Chapter 1

For the ten-thousandth time, I died in the lounge ten minutes before my wedding.

My white wedding dress was soaked in blood, and the delicate silver fruit knife buried in my chest was the very one I'd handed to my fiancé, Lucian, to peel an apple for me. Lucian gave me a gentle smile and said, "Zoe, you look stunning today." The next moment, the blade pierced my heart.

Just before my consciousness faded, I saw my stepsister, Vivian, push open the door with a twisted smile. She took the knife from the shell-shocked Lucian and said, "Zoe, Lucian is mine now." Burning with hatred, I woke up once again ten minutes before the wedding. This time, I have to unmask the real culprit and make it out alive.

The dull pain from smashing the back of my head against the sofa armrest felt like a rusty nail suddenly hammered deep into my skull.

I bolted upright, my throat clamping shut as I let out a ragged gasp, not a cry, but a rasping sound from my lungs spasming.

Cold sweat had soaked through the lining of my wedding dress, sticky against the groove of my spine and creeping down to my tailbone, icy and slick like a cold, living snake.

I lowered my head. My fingertips trembled as I dug my nails into my palms, using the pain to make sure this wasn't just a dream.

On the inside of my left wrist, a fresh, pale pink scar was left from my 9,999th death, the tip of the knife missed my aorta by just 0.3 centimeters, only grazing the outer membrane. No blood spurted, but the skin split open in a thin line, and the scab itched like hell as it healed. Now, it still burned faintly.

I looked up. The woman in the mirror wore a custom Vera wedding dress, the ivory satin shimmering softly. The waistline was cinched so tight that my ribs ached. Her face was ghostly pale, lips chapped and peeling, and under her right eye was a small patch of bluish bruise, a leftover from last night's loop, where a shard of vase had cut her.

Behind her reflection, an oak round table held a celadon fruit plate.

Inside the plate were three red apples, their skins smooth and glistening with a waxy sheen.

A silver fruit knife was stuck diagonally into the top apple.

The handle was carved with twisting vines, and the blade was as thin as a cicada's wing. Under the overhead light, the edge glinted with a narrow, razor-sharp, chilling gleam.

I stared at that cold gleam.

My stomach twisted hard, acid surging halfway up my throat before I bit down and forced it back.

My throat tightened, a bitter taste coating my tongue.

This knife wasn't new to me.

I'd seen it ten thousand times before.

Every time, it stabbed into me from a different angle: the seventh time, it went in just below my collarbone and angled up into my left ventricle; the 237th time, the tip got stuck between my third rib and twisted around for three seconds before being yanked out; the 6,142nd time, Lucian's hand was shaking so badly that the blade skidded beneath my skin, slicing a two-centimeter gash, and blood beaded up like overripe cherries bursting.

I've kept track.

The pattern of the vines on the handle was always exactly the same.

Every time, the tip of the knife always pierced the apple at the exact center of the same pale brown spot.

I lifted my hand, stopping just two centimeters short of touching the mirror.

The woman in the reflection's pupils shrank suddenly.

It wasn't fear.

It was weariness.

A kind of bone-deep, soul-crushing fatigue that gnawed at her nerves.

It was like tearing apart the same corpse ten thousand times, so familiar with every muscle and sinew, yet still forced to crack open the chest and watch the heart sputter to a stop.

I drew in a slow, steady breath.

The air was thick with the lingering scent of cedar from the candles, laced with the sweet, chemical haze of my bridal setting spray, and just a whisper of metallic tang, old blood, stubbornly clinging beneath my nails, impossible to scrub away.

I lowered my head and opened my left hand.

The wedding ring was still missing from my ring finger.

But there was a barely-there, almost invisible mark pressed into my skin.

That was the spot where the ring had been slipped on and taken off for the 9,999th time.

I clenched my fist.

My knuckles let out a faint crack.

This time, I wouldn't wait for him to peel the apple.

This time, I'd ruin the apple myself.

I grabbed the edge of the fruit plate and, with a flick of my wrist, sent it flying.

The celadon plate landed on the carpet with a dull thud.

The apples scattered, one bounced off the baseboard and came to rest by the door.

Another rolled under the dressing table, wedged in the shadows with just half its red skin showing.

The third shot straight toward the floor-length mirror.

"Bang!"

Spiderweb cracks shot across the mirror, splintering my reflection into countless versions of myself in a wedding dress, all breaking apart at once.

I was gasping for air, my chest rising and falling wildly. The tight waist of my dress dug into my ribs, and every breath felt like swallowing broken glass.

Someone was approaching outside the door.

The sound of leather shoes echoed in the marble hallway, steady, measured, three steps and then a pause.

The footsteps halted right at the door.

The doorknob began to turn, slow and deliberate.

Lucian pushed the door open and walked in.

He wore a dark gray cashmere suit, his tie a subtle silver geometric pattern. A glimpse of his wrist showed off defined bones and prominent veins.

His eyes swept across the floor, broken porcelain, scattered apples, and spiderweb cracks splintering the mirror.

His pupils narrowed in an instant, like a camera shutter snapping, so quick, not even a blur remained.

But I caught it.

He swallowed hard, his throat moving up and down.

"Zoe?" Lucian's voice was gentle, tinged with just enough worry. "What's wrong?"

With my back to him, I dug my fingers into the velvet armrest of the sofa, my nails crammed with bits of dark red velvet.

"Nervous," I heard my own voice, hoarse and unsteady, like it had been scraped raw. "My heart's beating too fast... feels like it's about to jump out of my throat."

Lucian stepped closer.

His shoes came to a halt right next to my right foot.