Part 2Reborn to Refuse the Billionaire's Ring

My parents exchanged a panicked glance and scrambled toward the front door.

Five minutes later, the Whitmores filed into our living room. Zachary’s parents looked grim, their jaws tight with aristocratic annoyance. Zachary’s eyes bypassed everyone else, locking onto me like twin daggers, radiating a silent, furious warning.

"Arthur, Evelyn," the elder Whitmore began, rubbing the bridge of his nose with an exhausted sigh. He cast a sharp, venomous glare at his younger son. "Tonight was a mess, and it’s because these two idiots failed to communicate. Zach. Tell them."

Zachary took a step forward. His hands were clenched so tightly in his pockets that his knuckles showed white through the fabric.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hastings... about the arrangement tonight. I wasn't clear. The truth is... the one I’ve wanted to marry has always been Brooke."

The living room went dead silent.

My mother froze. My father’s mouth hung slightly open.

Brooke’s head snapped up. A flash of unadulterated triumph blazed in her eyes before she quickly smoothed it over with a veil of delicate shock. She shot me a sideways glance—the gloating sneer of a victor looking down at the discarded loser.

"Zachary, are you... are you serious?" My mother sounded breathless, darting her gaze cautiously between Garrett and Zachary. "But we thought..."

"I was confused before. I mixed up the phone numbers and mistook one sister for the other." Zachary looked at me, his face a masterclass in hollow, counterfeit guilt, though his tone carried the faint, hard edge of a threat. "Paige, I’m sorry... I had the wrong girl. In this life, I won’t let you suffer. I’ll marry Brooke, and everything will be put back where it belongs. All right?"

Where it belongs.

What a clean, convenient little phrase.

He thought he was being benevolent. He had woken up with the memories of our past life, burdened by the inconvenient guilt of having driven me to suicide, and decided that swapping brides would balance the cosmic ledger. He could keep his precious golden girl, while I—the ghost he had starved of affection until I stopped breathing—would be spared the trouble of dying young.

What did he think marriage was? A game of roulette? Place your bets, realize the wheel didn't land on your number, and ask the croupier for a do-over?

Brooke had already risen to her feet, cheeks flushed, her voice dropping into that breathy, helpless register. "Zach... do you really mean that? But what about Paige? She..."

She looked at me, a flicker of genuine malice leaking through her eyelashes. In her twisted mind, Zachary’s sudden change of heart was entirely my fault—because I had embarrassed him at dinner, forcing him to settle for her on the rebound. In her eyes, I was still the pebble in her designer shoe.

Zachary interjected hastily, his voice dripping with condescending charity. "Paige can marry Garrett instead. Our family will make sure she’s well taken care of..."

As if entering the Whitmore family under any pretense was an act of grace for which I ought to fall to my knees and weep with gratitude.

"Zachary."

I looked at him and let out a dry, sharp laugh. "Do you have trouble processing the English language?"

I stood up, looking at the pair of them—the golden boy and girl who had slowly choked the life out of me in another timeline.

"I told you already. The Whitmore name is too high a bar, and I have no interest in clearing it. I won't marry Garrett, and I won't marry you. Neither of you."

I picked up my purse from the entryway console, ignoring the horrified gasps echoing through the foyer.

"Go back to your estate. Rearrange your board pieces however you like, live happily ever after, do whatever makes you sleep at night. But Zach? Stop dressing yourself up as a martyr. You make me sick."

The heavy oak front door slammed behind me, cutting off the noise of their world entirely.