Too Late For Regret, Mr. Hayes

The screech of tires was my familiar lullaby, echoing another broken bone, another shattered illusion.

I was Sarah, the trophy wife, trapped in a gilded cage, enduring a curse of endless resurrections.

My husband, Ethan, always attentive to his perfect Ashley, had just shoved me into the path of a speeding sedan.

For her, of course.

He didn't care that I lay mangled on the asphalt, only annoyed by the inconvenience, the mess.

Ashley, his scheming mistress, later set a trap: a near-fatal allergic reaction, and then framed me to ensure my "dissection" at a remote research facility.