"Irene, you treacherous woman. BURN IN HELL!"
On the sprawling king-size bed, the man's face contorted with rage, his dark eyes blazing with fury.
Veins bulged on his temples and arms as his hands closed tightly around the woman's delicate throat.
Half-asleep, Irene sensed something horribly wrong.
She couldn't breathe.
Startled awake, Irene Morgan's eyes flew open, still hazy from sleep.
Panic surged through her as she realized someone was choking her—hands crushing her windpipe.
Confusion and raw fear gripped her.
Her lungs screamed for oxygen, and instinct took over.
She clawed at the hands strangling her, desperately trying to break free.
But the man's grip didn't loosen.
He only squeezed harder, her face flushing crimson, her vision dimming.
Crash!
The door slammed open, and the butler dashed in.
He froze for a split second, horror etched on his face, but sprang into action without hesitation.
He lunged toward the bed and seized the man's arm, shouting, "Mr. Marshall! Please, stop! You're going to kill her!"
"She deserves it!" the man snarled, wild-eyed, spittle flying as he spoke.
The butler, realizing brute force wouldn't work, fell to his knees and began pleading.
"Mr. Marshall, think of your grandmother. She'd never forgive this. She'd never rest in peace!"
Grandmother?
The name seemed to register.
Lennon Marshall's grip weakened just enough.
Irene seized the chance and scrambled away from him.
She backed up against the headboard, curling into herself, staring at him in shock and terror.
Sensing Lennon was wavering, the butler pressed on.
"Please, sir, just hold on! The divorce is finalized today. After this, she's out of your life for good. Do it for her mother—remember, her mother once saved your grandmother's life. Please, don't let rage consume you!"
He climbed out of bed and silently slipped into his pajamas.
Once dressed, he turned to face her, his voice frigid and unforgiving.
"I'll have Ivan bring the divorce papers. Sign them—and get out of my life. I never want to lay eyes on you again."
With a final glare filled with loathing, he stormed out, the butler trailing closely behind.
The door slammed shut, the noise jarring Irene to her core.
Still trembling, she pulled the covers up around her, her mind numb with shock.
Her face had gone pale, and her heart thudded erratically in her chest.
Lowering her gaze, she looked down at her body.
She was completely bare, and angry bruises covered her once unblemished skin.
Earlier, adrenaline had masked the pain.
But now that the danger had passed, every inch of her ached.
Her whole body throbbed.
Searching the wardrobe yielded no women's clothing—only crisp dress shirts and dark suits.
She took a shirt and a pair of trousers, pulling them on with effort.
The pants were far too large, bunching and dragging on the floor with every step.
On top of everything else, a pounding headache began to form behind her eyes.
Groaning softly, she staggered to the sofa and sank into it.
Tilting her head back, she shut her eyes.
Then came a strange rush of thoughts—images and memories that weren't hers.
After a long moment, she opened her eyes again.
They were memories from the woman who had lived in this body before—someone else who had once been called Irene.