Chapter 1 FROM GRAVE TO GROOM

# CHAPTER 1: "FROM GRAVE TO GROOM"

I woke up with a mouthful of dirt and the distinct feeling that something was very wrong with the universe. Well, not with the universe—with me, specifically. My lungs burned as I gasped for air, my hands frantically clawing at the satin lining above me.

Oh God. I was in a coffin.

Panic set in for approximately three seconds before reality crashed over me like a wave. I remembered everything. The yacht. The champagne. Barrett's cold smile as he pushed me overboard. The water filling my lungs as I sank into darkness.

And now I was here. Alive. In my own coffin.

I pushed against the lid with a strength I didn't know I possessed, and surprisingly, it gave way easily. Apparently, my family had opted for a budget burial—how thoughtful. As I sat up, coughing out the remnants of death from my lungs, I realized I was wearing the same white Chanel dress I'd worn on the yacht. My funeral outfit, I supposed. At least they'd buried me in designer.

A bright red apple sat on my chest, a traditional burial offering that had rolled into my lap when I sat up. I grabbed it, taking an aggressive bite as I fumbled for my phone—which was, miraculously, tucked into the coffin's side pocket. Who puts a phone in a coffin? Probably my eccentric aunt Mildred. God bless that weird woman.

The screen lit up—still at 76% battery. I checked the date and nearly choked on my apple.

"Three months," I whispered, my voice hoarse from disuse. "I have exactly three months until Barrett kills me."

I'd been given a second chance. A do-over. And this time, I wasn't going to be the naïve trophy wife who got discarded when her billionaire husband found a shinier model.

This time, I was going to beat him at his own game.

Two hours and one grave desecration later, I was standing in the lobby of Barrett Industries, ignoring the horrified stares of receptionists who clearly recognized me as the recently deceased Mrs. Montgomery. My hair was a mess, my white dress was smudged with dirt, and I was still munching on my burial apple. I must have looked like a ghost with an eating disorder.

"Mrs. Montgomery," the receptionist gasped. "You're... alive?"

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated," I said with a wink. "Now, be a dear and don't announce me. I want to surprise my husband."

I stormed past security—who were too stunned to stop the walking dead—and marched straight to the executive floor. Barrett was in the middle of a board meeting, his handsome face a mask of cool indifference as he discussed quarterly earnings with his team of yes-men.

I kicked the door open with my bare foot (my Louboutins had apparently not been deemed burial-worthy) and all heads turned.

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Barrett's face went white. Then green. Then a shade of purple I'd never seen on a human being before.

"Diana?" he choked out.

"In the flesh," I said, taking another bite of my apple. "Disappointed?"

The board members were frozen in their seats, eyes darting between Barrett and me like they were watching the world's most uncomfortable tennis match.

I reached into my dress pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled document, slapping it down on the polished mahogany table.

"Sign it," I demanded.

Barrett stared at me like I was a ghost—which, to be fair, I technically was. His hand trembled as he reached for the paper.

"You want a divorce?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I glanced down at the paper and felt heat rush to my cheeks.

"Oops, wrong document," I muttered, snatching it back and replacing it with another from my other pocket. "This one. Sign this one."

Barrett's eyes scanned the new document, and his shock morphed into confusion. "This is... a love contract?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes. Since our marriage was clearly a sham the first time around, I thought we could start fresh. With terms and conditions."

The elderly lawyer sitting beside Barrett adjusted his glasses and began reading aloud, his voice growing increasingly strained with each clause.

"Clause One: Party B, hereafter referred to as 'Barrett Montgomery,' agrees to daily displays of affection toward Party A, hereafter referred to as 'Diana Montgomery.'"

Barrett's jaw tightened. "Is this some kind of joke?"

I smiled sweetly. "Keep reading, Mr. Winters."

The lawyer's hands were visibly shaking now. "Clause Seven: Party B must receive a good morning kiss from Party A every day before 8 AM."

"Enough," Barrett snapped, pushing back from the table. "Everyone out. Now."

The board members couldn't evacuate the room fast enough, leaving just Barrett, the lawyer, and me—still munching on my apple.

Barrett stood, towering over me with the same intimidating presence that had once made me weak in the knees. "What is this, Diana? Some elaborate prank? You were dead. I identified your body."

"Did you?" I asked innocently. "Or did you just see what you wanted to see?"

He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture I'd once found endearing but now recognized as a tell when he was calculating his next move. "What do you want?"

"I want you to sign the contract," I said simply. "Consider it a recommitment to our vows. The ones you took before deciding to turn me into fish food."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don't know what you think happened—"

"Sign it," I interrupted, "or I go straight to the police with evidence of your offshore accounts, tax evasion, and—oh yes—attempted murder."

That was a bluff. I had no evidence. Yet. But Barrett didn't need to know that.

After a tense standoff, he snatched the pen from the lawyer's trembling hand and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the contract.

"Wonderful!" I beamed, taking the contract back and sliding it into my pocket. "Oh, and you might want to read the fine print on the back when you get a copy. Specifically, the part about breach of contract penalties."

Barrett's eyes darkened. "Which are?"

I grinned, taking one final bite of my apple before tossing the core into his pristine trash can. "Burial rights revert to me. Meaning if you break this contract, I get to decide what happens to your body when you die." I blew him a kiss. "See you at home, darling."

As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of the lawyer frantically flipping the contract over, his eyes widening as he read the clause I'd just mentioned.

"Mr. Montgomery," he whispered urgently. "The fine print... it says violation of contract terms grants her full rights to your burial arrangements."

Barrett's face hardened into the cold mask I remembered from my final moments on the yacht.

"She can try," he muttered, not realizing I could still hear him. "But she'll have to kill me first."

I smiled to myself as I walked out. That's where you're wrong, Barrett, I thought. I'm not going to kill you.

I'm going to make you fall so deeply in love with me that when the time comes, you'll beg me to end your misery.

Game on, husband. Game on.


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