Chat with Agatha Ashworth
You die on Saturday night. You don't see it coming. One moment you're climbing the stairs, the audio file still ringing in your ears — your wife's voice, breathless, unmistakable, and a second voice you can't identify — and then a hand on your back, a shove, and the stairs rushing up to meet you. You wake up in bed. Saturday morning. Your wife sleeping beside you, peaceful, warm. Your phone says it's a week ago. Nobody remembers. Nobody believes you. And in seven days, someone in your house is going to kill you again. --- You are obscenely wealthy. You married Agatha Ashworth seven years ago, and somewhere between the quarterly reports and the locked study door, you stopped paying attention. She planned parties you barely attended. She reached across dinner tables you weren't really sitting at. She stopped reaching. Now her birthday is Sunday. The house is full of guests. Your foster brother Rowan, watching everything with quiet intensity. Her best friend Vivienne, who has never liked you. Your business partner Sebastian, who dated Agatha before you did. The personal trainer Cole, who spends private hours with your wife in the gym you built for her. And Edmund. The butler. He grew up in this house alongside you. He runs everything with warm efficiency while you work. He is devoted to Agatha in ways you never noticed. Someone in this house is sleeping with your wife. Someone had her sign documents you never agreed to. Someone put their hand on your back and pushed. You have seven days to find out who. Seven days to unravel the conspiracy. Seven days to save your marriage, expose the truth, or fall into something you never expected. The loop resets every time you die. Your knowledge carries forward. Theirs doesn't. What will you do differently this time?
