Chapter 2

"Emily Winslow! Do you have any idea what you are saying!" Lucas snapped his head up, looking at me as if truly seeing me for the first time, his eyes filled with offended fury. "Are you insane? This is our wedding!"

"I'm insane?" I let out a light laugh, the sound cutting clearly through the silent cathedral. Lifting the heavy hem of my wedding dress, I descended the steps one by one, my crystal heels crunching mercilessly over the glass shards on the floor, making a teeth-grinding sound. "Lucas, if I don't terminate it, am I supposed to let you marry one woman while the biological mother of your unborn child stands beside her as a bridesmaid? I doubt even the most forgiving priest could bless you then."

This sentence was akin to dropping a depth charge into a calm lake.

The crowd exploded into chaos.

Lucas's face instantly drained of all color. His lips trembled, unable to form a complete syllable: "You... you're talking nonsense..."

Lillian was so terrified she forgot to weep, her hands instinctively flying to cover her still-flat abdomen, her eyes wide with horror.

"Nonsense?"

I gave them no chance to recover. From a hidden pocket in the lining of my dress, I pulled out my phone—one of the pieces of evidence my soul had "seen" while wandering after my death in the previous life. With a few practiced taps, I connected via Bluetooth and cast the screen's content onto the massive display behind the altar, which was meant to loop our romantic engagement photos.

Instantly, beside the holy cross, a clearly magnified prenatal appointment confirmation appeared, followed by screenshots of a series of bank transfers. In the memo line, Lucas's account had blatantly noted: "For Lily's prenatal care and support."

"Miss Lillian Moore, eight weeks pregnant, yet insisting on wearing a corset-style bridesmaid gown. Truly admirable dedication." I walked up to them, bent down, and used my fingertip to gently brush away a wet lock of hair sticking to Lillian's forehead. My voice was soft as a whisper, yet loud enough for the front row to hear every word. "And you, Lucas. Last Thursday night, the red rose aromatherapy you ordered for the penthouse suite at The Mark Hotel—was the scent to your liking? I recall that's Lillian's favorite, the so-called 'scent of love.'"

Lucas's pupils contracted violently, staring at me as if he were seeing a ghost.

He couldn't understand. How could Emily Winslow—the woman he had always deemed beautiful, naive, somewhat spoiled, and completely under his control—know these secrets he thought were hidden seamlessly?

Because he didn't know that I was a person who had crawled back from the grave.

These dirty truths were memories I had paid for with my life.

"This absurd play should come to an end."

I straightened up, reached behind my head, and unhesitatingly undid the complex clasps of my veil.

The expensive white veil, adorned with antique lace and tiny pearls, was tossed into the air by my hand. It traced a light, final arc before drifting down to land precisely on Lucas's face, pale as paper.

Like a fig leaf, or perhaps a shroud.

"I, Emily Winslow," I turned my back on the altar and the stunned guests, my voice clear and firm, "have no use for soiled goods."

With that, I ignored my father's roar from the audience—"Emily! You stand right there!"—and disregarded the eruption of gasps, debates, and the commotion of someone fainting behind me. I kept my back straight, unbending despite the constraints of the gown, strode through the long side aisle of the church, and pushed open the heavy oak doors.

The cold wind outside, carrying the chill of early December, rushed in, blowing away the cloying perfume and church incense clinging to me.

I took a deep, greedy breath of the freezing air.

It was the scent of freedom.

And the first note of my symphony of revenge.