No Longer Your Stepping Stone Chapter 1

In my previous life, I gave Genevieve Sutton everything I had.

My inheritance, my connections, my entire future—I laid them all down like a plush velvet carpet beneath her designer heels.

In the final seconds before I stopped breathing, she stood over my hospital bed, clinging to Garrett Ward’s arm, and smiled down at me with genuine amusement.

"Carson, did you honestly believe I married you for love?" her voice was a velvet purr. "If your father hadn’t backed Garrett’s venture, why would I have ever spared you a single glance?"

"Garrett is the only man I’ve ever loved. From day one."

I died with my eyes wide open, choked by betrayal.

When I opened them again, I was sitting across from my mother on a quiet, sunlit afternoon, right in the middle of her attempt to arrange my engagement.

This time, I set my porcelain teacup down on the saucer without a tremor, looked my mother dead in the eye, and gave her two words:

"I won't."

My mother froze.

She had no idea what was running through my mind—that in this lifetime, I wouldn't be the one left begging on my knees.

* * *

I woke to pain.

It wasn't physical; it was a deep, searing ache right behind my sternum, like someone dragging a dull blade back and forth across my ribs.

My vision was washed in sterile white, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, I thought I was still tethered to that hospital mattress.

The memory of my previous life was too sharp, etched into my mind with acid. I could still see Genevieve framed by the doorway of my private room, the cruel upward curve of her painted lips.

"You really are pathetic, Carson."

"Did you actually think all those years of devotion were real?"

"Your father guaranteed Garrett’s credit line, and that was the only reason I walked down the aisle with you."

"To put it plainly: you were nothing more than a stepping stone."

By then, my lungs had been too fluid-logged to speak. The fourth round of chemo had ravaged my body, shutting down my organs one by one. She had stood there in an immaculate tailored suit, perfectly styled, with my best friend standing right behind her. Garrett hadn't even looked me in the eye. He had merely slipped an arm around Genevieve’s waist and rested his chin against her shoulder, marking his territory over the dying.

The last thing I saw was the two of them turning on their heels. The soft click of her heels against the linoleum. The heavy door swinging shut in the draft.

And then, darkness.

"Carson? Honey, are you listening to me?"

The voice broke through the fog.

I blinked hard, my breath catching in my throat.

Before me was a polished dark-wood tea table. A pot of steaming green tea sat on a slate coaster, fragrant steam curling into the warm air. Sitting across from me was my mother, Eleanor Cole. She was wearing the deep forest-green silk dress I remembered from years ago, slowly turning a strand of jade prayer beads between her manicured fingers, watching me with an affectionate, expectant smile.

"Where did your mind wander off to? I'm trying to talk to you about something important."

My entire body seized.

I looked down at my hands resting on the armrests. No IV lines. No purple hematomas from blown veins. No jaundiced, paper-thin skin. My fingers were long, tanned, and healthy—the hands of a twenty-six-year-old man.

My heart thudded against my ribs with violent, glorious vitality.

I was alive. I was back.

"What... what did you just say, Mom?" My voice came out lower, rougher than I intended.

My mother set down her beads and slid a glossy photograph across the table toward me.

The woman in the photo was burned into my marrow: Genevieve Sutton.

An elegant oval face, almond-shaped eyes shimmering with practiced warmth, and a delicate jawline that made her look like the epitome of high-society grace. If I hadn’t witnessed her mask slip in that hospital room, I would still have thought she was the most breathtaking woman in the world.

"The Suttons finally agreed," my mother said, lifting her cup to take a dainty sip. "You’ll meet Genevieve for dinner next week to settle the details. You’ve had your heart set on that girl since you were a boy, Carson. Consider this my gift to you."

Since I was a boy.

She wasn't wrong. In my last life, I had fallen for Genevieve when I was fifteen years old. I spent twelve years worshipping the ground she walked on, chasing her from private prep school to an empty, performative marriage. I gave her my life.

And in return, she called me a stepping stone.

I reached out, took the photograph, and turned it face-down on the mahogany table with a quiet snap.

"Mom. Call it off. I’m not marrying her."

The sunroom fell dead silent for three long seconds.

My mother’s hand hovered above her beads. "What did you say?"

"Genevieve Sutton," I repeated, meeting her gaze steadily. "I don't want her. Please tell Walter Sutton the arrangement is off."

She was entirely unprepared for this. Her sculpted brows knitted together in sheer disbelief. "Carson, have you lost your mind? You pursued that girl for over a decade! Now that Walter has finally opened the door, you’re telling me you’re walking away?"

I didn't offer an explanation. How could I?

I couldn't look my mother in the eye and say: Mom, in another life, I married her, and as I lay dying of cancer, she confessed she’d been sleeping with my best friend the whole time while they drained our family assets.

I simply stood up, drained the lukewarm tea from my cup in a single swallow, and set it down.

"Trust me on this, Mom. Genevieve Sutton is out of my league—or maybe I'm just out of hers. Either way, it's done."

My mother parted her lips to protest, but words failed her.

I turned and walked out of the sunroom, stepping out through the French doors into the early autumn afternoon. The sunlight hit my face, bright and gold. It wasn't scorching; it carried the crisp, invigorating chill of October.

What had I been doing at this exact moment in my past life?

I had been trembling with ecstasy. I had been pacing my apartment, calling high-end boutiques to order an Hermès bag just so I could bring a gift to our first formal dinner.

I had been an absolute, unforgivable fool.

I curled my fingers into fists, feeling the steady pulse of warm blood under my skin.

In this life, time was on my side. Opportunity was on my side.

The things that were taken from me, I would claim back piece by piece. And as for the moment when Genevieve Sutton would finally be forced to her knees—I had all the patience in the world.