She Killed Me at Christmas. I Came Back. Chapter 01

She Killed Me at Christmas. I Came Back. Chapter 01

His childhood sweetheart asked what I was allergic to. I told her the truth: shellfish. At Christmas Eve dinner, she ground dried shrimp into my chowder and laughed while my throat swelled shut. Three weeks later, she sent men into my bedroom in the dark. They beat me to death when I fought back. And my fiancé told my grieving parents I’d invited them in.

Then I opened my eyes—and it was December 22nd again.

“Sloane? Earth to Sloane.” Brynn Hadley leaned across the farmhouse kitchen island, all dimples and flannel and small-town sweetness. “I asked what you’re allergic to. I’m doing all the cooking this year, and I’d just die if I hurt Grant’s future wife.”

That voice. Those exact words.

I looked around the Whitlock family kitchen—the wood stove crackling, the pine garland on the window, Grant’s mother humming in the den—and the truth crashed over me like ice water.

I had been given my life back.

In my last life, I answered honestly. Shellfish. By dessert, my face had ballooned into something unrecognizable while Brynn pointed and shrieked with laughter—Oh my God, Sloane, you look like a parade float! Two weeks in a rural hospital, an hour from the nearest city.

And Grant—my Grant, three years together, a ring on my finger—had stroked Brynn’s hair while she cried prettier tears than I ever could. She thought you said you loved shrimp, babe. She’s practically my little sister. Let it go.

I let it go. Then she burned the acquisition contracts in my briefcase—eight months of my work, millions gone—and Grant called me ungrateful for yelling. Then came the wine she poured as an apology. The heaviness in my limbs. The door I begged her to lock behind her.

The men.

When my parents demanded justice, Brynn dabbed her eyes and said, “Sloane told me she got lonely sleeping alone.” And Grant—Grant stood beside her at my memorial and let the whole town believe it.

Now Brynn was watching me, head tilted, waiting.

I buried the scream clawing up my throat and smiled.

“Peanuts,” I said. “Deathly allergic. Even a trace and my airway closes. Everything else, I’m easy.”

Something flickered behind Brynn’s eyes—quick, cold, calculating—before the dimples returned. “Got it! No peanuts. I’ll guard you with my life, Sloane.”

I’ll bet you will.

The moment she disappeared into the pantry, Grant slid his arm around my waist, brow furrowed. “Babe, I’m the one with the peanut allergy. Since when are you?”

I laughed softly and leaned into him, the way I used to when I still loved him. “Three years together—I’ve started mixing your body up with mine. Doesn’t matter. I’ll just eat what’s safe.”

His whole face went tender. He pressed a kiss to my temple. “After the holidays, let’s set the wedding date. Mom’s already telling the whole county about you.”

In my last life, that sentence had made me glow.

Now I counted the seconds until I could step out of his arms. “Let me go unpack first.”

Upstairs, in the cold guest room with the quilt his grandmother made, I sat on the edge of the bed and let my hands shake. Just once. Just for a minute.

Brynn Hadley hadn’t misheard anything. Not the shrimp. Not the contracts. Not the locked door. Every single thing had been deliberate, and the man I loved had handed her the matches every time.

Fine.

This time, I’d told her exactly what she needed to hear. This time, the allergy in this house wasn’t mine.

Through the floorboards, I heard Brynn singing along to a Christmas carol while she cooked, cheerful as a knife being sharpened.

That evening, Grant called me down for Christmas Eve dinner. The table groaned under a dozen dishes, and the moment I saw them, the corner of my mouth curved up.

Brynn had been very, very busy.