"Derek, I'm going to kill you."
Cole's voice came out raw and ragged. He crossed the room in three strides and drove his fist into Derek's face before the man could get his footing.
"Cole, stop!" The scream came from behind him — his wife's voice, high and panicked.
He didn't stop.
Derek went down hard, and Cole was on top of him before he hit the floor, landing punch after punch while Derek howled underneath him.
"You piece of garbage — you dare hit me?"
"I'll kill you. I swear to God, I will kill you."
Cole's vision had gone red at the edges. He wasn't thinking anymore — there was nothing left in him but ten years of compressed rage finally finding somewhere to go.
Then the world exploded.
Something connected with the back of his skull — a crack, then a burst of white heat — and suddenly the room was tilting. He felt blood running warm down the side of his face before the pain even fully registered. He recognized the sound of ceramic hitting the floor. A vase. She had grabbed the vase off the nightstand.
Derek shoved him sideways and scrambled up. He grabbed something heavy off the dresser and brought it down. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each blow landed with a dull, wet thud.
"You pathetic waste. You want to know something?" Derek was breathing hard, laughing between swings. "I had that realtor inflate the price on this dump before you bought it. Every single thing you've lost — I made sure of it. Every last bit."
Cole tried to lift his arm. He couldn't.
The ceiling above him went soft and blurry. The sounds in the room stretched and warped. His eyes closed on their own.
---
When Cole opened his eyes, he was sitting across a table from a woman who was cutting into a steak.
She looked beautiful and completely at ease, a glass of red wine within reach, a small satisfied smile on her face.
His chair scraped back and his palm hit the table before he had fully processed what he was seeing.
"Vanessa."
The word came out like a crack of thunder. Every head in the restaurant turned. Somewhere nearby, a fork clattered against a plate.
Vanessa flinched hard enough that the piece of steak she'd been lifting fell from her fork and landed on the tablecloth. She stared at him, then dropped her voice to a sharp hiss.
"Cole, what is wrong with you?"
A waiter appeared at his elbow almost immediately.
"Sir, is everything alright? Can I help you with something?"
Cole stood there and said nothing for a moment.
He was dead. He knew he was dead — Derek had beaten him to death on the floor of his own bedroom while Vanessa stood by and let it happen. He had felt himself go under.
So why was he here?
He looked around slowly, taking in the room. The warm lighting. The white tablecloths. The booth by the window where a couple was sharing dessert.
He recognized this place.
Rosewood. The restaurant where, ten years ago, Vanessa had agreed to be his girlfriend. He had walked out of here that night feeling like the luckiest man alive, certain he'd finally won over the woman he'd spent four years chasing.
He hadn't known then that it was the beginning of everything going wrong.
The job he'd lost. The sales career that never got off the ground. The business that collapsed. He'd blamed himself for all of it — his decisions, his timing, his inability to catch a break. It had never once occurred to him that someone was behind it.
And at the very end, Vanessa had grabbed that vase and swung it herself.
The anger rose fast and hot, and for a moment all he wanted was to reach across the table.
He breathed in slowly instead. He didn't know yet whether this was real. If it was a dream, it was the most convincing one he'd ever had. If it wasn't — if he had actually been sent back somehow — then losing control right now would only make things worse.
He sat back down.
"It's nothing. I lost my focus for a second."
The waiter studied him for a beat, then nodded and stepped away.
The other diners were still glancing over, expressions ranging from confused to irritated. Cole ignored them.
Vanessa looked down at the piece of steak on the tablecloth with a pained expression, then back at him.
"You made me drop my food." She said it like he'd committed a minor crime.
That was Vanessa. She had always spoken to him that way — the slight edge of condescension, the assumption that her inconveniences were his responsibility.
"It's nothing," he said again. "What did you actually want tonight? Why did you call me out here?"
She shifted, smoothed her expression into something softer, and offered him a small smile.
"I just wanted to have dinner with you. Is that not enough?"
She cut another piece of steak and brought it to her mouth with practiced elegance.
Cole looked at the table. Half-eaten steak. Most of a bottle of wine. An appetizer plate pushed to the side. She'd been here a while before he arrived, and she hadn't been waiting on him to start.
He understood immediately. He was here to pay the bill.
In his previous life, he had done exactly that — and felt grateful for the privilege. He'd been so stunned that she'd invited him somewhere this nice that he'd barely looked at the prices. He'd used most of what he had in savings and gone home feeling like things were finally turning around.
The next morning he'd woken up in her bed, and a few weeks after that she'd told him she was pregnant.
He wasn't going to let that happen again.
He pushed his chair back and stood.
"I'm not hungry. I have things to take care of at the office."
Vanessa's composure slipped. She sat forward.
"Wait—"
She caught herself, settled back, and tried again in a more controlled tone.
"The food isn't even finished yet."
Cole glanced at the table once more — the wine, the steak, the dishes arranged with the casual confidence of someone who had never intended to pick up the check — and felt a fresh wave of cold clarity.
"I'm not hungry," he said again.
He turned toward the door.
"Cole." Her voice shifted entirely. Something soft and careful came into it. "Will you be my boyfriend?"
He stopped.
It was word for word what she had said the first time. The same restaurant, the same table, probably the same rehearsed delivery — the sudden sincerity after a night of small condescensions, the question that had made him feel chosen.
He turned around and looked at her.
"We're not a good match," he said. "Find someone else."
Vanessa stared at him. Her mouth opened slightly. She looked genuinely thrown — like a woman who had never seriously considered the possibility of being told no by him.
He said it again, louder this time, making sure there was no room for her to reframe it.
"We are not a good match."
The tables around them had gone quiet. Diners glanced over, heads tilting together, voices dropping to murmurs. A couple near the window openly turned to look.