's voice came through the speaker, brimming with his usual breezy charisma. "It's been ages. We need to grab a drink.

Listen, I've got this incredible new venture I want to walk you through—" I leaned back on the leather sofa, a wave of cold disgust washing over me. The memories rushed back unbidden. Garrett wrapping his arm around my wife.

Garrett taking the seed money my father arranged to build his empire. Garrett never once stepping foot in my oncology ward until the day I drew my last breath. "I'm busy," I said flatly. "Wait, what? Carson, what are you working on?

Seriously, this project is massive. There's this land parcel near the North Riverfront—" I nearly let out a dark laugh. The North Riverfront parcels.

I had already locked down the options three days ago. "Garrett," I interrupted, my tone icy. "If it's business, have your analyst email my office." I hung up before he could reply. A string of voice notes lit up my screen immediately afterward.

I didn't listen to a single one. I simply swiped left and muted the thread indefinitely. In this life, Garrett Ward was erased from my circle. I wouldn't even grant him the dignity of my hatred.

4 Time moved with relentless momentum. Three months in, the first harvest came through. Pacific Maritime Logistics.

The new maritime corridor opened two weeks earlier than it had in my past timeline—a minor butterfly effect, but entirely inconsequential to the outcome. I had built my position at the absolute floor.

When the news hit the financial wires, shipping futures spiked, and I liquidated my holdings for a clean 300% return. I kept the windfall entirely quiet.

I immediately rolled seventy percent of the liquid profit straight into Kestrel Technologies stock and exercised the remaining options on the North Riverfront industrial land. Snowballing capital.

In my past life, my father’s business empire was slowly hollowed out because the Cole family kept all its eggs in one basket: traditional, lowmargin heavy manufacturing.

Garrett, armed with my tips and my father's backing, had ridden every emerging tech and real estate wave instead. This time, I was the one riding the wave. Four months in.

The city council officially greenlit the North Riverfront urban renewal blueprint. The three parcels under my control were independently appraised at fourandahalf times my purchase price.

Private wealth managers from Chase and Morgan Stanley began calling my office daily, competing to offer expanded commercial credit lines.

That Sunday, my father looked at me across the dinner table with an expression I had never seen on his face before: genuine bewilderment. "Carson," Arthur Cole said, setting his scotch down. "Where did this capital come from?" "Private investments." "In what?" "Commercial real estate options and secondary market equities." His graying brows drew together. "What was your initial collateral?" "My personal liquid assets and private credit." He opened his mouth to deliver his customary lecture on conservative asset management, but stopped himself.

Finally, all he could muster was, "Be careful. Speculation burns fast, and nobody is bailing you out if you crash." I offered a slight smile. "Dad, wait until you see the quarterly audit.

You won't be worried." He let out a noncommittal grunt and stood up to leave the dining room, but I noticed his stride had slowed. He was deep in thought. He was an oldschool industrialist, but he wasn't stupid.

He smelled the shift in the wind. — Meanwhile, Genevieve's behavior began to shift in subtle, revealing ways. At first, her messages had trickled in with decreasing frequency—shifting from sweet concern to wounded pride, and finally to frosty silence.

I assumed she had finally given up. Until I attended a private rooftop gala in the Financial District and spotted her across the terrace.

She was wearing a backless midnightblue evening gown, engaged in conversation with a silverhaired man holding a tumbler of bourbon. Even as she laughed at whatever he was saying, her eyes kept darting across the room, tracking my movements.

I didn't move from my spot by the bar, slowly sipping my drink. I recognized the man beside her: Marcus Davenport, a ruthless commercial real estate developer whose net worth hovered around three hundred million dollars.

In my past life, he had briefly partnered with Garrett before a bitter legal fallout over contract breaches. Genevieve was already shopping for a replacement vehicle. I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy, not even contempt.

This was who she had always been: a pragmatic parasite, drawn instinctively to whoever held the most leverage in the room. In my youth, I had been blinded by romantic delusions. Now, I saw the mechanics of her mind with crystal clarity.

It was almost boring. I finished my drink and turned toward the exit. "Carson." Her voice called out behind me. I paused and turned around.

Genevieve stood three paces away, holding a crystal flute of champagne, her smile polished and composed. "It's been a while," she said. "It has." "I've been hearing rumors," she said, taking a step closer, dropping her voice to an intimate register. "Word on the street is that you've made some very aggressive moves in the market recently." News traveled fast in these circles. "Just minor portfolio adjustments," I said. "I don't believe that for a second." Her eyes searched mine, sharp and probing. "You've never had a reckless bone in your body, Carson.

