I died alone, after a marriage that took everything. Then I woke up three days before my wedding, twenty-six again. In my last life, I said I do, and that one sentence handed my husband my inheritance, my family foundation, and every year I had left. My father signed the amendment in secret. My sister smiled while she let him into the study. This time, I don't cry. I don't plead. I drive to the bank before breakfast, open my mother's safe-deposit box, and photograph the original document my father thought was buried. Jonathan calls about first-dance songs. Clara asks why I'm not excited. I let them believe I'm still the bride they can use. When the officiant asks if anyone objects, I won't object. I'll let my sister marry him, and hand her every consequence I survived.