REBORN, Taking Back What Was Mine

CHAPTER 5: DEATH AND REBIRTH

Pain.

That was the first thing Ethan became aware of. Not the sharp, sudden pain of the attack, but a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate from everywhere at once.

He was lying on cold concrete. The parking garage. He tried to move, but his body felt wrong—heavy, unresponsive, like it belonged to someone else.

Footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate.

"Is he dead?"

Vanessa's voice. Close now.

Ethan tried to open his eyes, to speak, to do anything, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He could only listen.

"Not yet." The man who'd attacked him. "But close. Another few minutes."

"Make sure." Vanessa's tone was businesslike, clinical. Like she was discussing a project deadline. "I can't have him surviving this."

"He won't. Head trauma, broken ribs, internal bleeding. Even if someone found him right now, he wouldn't make it to the hospital."

Silence. Then Vanessa's voice, quieter: "Did he suffer?"

"Does it matter?"

"No. I suppose not." The sound of heels clicking on concrete, moving closer. Ethan felt her presence above him, could smell her perfume—the same one he'd bought her for their anniversary. "You brought this on yourself, Ethan. You should have just signed the papers."

He wanted to scream at her, to curse her, to ask how she could do this. But his lungs wouldn't work. Blood filled his mouth, warm and metallic.

"What about the kid?" the man asked.

"Noah is with my assistant. I'll tell him his father had an accident. He's young—he'll adjust." Her voice hardened. "He's better off without Ethan anyway. The controlling behavior was only going to get worse."

Controlling. She was going to paint him as the villain. The unstable ex-husband who'd forced her hand.

"We need to go," the man said. "Security cameras on the upper levels will show when we left. Timeline needs to match."

"Right." Vanessa's footsteps moved away. Then stopped. "You're sure he can't hear us?"

"He's unconscious. Dying. Even if he could hear, it doesn't matter. Dead men don't testify."

"Good."

The footsteps retreated. An elevator dinged in the distance. Then silence.

Ethan lay there on the cold concrete, alone, dying. His thoughts came in fragments, disjointed and fading.

Noah. My son.

He'd never see him grow up. Never teach him to ride a bike, never help with homework, never watch him graduate. Noah would grow up thinking his father had been some paranoid, controlling man who'd died in a parking garage accident.

Vanessa would win. She'd get everything—Noah, the money, the company, her freedom. And Marcus would step into Ethan's place, become the father figure in his son's life.

I wasted everything.

Seven years of marriage. Years of sacrifice, of supporting her dreams, of putting her first. All of it for nothing. Worse than nothing—because his devotion had blinded him to what she really was.

He'd quit his job for her. Given up his career, his independence, his identity. Turned himself into exactly what she'd accused him of—small, forgettable, irrelevant.

And now he was dying because of it.

If I could go back...

The thought came with startling clarity, cutting through the pain and the darkness. If he could go back, he'd do everything differently. He wouldn't quit. Wouldn't trust her blindly. Wouldn't sacrifice himself for someone who saw him as an obstacle to be removed.

If I had another chance...

But there were no second chances. Life didn't work that way. You made your choices and lived with the consequences. Or in his case, died with them.

The cold was spreading now, seeping into his bones. His heartbeat slowed, stuttered. Each breath was harder than the last.

I'm sorry, Noah. I'm so sorry.

He thought of his son's face. The way Noah laughed at stupid jokes. The way he insisted on wearing his dinosaur pajamas even when they were dirty. The way he'd hug Ethan every morning and say "I love you, Daddy" without hesitation or doubt.

Noah deserved better than this. Better than a dead father and a mother who'd had him killed.

I failed you.

The darkness was pulling at him now, insistent, inevitable. Ethan stopped fighting it. What was the point? He was already gone.

His last coherent thought was bitter and sharp:

I wasted my life on her.

Then nothing.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The alarm clock screamed in his ear.

Ethan's hand shot out instinctively, slapping at the nightstand, trying to find the snooze button. His fingers connected with plastic and the beeping stopped.

He lay there, disoriented. His head hurt. His ribs ached. But the pain was different—duller, older, like bruises mostly healed.

Where was he?

Slowly, Ethan opened his eyes.

He was in bed. His bed. In his bedroom. Morning light filtered through the curtains, familiar and wrong at the same time.

What—

He sat up quickly, too quickly, and immediately regretted it as his head spun. But there was no pain from the attack. No broken ribs. No blood in his mouth.

Ethan looked down at his hands. No bruises. No cuts. He touched his head where he'd been struck—nothing. No wound, no bandage.

His heart was pounding now, confusion giving way to something like panic. The parking garage. The attack. Dying on cold concrete while Vanessa walked away.