To make plays this massive, something must have changed. What are you planning?" She was probing. Testing the waters. Calculating whether I still possessed utility for her. Looking into those striking eyes, a deep sense of irony washed over me.

I had spent thirtyeight years in my past life searching for love in those eyes, and there had never been anything there except cold balance sheets. "Genevieve." "Yes?" "Whatever I'm doing," I said evenly, "it's no longer any of your business." Her polished smile froze.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute until her knuckles blanched. I didn't give her a second glance. I turned and walked straight out through the glass doors. I could feel her gaze burning into my back like a needle.

But it had no power over me anymore. In this life, nothing she did could touch me.

5 The sixmonth mark arrived. The news broke across every financial network: Kestrel Technologies had entered a definitive merger agreement with a national energy titan at a massive premium. The stock skyrocketed from $22 to $163.

I unwound my entire position in three tranches, achieving an average exit price of $148 per share.

Combined with the gains on my real estate options, the liquid balance in my private entity's accounts was now more than double the entire annual net profit of my father's manufacturing conglomerate.

I sat in my downtown office, watching the sevenfigure wire confirmations clear across my screen, completely calm. This was just the groundwork. The real shift was occurring on another board entirely. — Garrett Ward was drowning.

At this point in my previous life, Garrett had already secured his first major windfall through the North Riverfront redevelopment and used that momentum to buy preIPO shares in Kestrel Tech.

In this life, I had snatched the North Riverfront land right out from under him. And as for Kestrel Tech?

He had no way of obtaining that intelligence, because in the past timeline, that lead had come directly from one of my father’s old business associates. Without my introduction, Garrett was just another trustfund entrepreneur with an inflated ego.

His consumertech startup had burned through four million dollars in angel funding over the last six months without generating a dime in recurring revenue.

The whispers in the private clubs were already circulating: Garrett Ward was overleveraged and desperate. He was knocking on every door in the city trying to keep the lights on—even approaching Genevieve's father, Walter Sutton. How poetic.

In the past life, he had used my resources to build his empire before stealing my wife.

Without me acting as his launchpad, let's see how high he could jump. — That Thursday afternoon, I met a prospective corporate tenant at a boutique café in Midtown.

As I walked out of the revolving doors onto the sidewalk, I almost collided with someone. Paige Ellis—Genevieve’s closest confidante. In my previous life, Paige had been a constant fixture in our home after Genevieve and I married.

On the surface, she was the bubbly, loyal best friend; in reality, she had functioned as the discreet courier passing messages between Genevieve and Garrett behind my back. They had assumed I was completely blind. In that life, I was.

In this one, every move was laid bare. "Carson?" Paige stopped dead in her tracks, blinking before plastering on an exaggerated, breathless smile. "Oh my god, what a coincidence!" "Paige." She looked me up and down, her eyes narrowing with calculating curiosity. "Nobody has seen you at the club lately.

Genevieve talks about you all the time, you know." "Does she?" "She says you've become a completely different person—like she barely recognizes you." Paige tilted her head, affecting a concerned pout. "Carson, are you hiding something from her?

She’s genuinely worried sick about you." Worried? Genevieve was worried about whether she had let a golden goose slip out of her grasp. "Do me a favor and pass a message to her," I said, tossing my empty espresso cup into the recycling bin.

Paige’s eyes lit up with predatory interest. "Of course! What is it?" "Tell her she can stop worrying. We have nothing to do with each other anymore." Paige’s smile turned to stone.

I walked past her without breaking stride. — That evening, an unexpected call came through on my private line. Caller ID: Garrett Ward.

I hesitated for two seconds, then tapped accept. "Carson," Garrett’s voice sounded noticeably drained, stripped of its usual brash confidence. "Look, man, the startup hit a couple of unexpected roadblocks.

I was hoping we could sit down over dinner." I said nothing, letting the silence stretch. "You know my platform, right?" he pressed, his tone growing hurried. "We closed the seed round, but our runway is running tight before the Series A.

I was thinking... do you think Uncle Arthur might be willing to introduce me to his syndicate partners?" Uncle Arthur. He used to call my father that with such effortless charm, like a devoted second son.

