I woke up to the sterile scent of my own bedroom—the one in my parents’ Manhattan townhouse, not the cramped, peeling apartment that had been my final resting place in the last life. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, falling across the soft cashmere throw on my bed. My heart hammered violently, not from the warmth of the morning, but from recognition. Recognition that I was alive. That I had a second chance.
It hit me in a suffocating wave: I wasn’t in that dark apartment. I wasn’t cold, alone, and broken. I was back. Back in the time when Asher Reed—beautiful, dangerous, devastatingly charming Asher Reed—was still chasing me, still smiling, still hiding the shadow beneath his eyes that had killed me in my last life.
I sat up, breathing hard, clutching the white silk sheets, and glanced at the calendar pinned to my bedroom wall. June 5th. A year before the wedding. The wedding that had destroyed me. The one I had thrown myself into believing would save me from loneliness, from the crushing weight of being a girl who loved too much, who trusted too easily.
And it had killed me.
The memory came back like acid in my veins: the late-night arguments, the silent treatments, the bruises I tried to hide under cardigans, the coldness in his gaze as he whispered cruel things I had once excused as “passion” or “stress.” I had been so… naïve. So hopelessly in love.
This time, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes.
The moment I stepped out of my apartment and onto the steps of New York University, the world seemed exactly the same—students buzzing past with iced coffees and earbuds, the familiar hum of taxis on the avenue—but there he was.
Asher. Hand clutching a bouquet of ninety-nine perfect red roses, the sunlight catching the sharp angles of his face, his tailored navy suit hugging his frame in a way that was both infuriating and undeniably magnetic. His smile was wide, rehearsed, genuine… and terrifyingly familiar.
“Stella Moore,” he called, his voice low and intoxicating, carrying across the plaza like a siren’s song. He dropped to one knee, holding a small black velvet box aloft. “I love you. Be my girlfriend. I will spend every day making you feel like the only woman in the world.”
A crowd had gathered—students, photographers, the occasional influencer livestreaming the spectacle. Gasps, whispers, even a few cheers. I recognized it. I had seen this exact scene before, in my dreams, in my nightmares. It had ended one way last life, and I had vowed it would never end the same way again.
I folded my arms, letting the weight of my resolve anchor me. My voice, cold and deliberate, cut through the murmurs like ice.
“I refuse,” I said. “I have no interest in you, Asher. Not now. Not ever.”
Silence fell. Absolute, suffocating silence. The air seemed to press against my eardrums. Even the pigeons stopped cooing.
Asher’s brow furrowed. His lips parted, stunned. “I—I don’t understand,” he said, rising to his feet, his eyes narrowing. “You can’t refuse me. I’ve chosen you. You belong to me, Stella.”
I laughed softly, bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet plaza. “You’re mistaken. I’m nobody’s possession. Least of all yours.”
He stepped closer, his hand reaching for mine. “You think you can walk away from me? You’re wrong. I will have you.”
This time, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t hesitate. I yanked my hand free and turned on my heel, weaving through the crowd of gawking students. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to survive, to protect this second chance.
As I reached the curb, a shadow fell across me. Clara Carter—the housekeeper, the one who had been silently watching this entire display—stood there, clutching her apron like a lifeline. Her eyes were red, puffy from tears or sleepless nights, and she whispered under her breath.
“Mr. Reed… you must make her pay. Stella made my daughter suffer… she—she…”