By the next morning, I had settled into an oddly comforting routine: arrive at the office, terrify several coworkers by accident, drink tea, summarize cases, avoid thinking about the gala, drink more tea, and then finish my workload early because reincarnation had apparently boosted my legal competency.
Today, though, my mind kept drifting.
Tomorrow was the gala.
Tomorrow, I would be in the same room as the woman who had stared at me like she could see straight into my soul.
Tomorrow, I would have to fight every instinct in my body that screamed:
Run away. Or fake your death again. Either works.
I was reviewing a deposition—highlighting sections that contradicted earlier testimony—when a shadow fell over my desk.
I looked up.
Mack stood in the doorway.
He didn't knock. He didn't clear his throat. He just stood there, staring at me like he wasn't sure how to start a conversation with his own sister.
I blinked. "…Morning?"
He stepped inside slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.
"I didn't interrupt anything?"
"Just work," I said, gesturing to the file. "What's up?"
He adjusted his tie—nervous habit, maybe—and closed the office door behind him.
Immediately, the air became ten times more tense.
"The gala is tomorrow," he said.
"Yes," I replied flatly. "Tragically."
He gave me a puzzled look but continued.
"I came to let you know that Father wants to meet with us this evening. Something about final preparations."
"Preparations," I repeated. "For the gala."
"Yes."
"Oh joy."
He ignored that. "He didn't specify the details, but you know how he is. He'll want everything to be… controlled."
I nodded.
Meaning: if even one hair was out of place, we'd all be treated to a TED Talk on Family Image.
Mack hesitated.
Then cleared his throat.
"You've been doing well at work."
I choked on absolutely nothing.
"What?"
"You've been doing well," he repeated, fidgeting with a pen on my desk. "Sandra said your performance has been… unexpectedly strong."
I wasn't sure if this was meant as praise or suspicion.
"Thank you?" I tried.
He nodded stiffly.
A beat of silence passed.
I checked the clock.
This moment had lasted two seconds but felt like twenty minutes.
Mack finally shifted awkwardly. "I should get back. I have a call with the Stark board in ten minutes."
I froze.
"With… Stark?"
He didn't notice my panic.
"It's regarding the announcement tomorrow," he said casually.
Something cold dripped down the back of my neck.
"The announcement?" I echoed.
"Yes. Father will explain."
He gave me a small, polite nod—awkward, but genuine.
Then he left.
The moment the door closed, I put my head on my desk.
"No," I groaned. "No, no, no. Nothing good ever starts with my father wanting to coordinate with Stark."
I lifted my head slowly.
Was it possible the universe had decided to play a little game called:
"How many times can Violet's life fall apart before noon?"
Because if so…
The universe was winning.
By the end of the day, my nerves were fried. I wrapped up my last memo, organized the files on my desk, and left the office early enough to avoid rush-hour chaos but late enough to pretend I was responsible.
The car ride home felt shorter than usual, probably because dread compresses space-time.
When I stepped inside the mansion, I expected the usual quiet.
Instead—
"Violet."
My father's voice cut through the air.
I flinched.
He sat in the living room, posture straight, suit immaculate, eyes sharp. The kind of expression that suggested someone was about to be assigned more responsibilities than emotionally possible.
"Sit," he said.
I sat.
Mack was there too, sitting rigidly across from him. He didn't meet my eyes.
That was a bad sign.
Father steepled his fingers.
"The gala is tomorrow."
"Yes," I said politely.
"You will attend."
"Of course."
"You will behave."
"I'll try my best—"
"You will not try," he corrected. "You will do."
I shut my mouth.
Father leaned back slightly. "Tomorrow's event is not merely a charity gala. It is a stage."
A stage.
Why did that sound ominous?
"We will be announcing a collaboration between Stark Industries and one of our subsidiaries," he continued.
My throat closed.
A collaboration.
With Stark.
With Marian Stark.
With the intense woman who kept appearing in my life like a glitch in my reincarnation matrix.
I tried to swallow, but nothing moved.
Father kept speaking, oblivious to my growing horror.
"It will be one of the largest joint ventures of the year. The media will be present. Investors. Politicians. The Stark board. Marian Stark herself."
He said her name with cold neutrality.
I heard it like a death sentence.
Father's gaze landed on me like a weight. "You will be assisting Mack with this project."
My thoughts stopped.
Completely.
Silence filled my mind, vast and echoing.
Assist.
Assist Mack.
Assist him with the collaboration.
With Stark.
With Marian Stark.
I blinked slowly.
"…What?"
Father continued as if he hadn't just detonated a psychological grenade in my chest.
"You've shown improvement. The firm reports good performance. Therefore, you will support your brother as a representative for the Hawthorne legal division."
I stared at him.
Blank.
Emotionless.
Empty.
My mouth moved.
Nothing came out.
Father tilted his head slightly. "Is there a problem?"
I opened my mouth again.
And this time something DID come out:
"Hah—"
A small, helpless laugh escaped me.
Both men stared.
I slapped a hand over my mouth.
"I—I mean," I sputtered, "of course. No problem. Totally normal. Totally fine. I love… collaborating."
Mack looked vaguely concerned.
Father nodded, satisfied. "Good."
He glanced at his watch. "Your stylist will arrive in the morning to prepare your attire. Do not be late."
Then he stood and left without another word.
Mack lingered for a moment.
"Violet," he said softly, "are you… alright?"
I smiled.
A horrible smile.
A smile that absolutely did NOT reach my eyes.
"Never been better!" I said brightly. "I'm thrilled. I'm ecstatic. I'm vibrating with joy."
He recoiled slightly. "Right. You should rest."
He left.
Leaving me alone.
In the giant living room.
In absolute silence.
I exhaled.
Then stood.
Walked calmly to the nearest wall.
Placed my forehead against it.
And whispered:
"I fucked up."
Because I had fucked up.
By being competent.
By being normal.
By trying at work.
By creating the illusion that I was a functional adult.
Now I had responsibilities.
Now I had duties.
Now I had to interact with Marian Stark on a professional level.
I dragged my hand down my face.
"She's going to kill me," I muttered. "Or stare at me again. Which is worse."
My voice echoed faintly in the giant, marble room.
The stylist was coming tomorrow.
The collaboration was happening tomorrow.
The gala was tomorrow.
Marian was coming.
And I, Violet Hawthorne, reincarnated desk goblin, emotionally average at best, was expected to look beautiful, competent, composed… and NOT ruin the family name.
The universe really didn't know me at all.
I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor.
"…I'm so doomed."
And the chandelier glittered overhead, as if laughing.