In my past life, that routine had worked every single time. Whenever Garrett ran into liquidity issues, he ran to me, and I dragged my father into his mess. My father treated him like family, opening doors and writing checks.

And Garrett had used those exact connections to corner me while I was on my deathbed. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice deadpan. "My relationship with my father's board is strictly professional.

I can't help you." Dead silence on the other end of the line. "Carson... are you holding some kind of grudge against me?" "No." "Then why—" "Garrett, let me be entirely honest with you." "Yeah?" "We were never as close as you seem to think.

If you need capital, find another door to knock on." I hung up immediately. Before he could dial back, I permanently blacklisted his number. The screen dimmed.

Outside my floortoceiling windows, the skyline stretched out, ablaze with millions of electric lights. I rested my head against the leather chair and closed my eyes for a quiet moment.

The ghost of my past death flitted through my thoughts, cold and suffocating. I didn't let myself drown in it. I simply confirmed what I already knew: every single choice I had made since waking up in that sunroom was entirely, unquestionably right.

6 Two weeks after I cut Garrett off, the narrative escalated. Genevieve requested a facetoface meeting. Not a casual runin at a gala or a staged ambush in a parking deck.

She formally booked a private dining room at an exclusive omakase restaurant in the Arts District and invited me directly. I accepted. Not out of lingering nostalgia.

I simply wanted to see what cards she had left to play without the leverage of an arranged marriage hanging over my head. When the sliding screen opened, Genevieve was already seated on the tatami mat.

Her makeup was bolder than usual—a deeper shade of plum on her lips, her silk blouse unbuttoned just an inch lower than her customary modest standard.

She was broadcasting calculated availability. "Carson, thank you for coming," she said softly, rising slightly to pour premium sake into a ceramic cup.

I took the seat opposite her, leaving the cup untouched. "What is this about, Genevieve?" She didn't show irritation at my coldness; instead, a faint, rueful smile touched her lips. "When did you become so distant?

You used to—" "The past is irrelevant," I cut in. "You didn't book a private room to reminisce.

What do you want?" She took a slow sip of sake, set her cup down, and dropped the coquettish pretense. "I heard about your recent liquidity events." "And?" "Let’s speak plainly, Carson." She leaned forward across the low table, her almond eyes locked onto mine. "Garrett’s venture is currently facing a temporary bridgefinancing deficit.

I know you have substantial liquid capital sitting idle.

If you—" "Are you pitching me on Garrett Ward's behalf?" She paused, caught off guard. "It’s not just financing; it’s an equity partnership," she recovered quickly, her tone persuasive. "You two grew up together.

With your capital and his platform—" "Genevieve." My voice dropped an octave, cutting through her pitch like ice.

She stopped talking. "Since when did you become Garrett Ward’s personal errand girl?" The air in the private room turned instantly brittle. Her manicured fingertips froze against the rim of her sake cup.

Looking at her, the final pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. In my past timeline, Genevieve and Garrett hadn't openly flaunted their relationship until my third year of marriage. But in truth, they had been entangled long before that.

In that life, I was too infatuated to notice. In this life, because I had refused to marry her, she didn't even have the patience to maintain her facade.

She was already desperate enough to act as his broker. "Carson, don't misunderstand me," she said, sensing the sharp edge in my tone, scrambling to retreat. "I only suggested it because I thought you two were close friends—" "I have no connection to Garrett Ward." "What?" "Whatever arrangement you have with him is your business," I said, rising to my feet. "I have no interest in funding his sinking ship.

The sake was fine. Goodnight." "Carson!" She stood up abruptly, the polished, gentle mask finally cracking down the middle. "What is wrong with you?! For months you’ve acted like a total stranger!

You ignore my calls, you cut off my family, and now you won't even entertain a basic business proposal—" "Genevieve." I turned back at the threshold and looked at her.

She stopped midsentence, chest heaving slightly. "Did you ever stop to ask yourself why I stopped answering your calls?" Her lips parted, but no sound came out. "Because I simply don't care anymore," I said quietly. "From the very beginning, it was really that simple." Her face went bonewhite.

It wasn't heartbreak; it was the sheer, suffocating shock of losing absolute control over someone she thought she owned. Her entire game plan had unraveled, and she had no backup strategy. I slid the shoji screen open and stepped out into the hallway.

As I reached the end of the corridor, the sharp, muffled crash of ceramic shattering against wood echoed from the private room behind me. She had hurled the sake carafe against the wall. I kept walking without looking back.