Julian Thorne, the Silicon Valley tech titan, commissioned a diamond ring worth one hundred million dollars just for me. In an exclusive Forbes interview, he declared that this ring was made for only one person. Whoever could wear it perfectly would become his wife. In my first life, my half-sister Bianca went to a plastic surgeon. She had her finger bones shaved down by two millimeters. When she walked into the bridal suite, confident as a queen, Julian grabbed her by the hair. He smashed her face into the marble countertop until she was unrecognizable. "You are not her!" In my second life, our adopted sister, Harper, starved herself insane. She lost seventy pounds in four months. On her wedding night, Julian pushed her straight off the spiral staircase of the penthouse. She died instantly. "Still not her!" In my third life, my stepmother Victoria went to a black-market doctor. Under general anesthesia, she had the cartilage of her finger removed just to force the ring on. The moment Julian saw her, he held her head underwater in the jacuzzi until she stopped breathing. In my fourth life, the three of them were terrified. Trembling, they pushed me forward. I put on the ring. It was a perfect fit, down to the micrometer. My whole family let out a sigh of relief. But the moment Julian saw me, his eyes turned maniacal. He pulled a custom hunting knife from his suit jacket. Twenty stabs. He avoided every vital organ, letting me bleed out slowly in agonizing pain. "Why isn't it her? Where the hell is she?!" Now, in this final life, Julian’s chief attorney brought that legendary diamond ring to the Ashford Manor. We four women spoke in unison: "The ring doesn't fit. None of us can wear it." The lawyer pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, eyeing us with a creepy intensity. "Mr. Thorne is certain that the woman he is looking for is among the four of you." He paused, his voice dropping to a freezing temperature. "She needs to reveal herself within 48 hours. Otherwise..." He didn't finish the sentence, but the threat hung in the air like a blade.
We four women—my stepmother Victoria, my half-sister Bianca, my adopted sister Harper, and I—sat around the genuine leather sofa in the living room. We stared at the glittering diamond on the coffee table. The air was so thick it felt like we were suffocating. "Jesus," Victoria lit a slim cigarette, smoke curling around her red lips. "We’ve all died once. Who the hell does this lunatic want to marry?" Bianca clutched her Hermes Birkin bag, her voice trembling. "Maybe we should call the police? Tell them he's a serial killer?" "The police?" Harper laughed bitterly. "You think they'll believe 'we were all murdered by a billionaire and then reborn'? They'd throw us straight into the psych ward." I stayed silent, my brain replaying the scenes from my last life on a loop. On our wedding night, Julian had walked into the bedroom wearing a dark blue silk robe. The moment he saw me, that breathtakingly handsome face twisted into a demonic snarl. "You lying bitch!" He screamed, lunging at me. "You dare try to replace her?!" When the knife pierced my body, I could hear the sound of skin tearing and muscle severing. Twenty cuts. He skillfully avoided anything that would kill me quickly, ensuring I suffered. "You're just a distraction." He leaned over, looking at me like I was a bug. "Did you really think you could replace her and marry me? A nobody without even a single share of the Ashford family stock?" I struggled in a pool of my own blood for three hours before I finally died. "Serena?" Victoria’s voice snapped me back to reality. "What are you thinking?" I took a deep breath. "I'm thinking... maybe we can find the woman he's actually looking for." "How?" Bianca challenged. "Start from the beginning." I stood up. "Remember what the lawyer said? Julian saw us at the Met Gala and decided the mystery woman was connected to the Ashford family." "That gala..." Harper’s eyes lit up. "They have surveillance footage!" "Exactly." I grabbed my Chanel clutch. "We're going to the Ritz-Carlton. Now." Victoria stubbed out her cigarette. "Let's go."
Ten P.M., at the Ritz-Carlton near Central Park. Harper deserved an Oscar. A few tears were all it took to melt the heart of the hotel's security chief. She sobbed about losing her late mother's pearl necklace and begged to check the footage from that night. The chief was a middle-aged man with a classic "white knight" complex. He handed Harper a tissue. "Don't cry, miss. I'll take you to the security room." On the monitors, the charity gala ballroom glittered with gold. Because my father—the former head of the Ashford family—had died of a heart attack three months ago, our family's status on Wall Street had plummeted. That night, we were shoved into a corner table. Just the four of us at a table for eight. "Look," Bianca pointed at the screen. "There's Julian Thorne." In the video, Julian walked down the red carpet. He wore a custom Armani suit, standing at least 6'3". His dark brown hair was perfectly styled, and his blue eyes looked like the Pacific Ocean. Trailing behind him were at least twenty bodyguards and assistants. The entire ballroom stood up to applaud. Women looked at him with hunger; men looked at him with envy. Number seven on the Forbes list. Net worth of 85 billion dollars. Thirty-two years old. Single. The "Modern Howard Hughes" of Silicon Valley. He walked slowly through the venue, and then— He stopped right by our table. On screen, the four of us were arguing quietly, completely ignoring him. But Julian turned and looked deeply at our table. That look... "Oh my god," Victoria gasped. "He's smiling." It was true. Julian Thorne, the man known as the "Iceberg" in business negotiations, was wearing a gentle, affectionate, almost obsessed smile. Like he was looking at the most precious treasure in the world. Then, he turned and whispered something to his lead attorney. "Can you zoom in?" I asked the security chief urgently. "Can we see what he's saying?" The chief adjusted the controls, but the angle was off. We couldn't read his lips. "Keep watching," Bianca said. The footage showed that for the rest of the night, only the four of us sat at that table. No one left, no one else approached. Just us. "So..." Harper's voice shook. "The woman he wants is really one of us?" I stared hard at the screen, and suddenly, I noticed a detail. "Wait." I told the chief to pause. "Rewind thirty seconds." The footage went back. I watched our actions closely. Victoria was on her phone. Bianca was reapplying lipstick. Harper was cutting her steak. And me... I was texting someone under the table. And I had a sweet, stupid smile on my face. "Damn it." I ran my fingers through my hair. "I remember now." Three pairs of eyes snapped toward me. "That night, I was texting Julian," I whispered. "Because we were... secretly dating."
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