Chapter 1

The western cemetery lay silent under a dusk drizzle. The rain fell cold against my skin, a million tiny needles. I stood before my own grave.

Rain washed the name on the black headstone clean: Vivian Sterling. Below it, my photograph smiled with that gentle warmth everyone loved, like a beautiful doll, delicate but stiff.

That smile belonged to a time when loving Alexander was my whole world. Now it felt like a punchline.

Weeds had overtaken the grave, some reaching my waist.

There were no offerings, not even a cheap grocery store bouquet.

Alexander promised he'd visit every year. He promised he'd sit here and tell me how much he missed me.

Apparently, missing me meant leaving my resting place more neglected than an unmarked grave.

My fingers traced the cold stone. [In loving memory of Vivian Sterling. Beloved wife of Alexander Grant. Forever in our hearts.]

"Beloved wife." The words slipped out of my mouth with a quiet laugh that echoed too loudly through the empty cemetery.

The heart they buried with me died three years ago in that "accident." This one beat for one thing only, revenge.

I knelt and tore at the tangled weeds with my bare hands.

Cold, muddy water splashed my trench coat. I didn't care.

Then my fingers found something hard buried shallow in the dirt.

I pulled it out. It was a ring.

It was the wedding ring Alexander had slipped onto my finger right before I "died." He said the journey beyond would be cold, so the ring would keep me company.

Now, this diamond ring worth millions sat buried in shallow earth like forgotten trash, its fire long gone.

I wiped the dirt off and slid it onto my ring finger. It fit perfectly.

It had been three years, and my finger hadn't changed at all. But the woman at Alexander's side wasn't me anymore.

I pulled out my phone and opened the social media account I'd been monitoring.

Alexander's profile photo showed him and Claire Sutton on their wedding day.

His latest post, timestamped noon today, placed them right here, the western cemetery.

The happy family stood in front of my grave, beaming as if nothing was wrong.

The little boy, Andrew Grant, wore a tiny suit in Alexander's arms. Those eyes were exact copies of his father's.

I stared at that child's face forever.

Three years ago, I conveniently died in an accident. Nine months later, Alexander's beloved son arrived.

The timeline fit too perfectly, like a script designed for maximum cruelty. And I was the foolish lead actress who played my part until the very end.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from the contact saved as "Blackwood."

Blackwood: [Did you see everything?]

The message was classic him, blunt, cold, never wasting words.

I replied: [Yeah.]

"How do you feel?"

I looked up at that smiling face on the tombstone. Rain traced silent lines down my cheeks as I typed, fingers white from pressure.

[It's cold in this grave. I could use some company down here.]

Silence stretched so long that I thought he'd ghosted me.

Then my screen lit up again.

Blackwood: [Do you want me to bring them? Alive.]

I stared at those words, and the smile spreading across my lips felt like ice cracking.

Me: [No need. Alive's too easy.]

Me: [I want them slowly walking into the graves I've dug, eyes wide open.]

I pocketed the phone and held up the dirt-crusted ring, peering through its circle like a lens.

Through it, I could almost see Alexander and Claire's faces, terror and despair twisting their features.

"Sweetheart," I whispered to the ring, "I'm home.

"I loved your little fake death game. Now it's my turn to deal."

I turned and strode away, heels sinking into mud with each resolute step. My trench coat hem swept through the air like a scythe.

Farewell, Vivian Sterling. From now on, I was Iris, a flower dipped in venom, born in hell, and ready to strike.