CHAPTER FOUR: I died.

PAST

Niya slammed the cash register closed and pulled off her name tag with a tired sigh. It had been a long day at the supermarket, one of three jobs she juggled to keep her life afloat. The first shift was at the local diner from six to noon, followed by the supermarket until three, and finishing with freelancing she ran between BookLore and her tiny room in her grandmother's manor.

She’d been juggling this routine for nearly six months, ever since her father passed away. His unexpected death left her drowning in medical bills and loans she hadn’t even known existed. On top of that, her stern grandmother had barely given her room to breathe, piling on expectations and criticism as if grief wasn’t already enough.

“One last dollar for the sweat,” Niya muttered under her breath as she signed out of her shift.

She turned to leave, but paused when she noticed Pony bounding toward her. Her cheeks were flushed, rosy from the cool air, as she leaned against the sign-out counter, a grin lighting up her face.

“Don’t think you’re sneaking out without me,” Pony huffs, twirling a bunch of keys in her hand. “You didn’t forget about the book signing, right?”

“Of course not. I’ve had it circled on my calendar for weeks.”

“Good, because you’re not missing this. It’s Mason Chloe!” Pony shrieks, trying to keep her voice down almost at the same time. “You’ve been obsessing over her for years, and you’ll finally get to meet her at your own book signing. Maybe she's really a fan.”

"Let’s not get carried away," Niya smirked, holding out her hand. "Can I have my car keys? How did you even get them?"

Pony's grin widened. "Yours truly has her ways.”

"Penelope.”

"Fine," Pony relented, twirling the keys one last time before tossing them into Niya's waiting palm. "Your grandma let me in when I stopped by earlier. And don't ask about my car. It’s still acting weird. Something about the engine or the battery—I don’t know, cars aren’t my thing."

"Right. And you just happened to borrow mine without asking?"

"Consider it a favor. Besides, I knew you’d be fine with it because you love me."

"More like tolerate,” Niya muttered, knowing she should be grateful Pony brought the car or she’d have had to take a cab to BookLore. But she'd rather knock herself over than admit it. “It’s on loan,” Niya shrugged. “And after your little stunt last time, absolutely not.”

Pony groaned dramatically. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you? It wasn’t that bad!”

“You drove fifty miles over the speed limit because the music was loud. The cop who pulled us over wrote us a literal note about staying alive. So, no, you’re not driving.”

“Fine, fine,” Pony relented, holding up her hands. “But on the way back, I get the wheel. Deal?”

“I’ll think about it,” Niya said, shaking her head with a chuckle. Her friend’s excitement about this event at BookLore is infectious, though a shadow of doubt fested in her mind. She’d been living in survival mode for so long that small joys felt foreign.

Her thoughts drifted to her new reality. It had been a week since she married Alex McKenzie—a man as distant as he was enigmatic.

She glanced out the window with a heavy heart. Marrying Alex had been a whirlwind decision. His proposal hadn’t been born of love but necessity, and though he’d been clear about the arrangement, the reality of being Mrs. McKenzie felt unreal.

Alex had given her one week to wrap up her old life. One week to quit her jobs, end the late nights, and prepare to step into the role of his trophy wife. He’d said it matter-of-factly, *You’re Mrs. McKenzie now,” he’d told her the night after their quiet contractual, too formal-for-her-liking wedding. “And you need to look and act the part.”

She’d nodded, but inside, she’d felt the panic rising. For years, her identity had been tied to her almost-independence self which collapsed after she lost her parents. Now she had to live with her grit, her ability to take care of herself and the only responsibility her parents left her. 

Niya's eyes landed on the note stuck under her windshield wiper. A piece of paper, torn roughly from a notebook, fluttered slightly in the breeze. The message scrawled in black ink was jagged and hurried, as if signed by a frat-teen. 

She didn’t touch it, but the words were clear enough to read from where she stood.

Watch it, Niya.

A block of ice formed in her throat. Her stomach churned as unease prickled the back of her neck. What did it mean? Her mind began to race with possibilities. She's barely a week old as the new wife of a billionaire and she was already getting stalked?

