I prayed countless times—if I ever got another chance, I would make him pay in blood.
I would make him suffer every ounce of pain he inflicted on me and my parents.
Brent Fleming, heaven must be watching—because it actually gave me that chance.
You wanted to force me into calling off the wedding first?
Not this time.
This time, I won't be walking into your trap.
You'll be falling into mine.
I was going to make him taste it—the bitter flavor of being framed, ruined, stripped of everything.
Every ounce of pain and humiliation he'd heaped on me and my parents in my last life? I'd repay it a hundredfold. A thousandfold.
I pulled out my phone and recorded Brent with the club girl, capturing every damning second of their passionate display.
Then I opened my chat with Claude Whitney and sent him the video, along with a single message:
"The Crown Bar. I need him unable to attend the wedding tomorrow."
His reply came instantly:
"For real? Don't you dare go soft on me—I've been itching to mess this guy up!"
I sent him a thank-you sticker.
In my previous life, Brent had destroyed everything I loved. My family, shattered. Me, dead in a mental asylum.