My wife, a renowned medical expert, was celebrating her childhood sweetheart’s birthday—a lavish cruise along the New England coast—the night our son was food poisoned. In a past life, I had forced her to come home to save him. Her ‘sweetheart,’ Lincoln Reed, went out on his yacht alone, got drunk, and drowned. She didn’t blame me immediately. We remained a loving couple, at least on the surface. She just put a slow-acting poison in my dinner and watched me die, my internal organs failing. Her eyes were raw, scarlet with pure hatred. “Do you know how much Lincoln suffered down there, Rhys?” she had hissed. “Now, you try the taste of death.” I woke up again on that very night, the night Owen was poisoned. This time, I didn't make her come home. When she finally saw his little body, she went mad. 1 “Mr. Sullivan, it’s terrible! Little Owen ate something bad. He’s throwing up violently, he has awful diarrhea, and now he’s unconscious!” Owen’s nanny, Martha, burst into my study, distraught and weeping. I clenched my fists. I was back. Owen was alive, the night hadn't fully descended, and there was still time. Owen wasn't my biological son; he was the posthumous child of my wife, Delaney Shaw’s, older brother. Her sister-in-law died from postpartum hemorrhage after giving birth. I felt compassion for a boy born without parents and agreed with Delaney to adopt him. We both treated him like our own son. Hearing he was poisoned, I shot up. “Call Dr. Lewis immediately for a detox protocol. Prep the car. I’ll go get Delaney myself.” Delaney was the head of the Emergency Department at Seattle General, a specialist in toxicology and detox. She had warned me repeatedly that her work phone was off during her shift, and I was absolutely forbidden from calling or disturbing her work. I knew tonight was Lincoln’s birthday party—an elaborate cruise on the Sound she’d promised to attend. If I dragged her away, I’d ruin her ‘fun.’ But if I didn’t tell her, she would hold it against me forever. My car stopped abruptly outside the hospital entrance just as Delaney walked out, ending her shift. She frowned, seeing me rush out of the car, my face etched with urgency. “I told you I wasn’t coming home tonight, Rhys. It’s Lincoln’s birthday, and I promised to go out on the yacht. Don’t tell me you forgot.” Her voice was tight with annoyance. Parked beside the curb was a sleek, black Range Rover. I didn't need to ask; it was Lincoln Reed’s car, waiting for her. Lincoln was Delaney’s childhood sweetheart. Years ago, his family had scorned Delaney—a mere junior doctor with no visible prospects—and forced him to marry the daughter of a tech billionaire. Tragically, his wife died in an accident a year later, and Lincoln, the ‘Golden Boy,’ returned to Seattle. Delaney immediately began making frequent trips to his sprawling estate. “Lincoln is back, and he has severe depression,” she’d tell me. “I’m a doctor; I’m just going to check on him, prescribe some medication. He’ll be fine soon.” “Why are you always so paranoid? I was just helping Lincoln as his doctor. I stayed one night at his house. Why do you make such a big deal out of everything?” she’d snapped at me. “If I wanted to be with Lincoln, I would have married him. Why would I have married you?” In her eyes, I was the villain, the obstacle to her and Lincoln. In the last life, I had countless fights with Delaney over him. This time, I didn’t care about our marriage. I stood squarely in front of her, meeting her eyes. “Delaney, it’s Owen. He was poisoned. He ate those artisanal treats Lincoln sent over yesterday. He’s been vomiting and seizing. Our doctor fears it’s a severe toxin and needs you to come look at him. He’s so small, he can’t handle this.” Delaney looked at me with pure disbelief. “Rhys Sullivan, are you insane? You’re making up a story about our son being poisoned just to stop me from going out with Lincoln? Because I have a specialty in toxicology, you think this is a clever lie?” “How could you be so cruel? How dare you pretend to be his father.”
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