Ethan Pierce watched the Indian Ocean slide past the jet's oval window, a thin blue line between cloud and sky. His wedding ring glinted as he rubbed his thumb over it—a nervous tic he'd picked up in another life. Old habits come back strong when you're living the same three years for the second time.
He checked his watch. Twenty-three hours since they'd left the Maldives, since Aria's eyes had turned cold. In the first timeline, her gaze was always soft, eager to please. She laughed at his jokes, clung to his arm, trusted every lie. Not anymore.
He tried to remember the first time he noticed the shift. This Aria was wary. Sharp. Her smiles ended at her lips, never reached her eyes. She watched him like he might bite. Maybe she wasn't wrong.
Ethan closed his leather journal, snapping the elastic shut. On the cover: "Timeline B." Inside: two years' worth of notes, numbers, disasters. Dates circled in crimson—one above all. June 14, 2028, 10:47 PM. The night Aria died and the world rewound itself.
He'd been in this seat before. Same jet. Same ice-cold whiskey sweating on the tray. Same private call to his father: "She's an asset, son, not a partner. Use her, then move on." Richard Pierce, kingmaker, destroyer. In the first life, Ethan listened. In this one, the words made him sick.
He stared across the aisle where Aria slept, her body curled away from him. Even asleep, she was distant. Her hand—once always seeking his—now hid beneath the blanket, clutching her grandmother's watch. The second timeline had rewritten her, too.
The memory came back, jagged and bright. The hospital, harsh lights, machines screaming. Vanessa's perfume choking the air. "She wouldn't want to live like this," Vanessa had whispered, crocodile tears perfectly placed.
He'd believed it. Signed the DNR. Watched the monitors go black. "I need to think of my real family now," he'd told himself, voice flat as the line on the screen. Coward. Monster. Even his own mother couldn't look at him afterwards.
When the regression happened—when time snapped back and spat him out on his wedding night—he'd vomited in the suite bathroom, knuckles white against the marble. Aria had been brushing her hair, humming, alive. He'd nearly collapsed.
He'd promised himself: This time, he'd save her. No matter what it cost.
But she was different. Smarter. Guarded. The first morning, she'd recoiled from his touch. He'd seen the fear, the calculation. The old Aria would have apologized, desperate to soothe. This one hardened. He caught her later transferring funds on her laptop, fingers flying, face expressionless. He pretended not to notice, kept his own secrets close. No room for trust here.
He played the devoted husband, but she didn't buy it. When he cooked her pancakes, she ate two polite bites, then excused herself. When he suggested a walk, she claimed a headache. In the first run, she would have clung to his arm, beaming for the cameras. This version watched every move, catalogued every lie.
He scribbled another note in the journal: Day 2—she's already moving money. Knows more than she should. Possible regressor? Or just smarter after last time? The possibility twisted in his gut. If Aria was like him—if she remembered—maybe there was hope. Or maybe she'd never forgive him.
The jet hit turbulence, a sharp jolt. He glanced at her. She didn't stir, lost in dreams he couldn't reach. He envied her, in a way. That distance was armor.
He checked his phone for the fiftieth time. Vanessa had texted three times since the wedding, all ignored. In Timeline A, he'd answered the first one, met her for a drink, started the slow-motion car crash. Not again. He deleted her number. Burned the bridge before it could burn him.
He scrolled through his calendar. Meetings he'd already lived, deals he'd already won or lost. This time, he'd canceled it all—three months blocked off for "honeymoon." In reality: three months to protect Aria, to change the ending.
He checked the news, searching for ripples. In the last run, Pierce Industries had inked a merger in week two—a deal that paid for Vanessa's silence and gave his father leverage. He'd torpedoed it this time, pulled the plug before anyone could sign. The board was furious. Richard had called, voice frosted over. "Are you letting a woman derail your legacy?"
He'd hung up. The silence after was heavy, but he wore it like penance.
The plane began its descent. Aria woke, brushing sleep from her eyes. For a second, she looked at him—really looked. Then the shutters dropped.
"Ready to go home?" he asked, voice too casual.
She nodded. "Home." Not our home. Just a destination.
He opened his mouth, closed it. The urge to confess burned in his throat—Tell her you know. Tell her you're sorry. Tell her you remember everything. Instead, he said, "I cleared my schedule for the next few weeks. We can do whatever you want. Travel, paint, start that gallery you always talked about."
A flicker of surprise, then suspicion. "That's… considerate."
He wanted to reach for her hand, but stopped. Too soon. Too much.
As the jet touched down, he slid the journal into his briefcase. Someday, he might let her read it. Someday, when forgiveness was possible. For now, secrets were another layer of armor.
The car ride to the Pierce Estate was silent except for Aria's watch ticking away the seconds. Every time she twisted her wrist, checked the time, he flinched inside. Countdown. 1,095 days.
They pulled through the wrought-iron gates. The gravel crunched—same sound as the hospital monitors going flat. He swallowed hard.
Inside, the house was unchanged. Marble, leather, the ghosts of family portraits. Richard's voice echoed from the study. Catherine's perfume lingered, judgmental as ever.
Aria headed upstairs, suitcase in hand, moving like she already knew the traps. He watched her disappear. Maybe she did.
He sat in his office, pulled out the leather-bound journal. Underlined one sentence: This time, save her. Even if she never loves you. Especially if she never forgives you.
He let himself remember her last breath, the chill in her skin, the monstrous relief when it was over. The shame. The years lost.
He opened a blank page and wrote:
Day 3. She's not the same. Maybe I'm not either. The rules are different now. She's fighting for her life—maybe for mine too.
He closed the book, pressed his knuckles to his brow. The war had already begun.
And this time, he wouldn't lose her without a fight.