Maybe it was a prank, she reasoned, but the logic didn’t calm her pounding heart. She’d been tired and on edge all day, and now this? All she wanted was to get through her shifts and head to BookLore.

Suddenly, a hand snatched the note from her face.

“These psychos,” Pony hissed, holding the paper up before crumpling it into a ball. She tossed it under the car with a sharp shove, then slid into the passenger seat.

Finally, she exhaled and climbed into the car, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual. The drive was uncharacteristically quiet before Pony’s voice filtered through the haze of her heavy thoughts. 

“You’re awfully quiet.” 

“Just thinking,” Niya sniffed, drawing out a tag from her duffel bag and pinning it on the neckline of her satin top with her right hand before making a turn out of the street.

“About what? Don’t tell me it’s work. You promised to take today off mentally too.”

Niya chuckled. “I actually quit.”

Pony raised an eyebrow. “How are you…your husband made you?” The sound of ‘husband’ sounded like sandpaper grated against raw skin. She winced inwardly but tried to play it off with a shrug. “Well, it's a good thing. Lucky you, you have someone who'd turn you into a house-woman.”

Niya laughed softly but there was something bitter about it. “You have no idea.”

“Then spill. What’s it like?”

Silence.

“Okay, three words,” Pony pushed.

“You’re not making me play that game—”

“Just fucking do it, Niya,” Pony interrupted, nudging her.

“Okay! Distant, not unkind. He cares, just not in the way most people do.”

Pony’s lower lip dropped. “Okay. But that’s vague and not comforting.”

“It’s the truth,” Niya said with another shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it. My life’s a…mess?” She chuckles dryly, “but I’ll take it. For now.”

Pony reached over and squeezed her hand gently, her voice dropped. “You deserve more than just ‘for now,’ Niya.”

Niya turned to look at her, the words pulling her back to a memory she couldn’t shake, no matter how much time passed. Her father’s warm, fragile hand laid in hers as she sat by his hospital bed. She remembered the way the light outside the window dimmed into evening when she was scared to look into his dying eyes. As if begging the world to mourn with her.

The grief never left, even now, it clung to her like a fresh and raw ache as if no time had passed.

“Watch out!” Pony’s voice ripped through her like a thunderclap.

Niya barely registered the words before a deafening bang erupted, and the car lurched violently to the right. The steering wheel jerked in her hands, nearly yanking her with it. The sound of crunching metal and shattering glass filled her ears as the windshield fractured into jagged, spider-webbed lines, distorting her view of the road.

Her heart thundered in her chest as adrenaline flooded her system. She clutched the steering wheel with Pony, their hands scrambling for control, but the impact was too strong. The tires screeched against the asphalt as the car spun dangerously.

Fragments of glass danced in the air, glinting like sharp stars before slicing against her face and arms. The airbag in front of her had deployed with a deafening pop, and the sheer force of it sent her reeling. 

Then, immediately followed an eerie silence. Her ears buzzed faintly, a burning sensation spread through her head and body, leaving her gasping for air. She tried to move, but her limbs refused to obey, pinned by pain and the crumpled vehicle.

Time felt strange—stretching unbearably one moment and snapping back the next. The acrid stench of smoke and burnt rubber filled her nose, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and… fear. In that instant, she felt death’s icy gaze, waiting just out of sight.

A faint sound penetrated the silence—police sirens, distant and distorted, like thunderstorms roaring and rolling across a stormy sky. She blinked slowly, her vision swimming as she fought to focus.

Her head felt impossibly heavy as she turned it in a sluggish and labored movement. Her breath hitched when her gaze landed on her bestfriend. Upside down, seatbelt barely holding her limp body in place. Eyes were closed, and her very whitish face had turned blue. 

“Pony…” Niya’s voice was a hoarse whisper, the words clawing their way out of her throat, but no sound came. 

Suddenly, a loud thud echoed, shaking the remains of the car.Another jarring sound followed, louder this time, and she braced herself instinctively. But it was too late.