That had happened. He knew it had happened. It was too vivid, too real to be a dream.

But he was here. In his bedroom. Alive.

"Ethan? You awake?"

Vanessa's voice from the kitchen.

Ethan froze. Vanessa. The woman who'd had him killed. She was here. In the apartment.

His instinct was to run, to get out, to get away from her. But his body wouldn't move. He sat there, staring at the bedroom door, trying to understand what was happening.

"Ethan?" Footsteps in the hallway. "I made coffee."

The door opened. Vanessa stood there in her silk robe, hair down, holding a mug. She looked younger somehow. Less tired. Different.

"You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Ethan's voice came out hoarse. "What day is it?"

She frowned. "Thursday. Are you feeling alright? You didn't drink last night, did you?"

"What's the date?"

"April seventh." She set the coffee on the nightstand, concern creeping into her expression. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

April seventh.

Six months ago. This was six months before the divorce. Before the custody fight. Before he died in that parking garage.

"I need..." Ethan stood up, his legs unsteady. "I need a minute."

He walked past Vanessa into the bathroom and locked the door. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror—familiar but wrong. His hair was longer than it should be. His face was less gaunt, less tired. He looked like he had six months ago.

This was impossible.

Ethan splashed cold water on his face, trying to think. The last thing he remembered was dying. The pain, the darkness, Vanessa's voice as she walked away. That had been real.

But now he was here. Six months in the past. Alive.

He gripped the edge of the sink, his mind racing through possibilities. Hallucination? Coma dream? Psychotic break?

Or something else entirely.

A knock on the bathroom door. "Ethan? I'm getting worried."

"I'm fine," he called out, his voice steadier than he felt. "Just... didn't sleep well."

"Okay. Well, don't forget—you have that meeting with Tom this morning. About the resignation."

Ethan's stomach dropped.

The resignation. Today was the day he was supposed to quit his job. The day he'd made the decision that had set everything in motion.

He opened the bathroom door. Vanessa was standing there, concerned but also distracted, her phone already in her hand.

"What time is my meeting?" he asked.

"Nine. You told Tom you'd submit the letter this morning, remember?" She was scrolling through emails now. "I know it's a big decision, but it's the right one. We'll finally be able to focus on what really matters—the family, the company, our future together."

Our future. Where she cheated on him, stole their money, and had him murdered.

Ethan looked at his wife—this version of her that didn't know what she'd become, what she was capable of, and felt something cold settle in his chest.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I remember."

Vanessa smiled, kissed his cheek quickly, and headed back to the kitchen. "Breakfast in ten minutes!"

Ethan stood in the hallway, his heart pounding.

This was real. Somehow, impossibly, he'd gone back in time. Six months before his death. To the exact moment when he'd made the choice that destroyed his life.

He walked to the bedroom window and looked out at the city. Same view. Same morning traffic. Same coffee shop on the corner where he'd met the private investigator—except that hadn't happened yet. Wouldn't happen for months.

Unless he changed things.

If I had another chance...

That's what he'd thought as he died. One more chance to do things differently.

And now he had it.

Ethan pulled out his phone—the same phone he'd had six months ago and opened his email. There it was: the resignation letter, drafted and ready to send. One click and his fate would be sealed. Again.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he deleted it.

His hands were shaking as he opened a new message to Tom Chen.

Tom - Can we move my 9 AM meeting to discuss something different? I've been thinking about the partnership track position you mentioned. I'd like to throw my hat in the ring.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

In the kitchen, Vanessa was humming as she cooked. Completely unaware that everything had changed.

Ethan looked at his phone, at the confirmation that the email had been sent, and felt something he hadn't felt in months.

Hope.

He'd died once because he'd been too trusting, too devoted, too willing to sacrifice everything for a woman who didn't deserve it.

But that Ethan was dead and buried in a parking garage six months from now.

This Ethan—the one standing here with impossible knowledge and a second chance was different.

He knew how this story ended. He knew every move Vanessa would make, every lie she'd tell, every betrayal waiting in the shadows.

And this time, he was going to change everything.

Ethan walked into the kitchen where Vanessa was plating eggs, her phone beside her on the counter. In six months, that phone would be filled with messages from Marcus. Plans for hotel rooms. Secrets and lies.

But that was six months away. Right now, the affair hadn't started yet. The murder plot didn't exist. He was still alive, still employed, still had a chance to protect his son and his future.

Vanessa looked up and smiled. "There you are. Sit down, breakfast is ready."

Ethan sat. He picked up his fork. He smiled back at his wife and said, "Thank you."

But inside, his mind was already working. Planning. Calculating.

I know how this ends, he thought. This time, I change everything.

The game had started over.

And this time, Ethan Hale was going to win.